![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cjmarloweBack in September, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
coolwhipdiva won my humble services in the Donors Choose charity auction, for an AI story of 5000+ words. She requested an Adam Lambert/Misha Collins crossover AU, and has been very patiently waiting for the results. At long last, here it is. :) [ ETA: For the uninitiated, Adam Lambert is...Adam Lambert. And Misha Collins plays Castiel on Supernatural. Both are pretty awesome. ]
Also now available as a podfic here and audiobook, thanks to the wonderfulparaka
Aesthetic Alchemy
In which Adam is a struggling singer and Misha is an eccentric artist, and somehow it all just works.
American Idol/CW RPF. 21,200 words. NC-17. Adam Lambert/Misha Collins. (Past Adam/Brad, background Kris/Matt.) Contains: bondage, semi-public sex
Adam hated everything about the painting in front of him. Absolutely everything. "This isn't art," he said. "My old neighbor's kid could paint something better than this, and he eats paint."
"Come on, it's not that bad," said Drake.
"It's blue," said Adam. "That's all it is. It's blue."
"It's about the way light plays with color," Drake insisted. "Look, okay, come over here, come stand where I'm standing." Adam was dubious, but he trusted Drake's opinion on art. Most of the time. "See how it looks different from over here, see how the shape of it changes?"
"I guess," said Adam. It did look different. Not in any kind of interesting way to him, but different. "And I know that's got to be a challenging thing to do, but you know it's not my thing. It's not...bold."
"And your neighbor's kid was?" said Drake.
"Bold is probably a very kind description of that kid," he said, shaking his head. "His poor mother. Brad and I used to...."
But they didn't anymore, and Adam didn't live there anymore, and there was no sense even bringing all of that up right now. Or at all.
"Fair enough," said Drake, resting a hand at the small of Adam's back for a moment. "Thanks for coming with me tonight. I didn't want to show up at yet another opening alone."
"Well, you know I'm always good for that," said Adam, relieved when they moved on to the next painting even though it was just as abstract. At least this one had more than one color. It wasn't that Adam didn't appreciate art—he loved art, he loved all kinds of self-expression—but sometimes blue was just blue.
"Maybe we should come back to it after you've had a couple more glasses of complimentary champagne," said Drake. "It might be more rewarding once your vision starts to blur."
"Or we could just go look at your work," said Adam, "since that's why we're at this little event in the first place."
"You've already seen my work," said Drake, but they started wandering in that direction all the same. Adam had not only seen Drake's work, he modeled for it, though a person wouldn't know it from the finished product. Adam liked his stuff, though. He got Drake's art, understood the way he used shapes and colors and metaphors to represent the everyday. He could look at a painting of a tree and know it was actually of him.
"Wait," said Adam as they passed a wide pedestal in the center of the room, though, pausing to look at the sculpture on it. It was mixed media, to say the least, a welded metal frame hung and wired with shattered glass and porcelain like a deconstructed mosaic, and he wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything quite like it before. "I like this one."
"Yeah, that figures," said Drake. "It's all sparkly."
"Shut the fuck up," said Adam, elbowing him in the side. "It's just interesting. I have no idea what it means but it's interesting."
"You really should come with me the next time the collective meets," said Drake. "I know I keep telling you you'd like it, but I'm serious. It gets a little, you know, esoteric for me sometimes, but that's just your thing."
"Esoteric?" said Adam. "The color blue is not esoteric."
"I'm sure there are at least a couple of people who beg to differ," said Drake. "At the very least, you have to admit it would be an interesting conversation."
"You know I'll come one of these days," said Adam as they finally moved on to Drake's trio of paintings, "as long as I'm not performing that night. I'm not blowing off a show to come hang out with visual artists, enlightening as it might be."
"I'd never ask you to," Drake promised him, "any more than you'd ask me to stop painting. Now stroke my ego a little bit or I'll think you like Misha's work better."
"As if," said Adam, throwing an arm around his neck, though he maybe took one little glance back at the sculpture that had caught his eye. "You know I could never like anyone more than you."
:::
Adam sang four nights in a row, just this little club belonging to a friend of a friend, and by the time he hit his last note he felt like he was on top of the world. There wasn't much of an audience at all the first night, but by the fourth either it was half-price drinks night or word had gotten around, because the place was packed and Adam was looking at a very happy manager who he suspected would be very happy to book him again when there was an opening.
It wasn't any kind of a big break, but it was something and it felt good. It felt good to be wanted.
Which was why it was all a bit of a letdown when the run was over and Adam went back to scratching out his place in the LA underground scene, looking for open mikes, counting on his once-monthly regular shows, and reluctantly considering the possibility that he'd have to find a real job again for a little while because LA was full of people who were trying to make it.
"Come with me tonight," said Drake, throwing his scarf around Adam's neck to draw him closer. "You'll have a good time."
"I was going to go out with Cassidy--"
"Do you really think you're up for seeing the ex tonight?" said Drake. "Really?"
"Cassidy said it's just him and Sara and Blaise," said Adam. "Brad's not going to be there."
"You know Brad's going to be there," said Drake, "because he always is."
Adam had to admit that he was right. Privately, anyway. Admitting Drake was right out loud would just result in gloating. "If it means that much to you," he said, "I guess I can check it out your thing. I'm over him, though. We're over each other. For the record."
"Of course you are," said Drake. "Grab your notebook. You might be inspired."
The collective was anything but an organized group, just an ever-changing collection of semi-starving artists that got together at irregular moments to...well, Adam wasn't sure what they did. Supported each other, artistically, he guessed. But he liked the vibe as soon as he got there, Drake wasn't wrong about that.
Drake offered to introduce him around but Adam was a social creature, he let Drake do what he was obviously wanting to do—sketch with the cute guy who lived two floors down from them—and took care of any introductions himself.
"Stay right there."
Adam's first instinct was, surprisingly, to do exactly what he was ordered and stay right there. He was frozen for a couple of seconds before it occurred to him to question it.
"Am I about to step in something?"
"No, but you look perfect right there," the guy said. "Can you hold it for about a minute and a half?"
Adam's eyebrows went up, but it wasn't as though he was mid-step or in some kind of awkward and precarious position. "Will you tell me why if I do?"
"I'll tell you why if you don't, too," he said, "but I'll be very disappointed."
Adam never actually said yes, but he never actually moved either. He didn't even turn his head. He did breathe, and blink, but apparently those were sanctioned activities because there were no more orders spoken calmly in his direction. And finally, after what felt like longer than a minute and a half, the guy finally let him off the hook.
"Perfect," he said again. Adam looked, and half expected to see a sketch of himself—which is what Drake would have done, in his way—but instead saw a spiral of wires twisted together. "See?"
"Not really," said Adam, tilting his head to the side and studying it, the way the colors worked together, the way it swayed a little bit whenever anyone walked near it. "But I think I want to."
"Even better," he said. "Come, come look, unless you were on your way to do something of tremendous importance or earth-shattering beauty."
"Not right this second, no," said Adam, though he sort of wished he was, now. He wanted to do a thing of earth-shattering beauty.
"This is you," he said, waving his hand overtop of the wire sculpture like a magician, making the wires move just with the movement of the air around them. "This is what you looked like."
"I wasn't moving," said Adam, tilting his head to the other side to watch the flow from a whole new angle this time.
"You were moving in my head," he said. "Things always move in more interesting ways in my head."
"Yeah, the world is usually more interesting in my head, too," said Adam. That was what he tried to bring out, every time he performed. And what this guy seemed to be doing with his sculpture.
"You made the thing, didn't you?" said Adam suddenly, trying to simulate the deconstructed mosaic bodily, his arms swaying. Apparently he did a good enough job, because the guy lit up. "You're Misha. I saw it, at the show."
"I call it 'Sunset over Post-Apocalyptic Skyscraper'," he said. "I didn't let them label it, though. I didn't want to tell anybody."
"You just told me, though."
"You're different," said Misha, waving his hand overtop of the wires again just to make them sway and dance. "Have you ever been to Burning Man?"
Adam knew then and there that they were going to get along very, very well.
:::
Adam had to wait for Drake to change his shirt three times before they managed to get out the door, and they were still the first people to arrive at brunch, though at least Cassidy was only about five minutes behind. Not as much of a feat when you considered that he lived the closest.
"Who else is coming today?" he said, giving the familiar menu only a cursory glance. "Is Ferras coming?"
Cassidy shook his head. "Doubt it. He got lucky last night. Kris should be here, though. And I left Tommy sleeping on my couch when he just drooled on me and refused to wake up. He knows where we are if he gets up and realizes I have nothing but celery and wine in my fridge. I don't think anyone else is around this weekend."
"Sounds like you had a good night," said Adam as Drake ordered them a couple of coffees then snatched the menu out of his hands.
"You would've already known that if you'd come out with us," said Cassidy, "instead of finding out at Boys Brunch."
"We had a good time too," said Drake.
"I thought it was a collective night," said Cassidy. "At least, that was your excuse for not coming."
"It was," said Drake. "Adam came with me."
They were interrupted by the waiter arriving with the coffee, and even though they'd all taken the opportunity to look at the menu, just because it was there, their order was exactly the same as it was every other Saturday morning. Well, closer to Saturday noon, really.
"So that's what you blew us off for?" said Cassidy. "I figured it was something good."
"Hey," said Drake. "I don't make fun of your artistic pursuits."
"Yes you do," said Cassidy. "You do it all the time."
"Well, that's different," he protested. "That was a terrible hat, and we all knew it."
"It was supposed to be terrible," he said. "Its beauty was in its ugliness."
"You totally came up with that afterwards," said Drake. "Anyway, Adam seemed to have a good time at the collective. At least, as far as I could tell, since he disappeared after about an hour and only showed up again when me and Lil were starting to clean up."
"It's not what you think," said Adam. "You make it sound like I was off screwing someone in the broom closet."
"Who were you making it with in a broom closet?" said Kris, sliding smoothly into the last empty seat.
"No one," said Adam. "Where've you been?"
Kris just shrugged. "Overslept," he said, running his fingers through his obviously genuine bedhead. And not a word of a lie, he looked like he still had a couple of sleep creases in his neck and shoulder he was so recently out of bed. "Was it anyone I know?"
"No one," said Adam. "Now stop trying to live vicariously through me."
"Hey, just because I'm saving myself doesn't mean I don't think about it," said Kris. "What are we actually talking about anyway? I missed the beginning."
"That's what happens when you're always late," said Cassidy. "Adam hung out with Drake's collective last night and apparently did something that didn't actually involve sex in closets. Unfortunately. Because that would be an acceptable reason for blowing us off."
"I didn't blow you off, I just didn't go," said Adam. "I never said I was going. And anyway I met someone at the collective. Not like that...well, maybe like that, I don't know yet."
"Spill," said Cassidy, pushing his own half-finished coffee in Kris's direction. Kris snatched it up like a starving man.
"Oh," said Drake, breaking into a truly shit-eating grin. "Oh. You met Misha."
Cassidy looked momentarily puzzled. Kris was still focused on the coffee.
"Misha's a guy," Adam supplied helpfully. "And yeah, I did."
"Then it's probably what you think," said Drake, which did a lot to brighten Adam's already-bright morning, actually. "Misha's...interesting."
"Misha's great," said Adam. "He wants me to come by and check out this project he's working on."
"Is that anything like inviting you up to see his etchings?" said Kris.
"Only if I'm lucky," said Adam. "Is there anything I should know about him, then? If he's into whips and chains...well, okay, it's not a dealbreaker, but I at least want to know about it before I get there."
"Not that I'm aware of," said Drake. "He's just interesting. Kind of intense. A little weird but kind of brilliant."
"Huh," said Adam. "Well, I'll let you know what happens, then. Some of it, anyway. If I'm lucky, there'll be bits that aren't fit to tell."
"That's never stopped you before," said Kris, but then the waiter returned and Kris ordered himself his own coffee and conversation finally moved on to other things.
:::
Misha's studio was in his loft; actually, Misha's loft was his studio, the only parts of the vast open space spared from art pieces and debris being the kitchen area and (possibly) the small loft where Adam assumed his bed could be found. And even the kitchen had a few bits and pieces here and there amid the coffee cups and takeout containers.
"Come, sit down," said Misha, moving a box of shattered dinner plates off a backless bar stool. "Sorry about the mess. The cleaning service only comes every other day."
"Of course," said Adam, "that explains everything." He perched himself on the stool and then took a better look around, trying to get a sense of how Misha worked, how he lived when he wasn't working. Or if he lived when he wasn't working, which given the evidence seemed debatable.
"I was just in the middle of something," said Misha, which seemed like his standard state of being. Adam rested an ankle on his knee and watched as Misha finished braiding what looked like a collection of ribbon, wire and chain together. Misha hummed as he worked, and didn't even attempt to make conversation until he'd tied off the end of it.
"Done?" said Adam a few moments later.
"It'll keep now," said Misha, setting it aside. "I'm not sure what I'm going to use it for yet, but I had a dream about it last night."
"Your work always come to you in dreams?" said Adam, sliding off the stool again to join him.
"Only when I'm lucky," he said. "Most of the time I actually have to make an effort."
He made a vague gesture, which Adam didn't realize was meaningful until he saw that Misha was gesturing at an overfull bookcase full of books on mythology and psychology and art history and geology and probably a lot more things piled in there that Adam couldn't see. Work. Research.
"Do you want the tour? It's pretty short, so maybe you should just take a look around if you want. Bed's up in the loft and bathroom's through that door. Everything else you can pretty much see if you turn around in a circle."
Adam grinned at him and did exactly that, but there was no way he was going to take it all in without turning in about ten circles. Twenty circles. "Can I look around?" he said. "Is there anything off limits?"
"Go ahead, touch whatever you want," said Misha. "Let me watch you."
"You want to watch me...look around?" said Adam. Misha nodded and grabbed a sketchbook off the top of the bookshelf and Adam understood what he was saying. Not kinky, just artistic. "Sure, why not?"
Misha sketched him while he was checking out a mosaic sculpture on the end table. And again while he was on his hands and knees trying to find the beginning of a pattern in the tiles on the floor. And probably again while he was looking up the stairs towards his loft, but Adam's back was to him then and he couldn't say for sure.
Then, while Adam was looking way, way up at the steel-and-glass-bead vine that was crawling up the wall between the tall windows, he felt Misha's arms come around him from behind. When Misha kissed him on the neck, Adam finally turned his head a little to look at him. He wasn't surprised, but he hadn't expected it to happen quite like this.
"You've been thinking about it too, right?" said Misha, then laughed. "Did that sound weird?"
"No weirder than anything else," said Adam. "I inspire you. That's a pretty huge turn-on."
"It's a pretty huge turn-on for me, too," said Misha, his hands slipping downwards, over the front of his pants, resting right there as they stood in front of the window. "Are you an exhibitionist?"
"Not...as much as you might think," said Adam, because there was a difference between a performance and a performance. "Do you want to take this upstairs?"
Misha gave his thigh a little pinch, then let go of him to lower the blinds instead. "Right here," he said, "in the middle of all my work."
Adam didn't protest at all when Misha dropped to his knees in front of him and opened his pants. He might've had something to say about the hard tile floor except that Misha had throw rugs everywhere, including one he'd already tugged over to cushion his knees.
A little while later, once their clothes were discarded to the four corners of the room and he had saliva in almost every nook and cranny of his body, Adam did end up flat on his back on the bare floor anyway, hard against the knobs of his spine but not painful enough to stop when Misha sank down on his cock and rode him. On his way over here Adam had figured this would be a couple of mutual blowjobs if he was lucky, maybe a cup of coffee afterwards, not athletic sex on the floor with a dangerously pointy sculpture poised precariously nearby.
He definitely wasn't complaining about the turn of events.
"You're so complicated," said Misha afterwards, trailing a hand up Adam's sore back. The word sounded quaint when he said it, and curious in a way, like there was an unspoken question in there somewhere.
"Isn't everyone?" said Adam, his words just faintly slurred with contented exhaustion. "I've never met anyone who was exactly what they appeared to be. It's just part of being human."
"But it shines out of you," said Misha, "all these different sides to you. The passionate and the steady and the languid and the whimsical."
Adam had never been described quite that way before. He decided he kind of liked it.
"You make me want to build something amazing," said Misha. "Like a pyramid, or the Eiffel Tower."
"Those would take a long time," said Adam.
"And they've been done already," said Misha. "But something amazing. Something new."
"Right now?" said Adam. "Right this second?" Of course, what he was really asking was, 'do I have to move?'
"No," said Misha, running a hand down the middle of Adam's bare chest now. "Not right now. But soon. You're my inspiration."
:::
"He called you his what?" said Drake, laughing at him over banana pancakes that, thanks to the meager contents of the kitchen, were a lot more banana than pancake.
"He didn't mean it in a weird way," said Adam. "I'm not just decorative or something. I think it's kind of cool."
"His muse," said Drake. "Who says that kind of thing?"
"I would say that kind of thing," said Adam, "if I had one. He's a Burner too, he gets it, you know, the spirit of inspiration and collaboration. Okay seriously, you're going to pull something if you don't stop laughing."
"I doubt it," said Drake. "Being friends with you has strengthened my laugh muscles to the point where I'm pretty sure they could endure just about anything."
"You're just jealous," said Adam. "I bet you've never been anyone's muse."
"I'm pretty okay with that," said Drake, still laughing, if a bit more quietly. "Come on, you have to admit, it's a little funny."
Adam stuck to his guns, though. "It's not funny, it's awesome," he said. "I'm inspiring. What's more awesome than that?"
"Hey, if it makes you happy I'm not going to argue with that," said Drake. "And clearly it makes you giddy as a schoolgirl."
Adam was tempted to retract his pancakes for that. "I just got laid in a spectacular way," he said, "which, by the way, makes the schoolgirl analogy really gross. Of course I'm in a good mood. And apparently I'm going to get laid a number of times over the next few weeks, which I serve as a muse for an avant garde artist conceiving a large-scale art installation. It's the best thing to happen to me in ages."
"The sex part, or the muse part?" said Drake. "Because I know you were in a bit of a dry spell, but...."
"I could've picked up someone if I wanted," said Adam. "This is better, though. Semi-regular sex with no strings attached. And he's funny. And smart."
"He is funny and smart," agreed Drake. "And a little weird."
"Well, we're all a little weird," said Adam. "It comes with the territory."
"Can't argue with that," said Drake, and raised a glass of orange juice to the sentiment. Adam figured it was as close to concession as he was going to get.
:::
It wasn't a regular thing, not like an appointment. Adam didn't show up at Misha's place at two o'clock every Tuesday afternoon or anything like that, he didn't strip down and lounge over a bearskin rug while Misha sketched him. Frankly, if he had to describe it—and he did, because his friends were extremely nosy—it was a lot more like a booty call, really. Misha called him up and as long as Adam wasn't working he headed over.
And it was a lot more frequent than once a week.
"I finished something today," said Misha as soon as Adam arrived on a Tuesday night, crooking a finger and beckoning him to follow.
"The one you've been so excited about but refused to show me till you were done?" said Adam.
"I wasn't sure it was going to work out," said Misha, "and I felt like I needed to know it was going to be right before I got you involved, but that was exactly wrong, you should have been on top of it right from the start. I want to make up for that now."
Adam was used to not quite understanding what Misha was talking about half the time, but he'd developed enough faith in him that he just went with it.
The piece was imposing even in this large space, parts of it reaching up for the ceiling (if not coming close to reaching it). As he got closer Adam could see the careful seams, the places where it could come apart in order to get it out of the loft, but only because he knew how Misha worked now. He was endlessly fascinated by the way Misha put things together, by the way Misha's mind worked.
"Don't picture it here, though," said Misha, "picture it out on the playa, the sun and moon glinting off the metal and glass."
"It would look like fire," said Adam wonderingly.
"Exactly," said Misha. "Go ahead, touch it, put your hands all over it."
Adam did, feeling the rough edges of the metal, the spiraling glass, the way the wire spun and bound them together. And as he put his hands all over the art, Misha put his hands all over him. Adam wasn't surprised but it, but he wasn't so used to it that it didn't send an excited little shiver up his spine, knowing how desired he was. Knowing what was to come.
"This is your installation for Burning Man," he said. "This is the idea you've been searching for."
"I going to do four of them," said Misha. "Fire, water, earth and air. The four classical elements, all bound together in a single piece to reflect four facets of a whole, four personas." And then he added the cherry on top. "It's a portrait."
Adam didn't think he'd ever felt quite so flattered before in his life. Or quite so turned on.
"So what do you need me to do?"
"I want you to stand perfectly still for the next three hours while I cover you completely with cooking oil and plaster of Paris."
"Wait, what?" said Adam, twisting his neck around to look at him. Misha didn't even crack a smile, but Adam could see the grin in his eyes. "Dick!" he said, laughing and turning so that his back was to the art, just barely brushing up against it. "You had me going."
"So what do you think of it?"
"I think I'd really like to live inside your brain for a little while," said Adam as Misha leaned in close to kiss him, "just to figure out how it's so amazing."
"Careful," said Misha against his lips, "the glass might cut."
But instead of moving them away from the piece, Misha just moved them around the other side of it, to where the edges were more undulating than sharp, to where the metal was curved instead of angular. Then he kissed him again, then again, then tugged on the hem of Adam's shirt till he got it up over his head, carefully tossing it out of reach.
"I don't want to damage anything," said Adam softly as Misha pushed him back against Fire.
"You won't," said Misha, sucking a faint mark into the hollow of his throat, one that would quickly fade but felt fire-hot in the meantime. His lips were still on Adam's skin as he began to work on Adam's pants and Adam finally caught up, fumbling at Misha's clothes until he managed to get them half off too, until their tangle of mouths and arms meant they had to part for a moment to get them out of the way.
Being backed against the piece wasn't any worse than being flat against the floor, and had the added bonus of being just that little bit more exciting. He was bent back in an awkward position when Misha went down on him, a little bit up and over, and his legs shook as he held himself there but he felt dizzy and breathless and excited. Despite the strain on his muscles, it was so intense he almost wished it would never end.
He felt a little crazy by the time he did come, and too weak to reciprocate as his back slid down an arc of metal and he planted his ass on the floor. Misha was already taking care of himself, though, and Adam's eyes weren't open even far enough to watch. He just knew when Misha slumped down beside him, breath feeling impossibly hot against his neck.
"It's not enough just to make it," said Misha, as the overheated skin of Adam's shoulder left foggy streaks on the polished metal, as they both caught their breath. "I wanted us to be a part of it. I want us to sweat on it and come on it and twist our hairs into the joints. There needs to be something alive about it, by us being alive around it."
And it just blew Adam's mind that the sex was part of the art, that it was an essential aspect of this piece. That Misha's art wouldn't be complete without it.
"Now," said Misha, blowing cool air against his skin, "now it's finished."
"We do good work," said Adam, though work was entirely the wrong word for it. The day he called sex 'work' he was on the next bus to San Diego to move back in with his parents, because that was a line he wasn't crossing. He had pride, but not that much pride. "So, three more of these, you said?"
"Three more of these," confirmed Misha, looking up to give him a sly smile. "Do you think you're up for it?"
"Can't fucking wait," said Adam, and closed his eyes and let the cool metal of the piece soak him in.
:::
This was not his kind of crowd, and Adam knew it before he even took the stage. Not that Adam didn't play to anyone who would listen, but even 'listen' might have been too much to ask tonight. He was just going to hope that a brawl didn't break out while he was up there, and if one did, that it wouldn't be because someone threw a beer bottle at his head.
At least there was one friendly face out there, though he could have used a few more, just for the moral support. It was just one of those nights, though, when everyone was tied up with their own thing and no one had a lot of opportunity to get away. Drake was probably wishing he had some support at the showing he was at, and Kris could probably have used it at the new club that he was playing, but sometimes it didn't work out that way.
Adam threw out the torch songs and cranked up the classic rock and managed to get out alive and intact, and if the crowd hadn't been quite as enthusiastic as some, they hadn't been actively hostile either. Adam called it a win.
"I got you a drink," said Tommy when Adam sat down. "Actually, I got you two. You looked like you might be needing them after that."
Adam rubbed his throat a little and wished he'd done more warm-up exercises. And more research. "Thanks," he said, "you're not wrong. At least I don't feel the need to flee."
"I half figured you were going to race back to Misha's place as soon as you were done anyway," said Tommy.
"Nah, he hasn't called," said Adam, tacitly admitting that was pretty much the only reason, "so you're stuck with me. I think I might be a little too tired to handle it tonight anyway. I mean, last time—"
But Tommy probably didn't want to hear about that and Adam just downed half of his first drink instead of answering.
"Last time what?" said Tommy, though. "Last time it was so good you passed out? What?"
"Almost," admitted Adam with a short laugh before sipping his drink again. "He does that a lot. But last night, last night he made me wait about five hours before he let me come. And believe me, I would do it again, but I just don't think I have the energy right now."
"It all sounds pretty intense," said Tommy. "I mean, five hours? Really?"
"Well, it felt like five hours," said Adam. "It might only have been three. But it was a whole lot more than one, I can tell you that much."
"You have way more patience than I do," said Tommy. "When I come it's like a race to the finish, you know?"
"I'm not sure that's something to brag about," said Adam. "Is that how straight people do it?"
"I didn't mean it like that," said Tommy, elbowing him. "I just like my sex straight up, no games. You know?"
"Well, I'm not saying you have to try that," said Adam, "but let me tell you, if you've never gotten kinky at all? You have no idea what you're missing. It's a whole new world."
"I like my world," said Tommy. "In my world, I am a fucking god. You don't know what you're missing. Sex doesn't have to be about tricks, sometimes it's about being the best at what you do."
"It can't be both?" said Adam. "I like my variety."
"Oh yeah, we all know about you and your variety," said Tommy. "We've all heard you go on in great detail about your love of variety."
"Come on, that's not fair," said Adam. "I only give details when I'm drunk."
"Yes, well, for a while there you were drunk a lot of the time," said Tommy. "It was more than I ever needed to know. Though at least if I ever find myself needing to give a hell of a blowjob I know exactly what to do."
"If you haven't done it for one of the many guys who've already tried to pick you up," said Adam, "then I think it's knowledge you're not going to need."
"I just can't help it," said Tommy. "I like girls. They're pretty and soft and fun in bed."
"I'll take your word for it," said Adam. He looked up at the stage, where all remnants of his performance had been moved away for the next act—some kind on retro hair band, and not in the awesome way. "Remind me why I took this gig?"
"Cash up front," said Tommy, "which is always pretty good incentive. I don't know, I think they were kind of into it."
"Using the term very loosely, maybe," said Adam. And with that, the first drink was gone. Good thing Tommy had gotten him two. "I guess it could have been a lot worse."
"You could have not gotten cash up front," agreed Tommy. "So are we sticking around here, or do you want to go somewhere fun for the rest of the night, since you don't have to rush off and get laid?"
"Just let me finish this drink," said Adam, "and we can have all the fun you can handle."
:::
Adam got to see the next piece of the installation as it was in progress, as Misha conceived it piece by piece by piece, color by color and angle by angle. He wouldn’t say he was particularly involved, other than being present while some of it was going on, but then that was his role here. His role wasn't to make so much as be an instrument in the making.
"So how are they all going to fit together when you're done?" said Adam. "How is it assembled?"
"I'm going to figure that out after I get there," he said cheerfully, like it was going to be a piece of cake. "I'm counting on being inspired. It's all a part of the process. Do you want a drink?"
"You don't need to get me drunk," said Adam. "I'm a sure thing.
"I do occasionally have manners," said Misha. "There's a bottle of wine on the counter. I thought we could have a drink. I could put some music on. There's an iPod dock underneath my laundry on the table by the wall."
Sure enough there was, and while Misha poured them both some wine Adam tracked down his iPod, too, and then found something for them to listen to, not too loud but not too cliché either. If there was Barry White on there, and somehow he was sure there was, he didn't go looking for it.
He sat on the floor with his back against the half-buried couch as he watched Misha painstakingly wire a piece of fabric to an undulating frame, like the boning of a corset, a waterfall or maybe a rocky stream or maybe something that existed only inside Misha's mind. Whichever it was, he knew very precisely just where every wrinkle, every curve and every stitch should go. Adam watched right up until Misha reached out and grabbed his ankle and pulled him closer.
Adam slid easily over the floor, bracing himself with one hand so he didn't fall over, his wine glass left behind. Then he braced himself with both hands as Misha proceeded to pull his pants off by the ankle, already loose and unbelted at his waist. When he kissed Adam's calf, it was about as dirty as a body kiss could be.
"Okay, stand up," he said, and Adam had no idea where he was going with this but he didn't hesitate to stand up and let Misha manipulate him. Though the extent of the manipulation this time was coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around Adam's waist and kissing his shoulder, something Adam sometimes thought was his favorite position.
"Are you finished?" said Adam, looking at Water in all its glory.
"What do you think?" said Misha, hands drifting down to the crease between Adam's torso and his thighs. "The truth."
"I still want to get inside your brain," said Adam. "This is not even remotely a literal interpretation, but I know exactly what it's meant to be."
"A literal interpretation would have been challenging," said Misha solemnly. "It's hard to sculpt with water. It keeps getting everywhere."
"And yet I would not be at all surprised if you tried," said Adam, reaching down and moving Misha's hands to where he wanted them, one of them up under his shirt and the other palming his cock.
"I'll try anything once," said Misha, kissing his neck again, sucking a faint mark into it as he wrapped his hand around Adam's cock and started slowly stroking it.
They were so close to the piece of art that all Adam had to do was tip forward and he would be brushing against it, he didn't even have to reach out. As Misha stroked his cock he came perilously close to brushing his wrist against it every time.
"I'm worried we're going to stain it," said Adam.
"I'm hoping we're going to stain it," said Misha and dropped to his knees behind him and licked a long stripe up one ass cheek. He tried to keep jerking him off but his hands were obviously needed more elsewhere, and Adam took over jerking himself off while Misha spread his cheeks and licked between them, tongue working down to his hole and fluttering against it so expertly that Adam's legs shook.
When Adam came it was in streaks over one undulation of the fabric. "Shit," he murmured and Misha said, "leave it, I'm going to be adding waterstains to it too," and Adam felt like he was more literally a part of this art than ever.
:::
"I did the most amazing work this morning," said Misha, grabbing Adam's wrist and practically dragging him into the loft.
"Already?" said Adam. "You can't be finished the next piece of the installation already."
"No, this is something else," said Misha. "It was transcendent."
"Transcendent?"
"Transcendent," said Misha. "It was the most amazing night, and then the sun came up and it hit my windows and I just worked right through."
"Have you even slept yet?" said Adam.
"I'll sleep later," said Misha. "Come upstairs. First I'm going to ride you, then I'm going to show you what I was working on. I can't wait to show it. It's made to be shown off. Just like you. It would be criminal if you weren't a performer, and it would be shameful if I didn't put this piece in a show."
"You had me at 'ride'," said Adam, and Misha hauled him up into his loft and onto his bed, covers already askew and half on the floor. "Just don't fall asleep on me, because I'm totally going to finish anyway if you do. I mean it."
"You have my permission," said Misha, "but I'm not going to. I'm going to ride you so hard and tight you're going to come twice. You're going to see stars."
If they didn't start right now, the first time Adam came was going to be before they even got naked. "Quit talking," he said, even though that was a bit of a tall order for both of them, and pulled his clothes off so fast he heard something tear. Whatever, though, it wasn't as though he'd come over here in anything that wasn't cheap and easy to get out of.
Misha was already naked from the waist down, and when he went to pull his shirt off over his head, Adam held his arms there so that the shirt was halfway off, both binding and blinding him.
"Can you do it like this?" he said, rolling them over so that Misha was on top of him, almost but not quite straddling his body.
"If you help," said Misha, his voice muffled by the cotton shirt. Adam was absolutely ready to do that, moving Misha's hips so that he was straddling Adam's body in just the right way, then watching him squirm as Adam fingered him hard, impatiently, ready to push himself inside. Sometimes they wanted it slow and intense and lasting all night. And sometimes it was better hard and fast and reckless.
This was definitely one of those times.
Misha's fingers clutched at the edge of the t-shirt and for a moment Adam just wanted to clutch at them and share some small moment, but his cock had other ideas, and as soon as Misha's body was remotely ready, Adam was moving him into position.
"Ready?"
"I'd be doing you already if it was in my hands," said Misha, flexing his leg muscles as some kind of proof. And it was so fucking heady, being responsible for bodily lowering Misha onto him, lining up his cock and pulling Misha down onto it. Misha trusted him to be completely responsible for this, and Adam was careful with that trust.
Misha might not have been able to use his arms, but the rest of him was completely capable, and now that he was where he needed to be he used his thighs and gravity to bury Adam deep inside himself. Adam drew in a shuddery breath and watched Misha's fingers flex again against his shirt, watched him roll his shoulders and watched him move his head and elbows, pushing the fabric into new shapes.
"Okay," said Misha finally, and Adam heard him loud and clear.
His muscles were already twitching with anticipation and as soon as he got the go-ahead his hands were grabbing Misha's hips so hard it crossed his mind he might be faced with finger-shaped bruises when they were done. But Misha made no complaint, and frankly it was possible his heels were going to leave bruises on Adam too as Adam fucked up into him and Misha fucked back down onto him, panting and squirming and grinding himself down on Adam's cock.
Adam felt so fucking deep and so fucking tight and he knew he should be gripping Misha's cock and jerking him off but all he could do right now was hang on and fuck him hard and fast and grit his teeth as his orgasm slammed into him so hard he could feel it up his spine.
"Oh God," he gasped. "Oh fuck."
And he could hardly take it that Misha was still working him, still moving. He practically saw sparks in front of his eyes as it all got to be too much, and he felt almost as blind as Misha when he finally groped for his cock and got a firm grip on it and jerked him off as hard and fast as he'd fucked him. Misha came within moments, and only when he'd finished, when Adam was wiping his hand on his stomach, did he finally tear the shirt off the rest of the way and duck down and kiss Adam so hard he very nearly drew blood.
It felt like it took a very long time for Adam's heart to slow, for him to catch his breath. Misha was stretched out next to him when he finally did, arms above his head and grabbing at the headboard to stretch out sore muscles.
"Well, you definitely stayed awake," he said, rolling onto his side to run his fingers down Misha's finally-bare chest, playfully pinching a nipple as he went. Misha batted him away, but he definitely didn't look uninterested.
"Wanted to show you my work before I passed out," said Misha, finally grabbing up Adam's hand and lacing their fingers together to keep Adam from teasing him. "Not sure I'll make it."
"Maybe you can point me in the right direction," said Adam, "and I can find it myself."
"On the kitchen counter," murmured Misha. "You'll know it when you see it."
"It fits on the kitchen counter?"
"Sometimes you inspire big things in me and sometimes you inspire things that are very, very small."
Adam almost made a joke about how nothing about him was very, very small, but Misha's eyes were closing and so he just kissed him asleep instead. And once he drifted off, Adam finally got up off the bed and found his underwear and headed down to the kitchen.
He wasn't even sure what to call the delicate spiral of glass that was no bigger than a drinking glass but made up of dozens of pieces all put together in such a way that when the light hit it, it made the most amazing picture on the countertop and up the wall. He was almost glad Misha was asleep because he didn't know what to say, just stared at it for a very long time, watching the changes as the light moved.
It was beautiful, and it was because of him.
:::
There was something about being with Misha that got Adam all fired up, and not just sexually (though of course there was a lot of that too). Misha made his brain work as much as his dick.
And this was why, on a Sunday afternoon, instead of lazing around watching television, he was humming to himself and scrawling down snatches of lyrics on the back of an old flyer. He'd worked on songs before, with friends, contributing a lyric here, maybe writing the bridge, but he'd never written a song before that was all his.
He knew someone who did, though, and as soon as he had something worth sharing he was scrolling for Kris's name in his contacts.
"Hey, are you up?"
"Of course I'm up," he said. "I just got back from church. What's going on?"
"Nothing," said Adam, getting up off his couch and pacing the room. "Here, listen to this." He hummed the melody at first, because that was all he had, not proficient enough on any instrument to accompany himself, then sang the first couple of lines before trailing off.
"That's cool," said Kris. "Is that new?"
"Yeah, I wrote that," said Adam, "I just wrote that." He didn't realize how much like a little kid he sounded until Kris started to laugh. "Don't make fun of me!"
"I'm not," said Kris, "I promise I'm not. I think it's great. And you're so excited."
"I am excited," said Adam. "I just woke up and I felt like I had to write, you know?"
"I know exactly what that's like," said Kris. "Is there more?"
"Yeah, yeah, there's more," he said. "Not a whole song yet, but do you want to hear what I've got?"
"Of course," said Kris. "Give it to me. Just let me put you on speaker so I can take my clothes off."
"Tease," said Adam. "Though at least that means you really, really like it."
"Shut up," laughed Kris. "I just want to get out of my church clothes. Go on, sing me through it."
And Adam did, because changing clothes or not, this was Kris and he knew Kris would be giving him his almost undivided attention.
"So?" he said when he was done. "What do you think?"
"I think you need to finish that," said Kris. "It would sound great with some bass, all slow and dark and sexy."
"Yeah, I guess it's a little sexy," said Adam. "It feels a little sexy."
"It's pure sex," said Kris. "It needs a full band, though, not just a piano. You need to get the guys to rehearse it with you. When it's done, obviously."
"It might not be done if I don't get some help," said Adam, but even as he said it he was jotting a few more things down, a phase that floated into his mind, an image from the last night he'd spent with Misha. "Do you have clothes on now?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" said Kris. "So do you think you're gonna do more, or is this a one-time thing?"
"I don't know," said Adam. "I've just been inspired lately."
"Gee, I wonder why," said Kris, his voice muffled for a moment. Adam wondered if that was him pulling on a shirt. "You seeing him today?"
"I don't know," said Adam. "We don't really plan it. If he calls me up, then I'll go over there."
"What if you want to call him up?"
"It doesn't work that way," said Adam. "What would we even do at my place? He couldn't do his art here."
"Weird," said Kris. "Well, if you're bored later, give me a call. Most of the guys are laying low but I'd be into a movie or something. We could probably convince Cassidy to come."
"Yeah, if Misha doesn't call then yeah, I'll do that."
"If Misha doesn't call, right," said Kris, and Adam could imagine him smirking at him. "Go write the rest of your song then, and I'll talk to you later."
:::
"Your phone's ringing," said Drake, poking his head in the still-steamy bathroom and interrupting Adam's rendition of "Oops! I Did It Again".
"It'll just go to voicemail," said Adam, leaning closer to the mirror and scowling at his reflection for a moment. It was probably about that job he was finally forced to get, which made him a little less than eager to take the call. "You came in here just to tell me that."
"It's your third call since you got in the shower. I thought it might be important."
"Oh," said Adam, and made sure his towel was secure around his waist before following Drake out to where his phone was going off once again, right where he left it on the couch. He really needed to change that ringtone; it was kind of irritating when you had to listen to it for more than about five seconds at a time.
"Hey, Misha," he said as his hair dripped down the back of his neck. He would have pulled off his towel to wipe it dry, but there was only so much casual nudity that Drake was willing to put up with. "What's up? Do you want me to come over?"
"Just calling to say hi," he said, though. "I was working on this project and thinking about you."
"More of the installation?"
"No," he said, "just this commission. I do occasionally have to sell things to make my mortgage payments."
"I always wondered if you actually worked for a living," admitted Adam. He was feeling a little off-kilter now that it was clear the call wasn't just to get his ass over to Misha's loft, but not unhappy. Definitely not that. "Tell me about the project?"
"I can't promise it'll be interesting," said Misha. "I'm working to spec, so it's a mosaic design based on a portrait. It feels a lot more like craft than art right now."
"And this somehow made you think of me?"
"It made me think of how I'd do this if it was supposed to resemble you instead of someone I've never met," said Misha. "I would probably be working much less literally. You're a person who appreciate art for its ability to suggest rather than imitate."
"Also, it would be kind of weird to see my face used as an end table or a bird feeder."
"This one is a bona fide wall hanging, but you make a compelling point," said Misha. "There is a reason I'm not a painter of portraits, though I once dreamed of being a street sketch artist in the south of France."
"Really?" said Adam, trying to picture it.
"I mean, actually dreamed about it," clarified Misha. "There was also a green leopard who liked to eat shoes. Expensive leather pumps. It was all very disconcerting. Also, he danced."
"A dancing leopard who liked to eat expensive shoes," Adam repeated, and Drake looked at him sideways before disappearing into the kitchen.
"Who was green," said Misha. "Yes. Do you think I should try to figure out what it meant?"
"I think it meant you had spicy food before bed," said Adam. "So why are you doing a portrait if you hate them?"
"I don't hate them," said Misha, "I just prefer it when other people do them. But this one is paying well, and it's for someone I'd like to keep as a patron. Refusing him a portrait of his wife in glass and ceramic seems like a perfect way to do that. I'm not the temperamental artist type. I can't get away with temper tantrums and have people love me even more for it afterwards."
"No, you're the eccentric artist type," said Adam, "but a pragmatic eccentric."
"Yes, exactly," said Misha. "Pragmatic eccentric. I like that. I'm going to have it printed on my cards."
"As your professional designation?"
"It's so much more descriptive than just 'mixed-media artist'," said Misha. "I mean, which would you rather associate with?"
"I'm not sure I'd be particularly concerned with your title, once I saw your work," said Adam, then caught a glimpse of Drake's raised eyebrow as he peeked out of the kitchen. "Your art. It was what got my attention, after all."
"I thought what got your attention was me demanding you pose for me," said Misha.
"Oh, well," said Adam, looking up to meet Drake's eyes only to find he'd disappeared again. "It's possible I'd more than heard of you. It's possible I was interested before we actually met."
"Interesting," said Misha. "Very interesting."
"Don't read too much into it," said Adam, and laughed, but Misha seemed to be genuinely interested. And flattered.
And it was interesting to talk to him and just have it be conversation. About art. About music. And, during one brief tangent, about reality television. When Adam finally hung up, Drake was waiting for him in the kitchen, apparently having made himself a drink since there was no sign of him having done anything else in there while Adam was on the phone.
"Are you heading out now?"
"What? No," said Adam. "Can you make me one of those too?"
"Not if you're going to be driving right away," said Drake. "You can have water. Or ginger ale. Or the dregs of the orange juice, but I think that's mostly pulp at this point."
"I'm not going out," said Adam. "I'm not going over there tonight."
"Oh," said Drake. "Shit. You guys didn't just split up, did you?"
"No, of course not," said Adam. "He's not finished his installation yet. He just called to talk."
"Huh," said Drake, and finally did make Adam a drink. "Interesting. Go put your pants on and maybe I'll let you have this. Your towel's starting to slip."
"Like it's anything you haven't seen before," said Adam, but he slipped out of the kitchen and threw on some around-the-house clothes and let the conversation sort of settle in his head and his heart.
:::
Kris had a regular gig at a little coffeehouse in WeHo, which barely paid at all but he got free drinks and usually moved a few CDs so it was a good gig for him. Adam showed up for it whenever he could, and not just out of moral support. It was a pretty chill place, just like Kris, and sometimes Adam just wanted to be chill.
Kris definitely had a couple of admirers tonight, a kind of serious-looking guy who looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days and a tiny blonde thing with pink streaks in her hair. He kept flashing a smile at their table between songs, and one of the fun things about Kris was that Adam had no idea which one of them he was flirting with.
When his set was over, though, it was Adam he came and sat with. "I was surprised to spot you," he said. "I thought you'd be at that guy's place again tonight."
"Who, Misha?"
"There's another guy you're seeing?"
"We're not really seeing each other," he said, but no, no, he wasn't seeing anyone else all the same. "We're just working on a project."
"I've got to tell you," said Kris, "as far as euphemisms go? I find that one kind of lacking in oomph."
"An art project," said Adam. And if there was a lot of sex involved, well, it was artistically relevant sex. "But enough about my sex life. How about you?"
"If you want to talk about my sex life, this is going to be as short a conversation as it always is."
"Your love life, then," said Adam, nodding towards Kris's admirers. "Or your potential for one."
Kris's grin was a little sly. "Cute, huh?"
"Yes, but which one?"
Kris just cheerfully shrugged. "Both?" he said. "I met them at the counter after my first set. He's Anoop and she's Alexis. They're students."
"They're groupies now," Adam teased him. "Bet they show up for your next show. Bet they've already asked where it is."
"If they did, they asked someone else because they didn't ask me," he said. "So why did you change the subject? Since when do you not want to talk about you?"
"Ohhh, burn," said Adam. "I can't take an interest in you?"
"Not when you've got some mysterious new guy in your life," said Kris. "If Drake didn't know him, I would've thought he was a figment of your imagination."
"What?"
"Well, it's all a little strange and surreal, isn't it?" said Kris. "A mysterious artist comes out of nowhere and sweeps you off your feet, telling you you're his muse. It's all very romance novel."
"You read romance novels?"
"I watch Lifetime sometimes, all right?" he said. "Don't change the subject again."
"It's not as weird as you're making it out to be," said Adam. "Mostly it's just a lot of great sex. I mean, have you ever done it on a giant canvas while smeared in body paint?" Kris just stared at him pointedly. "Okay, have you ever thought about doing it on a giant canvas while covered in body paint?"
"I might have had a dream about that once."
"You must go through so many sets of sheets."
"Thankfully my mother made sure I knew how to do laundry before I left home."
"This is why abstinence is bad for the environment."
Kris just rolled his eyes at him. "So you're saying it's as good as it sounds?"
"I'm saying it's better," said Adam. "That's all this is. Just a lot of adventurous, artistic sex, no strings attached."
"I like strings, though," said Kris. "And I think you do, too."
"Shut up and drink your coffee," said Adam. "You know you're going to want time to pee before your last set."
"It's true," said Kris shamelessly, and this time he really did let the subject go. For now, anyway.
Part Two
coolwhipdiva won my humble services in the Donors Choose charity auction, for an AI story of 5000+ words. She requested an Adam Lambert/Misha Collins crossover AU, and has been very patiently waiting for the results. At long last, here it is. :) [ ETA: For the uninitiated, Adam Lambert is...Adam Lambert. And Misha Collins plays Castiel on Supernatural. Both are pretty awesome. ]Also now available as a podfic here and audiobook, thanks to the wonderful
parakaAesthetic Alchemy
In which Adam is a struggling singer and Misha is an eccentric artist, and somehow it all just works.
American Idol/CW RPF. 21,200 words. NC-17. Adam Lambert/Misha Collins. (Past Adam/Brad, background Kris/Matt.) Contains: bondage, semi-public sex
Adam hated everything about the painting in front of him. Absolutely everything. "This isn't art," he said. "My old neighbor's kid could paint something better than this, and he eats paint."
"Come on, it's not that bad," said Drake.
"It's blue," said Adam. "That's all it is. It's blue."
"It's about the way light plays with color," Drake insisted. "Look, okay, come over here, come stand where I'm standing." Adam was dubious, but he trusted Drake's opinion on art. Most of the time. "See how it looks different from over here, see how the shape of it changes?"
"I guess," said Adam. It did look different. Not in any kind of interesting way to him, but different. "And I know that's got to be a challenging thing to do, but you know it's not my thing. It's not...bold."
"And your neighbor's kid was?" said Drake.
"Bold is probably a very kind description of that kid," he said, shaking his head. "His poor mother. Brad and I used to...."
But they didn't anymore, and Adam didn't live there anymore, and there was no sense even bringing all of that up right now. Or at all.
"Fair enough," said Drake, resting a hand at the small of Adam's back for a moment. "Thanks for coming with me tonight. I didn't want to show up at yet another opening alone."
"Well, you know I'm always good for that," said Adam, relieved when they moved on to the next painting even though it was just as abstract. At least this one had more than one color. It wasn't that Adam didn't appreciate art—he loved art, he loved all kinds of self-expression—but sometimes blue was just blue.
"Maybe we should come back to it after you've had a couple more glasses of complimentary champagne," said Drake. "It might be more rewarding once your vision starts to blur."
"Or we could just go look at your work," said Adam, "since that's why we're at this little event in the first place."
"You've already seen my work," said Drake, but they started wandering in that direction all the same. Adam had not only seen Drake's work, he modeled for it, though a person wouldn't know it from the finished product. Adam liked his stuff, though. He got Drake's art, understood the way he used shapes and colors and metaphors to represent the everyday. He could look at a painting of a tree and know it was actually of him.
"Wait," said Adam as they passed a wide pedestal in the center of the room, though, pausing to look at the sculpture on it. It was mixed media, to say the least, a welded metal frame hung and wired with shattered glass and porcelain like a deconstructed mosaic, and he wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything quite like it before. "I like this one."
"Yeah, that figures," said Drake. "It's all sparkly."
"Shut the fuck up," said Adam, elbowing him in the side. "It's just interesting. I have no idea what it means but it's interesting."
"You really should come with me the next time the collective meets," said Drake. "I know I keep telling you you'd like it, but I'm serious. It gets a little, you know, esoteric for me sometimes, but that's just your thing."
"Esoteric?" said Adam. "The color blue is not esoteric."
"I'm sure there are at least a couple of people who beg to differ," said Drake. "At the very least, you have to admit it would be an interesting conversation."
"You know I'll come one of these days," said Adam as they finally moved on to Drake's trio of paintings, "as long as I'm not performing that night. I'm not blowing off a show to come hang out with visual artists, enlightening as it might be."
"I'd never ask you to," Drake promised him, "any more than you'd ask me to stop painting. Now stroke my ego a little bit or I'll think you like Misha's work better."
"As if," said Adam, throwing an arm around his neck, though he maybe took one little glance back at the sculpture that had caught his eye. "You know I could never like anyone more than you."
:::
Adam sang four nights in a row, just this little club belonging to a friend of a friend, and by the time he hit his last note he felt like he was on top of the world. There wasn't much of an audience at all the first night, but by the fourth either it was half-price drinks night or word had gotten around, because the place was packed and Adam was looking at a very happy manager who he suspected would be very happy to book him again when there was an opening.
It wasn't any kind of a big break, but it was something and it felt good. It felt good to be wanted.
Which was why it was all a bit of a letdown when the run was over and Adam went back to scratching out his place in the LA underground scene, looking for open mikes, counting on his once-monthly regular shows, and reluctantly considering the possibility that he'd have to find a real job again for a little while because LA was full of people who were trying to make it.
"Come with me tonight," said Drake, throwing his scarf around Adam's neck to draw him closer. "You'll have a good time."
"I was going to go out with Cassidy--"
"Do you really think you're up for seeing the ex tonight?" said Drake. "Really?"
"Cassidy said it's just him and Sara and Blaise," said Adam. "Brad's not going to be there."
"You know Brad's going to be there," said Drake, "because he always is."
Adam had to admit that he was right. Privately, anyway. Admitting Drake was right out loud would just result in gloating. "If it means that much to you," he said, "I guess I can check it out your thing. I'm over him, though. We're over each other. For the record."
"Of course you are," said Drake. "Grab your notebook. You might be inspired."
The collective was anything but an organized group, just an ever-changing collection of semi-starving artists that got together at irregular moments to...well, Adam wasn't sure what they did. Supported each other, artistically, he guessed. But he liked the vibe as soon as he got there, Drake wasn't wrong about that.
Drake offered to introduce him around but Adam was a social creature, he let Drake do what he was obviously wanting to do—sketch with the cute guy who lived two floors down from them—and took care of any introductions himself.
"Stay right there."
Adam's first instinct was, surprisingly, to do exactly what he was ordered and stay right there. He was frozen for a couple of seconds before it occurred to him to question it.
"Am I about to step in something?"
"No, but you look perfect right there," the guy said. "Can you hold it for about a minute and a half?"
Adam's eyebrows went up, but it wasn't as though he was mid-step or in some kind of awkward and precarious position. "Will you tell me why if I do?"
"I'll tell you why if you don't, too," he said, "but I'll be very disappointed."
Adam never actually said yes, but he never actually moved either. He didn't even turn his head. He did breathe, and blink, but apparently those were sanctioned activities because there were no more orders spoken calmly in his direction. And finally, after what felt like longer than a minute and a half, the guy finally let him off the hook.
"Perfect," he said again. Adam looked, and half expected to see a sketch of himself—which is what Drake would have done, in his way—but instead saw a spiral of wires twisted together. "See?"
"Not really," said Adam, tilting his head to the side and studying it, the way the colors worked together, the way it swayed a little bit whenever anyone walked near it. "But I think I want to."
"Even better," he said. "Come, come look, unless you were on your way to do something of tremendous importance or earth-shattering beauty."
"Not right this second, no," said Adam, though he sort of wished he was, now. He wanted to do a thing of earth-shattering beauty.
"This is you," he said, waving his hand overtop of the wire sculpture like a magician, making the wires move just with the movement of the air around them. "This is what you looked like."
"I wasn't moving," said Adam, tilting his head to the other side to watch the flow from a whole new angle this time.
"You were moving in my head," he said. "Things always move in more interesting ways in my head."
"Yeah, the world is usually more interesting in my head, too," said Adam. That was what he tried to bring out, every time he performed. And what this guy seemed to be doing with his sculpture.
"You made the thing, didn't you?" said Adam suddenly, trying to simulate the deconstructed mosaic bodily, his arms swaying. Apparently he did a good enough job, because the guy lit up. "You're Misha. I saw it, at the show."
"I call it 'Sunset over Post-Apocalyptic Skyscraper'," he said. "I didn't let them label it, though. I didn't want to tell anybody."
"You just told me, though."
"You're different," said Misha, waving his hand overtop of the wires again just to make them sway and dance. "Have you ever been to Burning Man?"
Adam knew then and there that they were going to get along very, very well.
:::
Adam had to wait for Drake to change his shirt three times before they managed to get out the door, and they were still the first people to arrive at brunch, though at least Cassidy was only about five minutes behind. Not as much of a feat when you considered that he lived the closest.
"Who else is coming today?" he said, giving the familiar menu only a cursory glance. "Is Ferras coming?"
Cassidy shook his head. "Doubt it. He got lucky last night. Kris should be here, though. And I left Tommy sleeping on my couch when he just drooled on me and refused to wake up. He knows where we are if he gets up and realizes I have nothing but celery and wine in my fridge. I don't think anyone else is around this weekend."
"Sounds like you had a good night," said Adam as Drake ordered them a couple of coffees then snatched the menu out of his hands.
"You would've already known that if you'd come out with us," said Cassidy, "instead of finding out at Boys Brunch."
"We had a good time too," said Drake.
"I thought it was a collective night," said Cassidy. "At least, that was your excuse for not coming."
"It was," said Drake. "Adam came with me."
They were interrupted by the waiter arriving with the coffee, and even though they'd all taken the opportunity to look at the menu, just because it was there, their order was exactly the same as it was every other Saturday morning. Well, closer to Saturday noon, really.
"So that's what you blew us off for?" said Cassidy. "I figured it was something good."
"Hey," said Drake. "I don't make fun of your artistic pursuits."
"Yes you do," said Cassidy. "You do it all the time."
"Well, that's different," he protested. "That was a terrible hat, and we all knew it."
"It was supposed to be terrible," he said. "Its beauty was in its ugliness."
"You totally came up with that afterwards," said Drake. "Anyway, Adam seemed to have a good time at the collective. At least, as far as I could tell, since he disappeared after about an hour and only showed up again when me and Lil were starting to clean up."
"It's not what you think," said Adam. "You make it sound like I was off screwing someone in the broom closet."
"Who were you making it with in a broom closet?" said Kris, sliding smoothly into the last empty seat.
"No one," said Adam. "Where've you been?"
Kris just shrugged. "Overslept," he said, running his fingers through his obviously genuine bedhead. And not a word of a lie, he looked like he still had a couple of sleep creases in his neck and shoulder he was so recently out of bed. "Was it anyone I know?"
"No one," said Adam. "Now stop trying to live vicariously through me."
"Hey, just because I'm saving myself doesn't mean I don't think about it," said Kris. "What are we actually talking about anyway? I missed the beginning."
"That's what happens when you're always late," said Cassidy. "Adam hung out with Drake's collective last night and apparently did something that didn't actually involve sex in closets. Unfortunately. Because that would be an acceptable reason for blowing us off."
"I didn't blow you off, I just didn't go," said Adam. "I never said I was going. And anyway I met someone at the collective. Not like that...well, maybe like that, I don't know yet."
"Spill," said Cassidy, pushing his own half-finished coffee in Kris's direction. Kris snatched it up like a starving man.
"Oh," said Drake, breaking into a truly shit-eating grin. "Oh. You met Misha."
Cassidy looked momentarily puzzled. Kris was still focused on the coffee.
"Misha's a guy," Adam supplied helpfully. "And yeah, I did."
"Then it's probably what you think," said Drake, which did a lot to brighten Adam's already-bright morning, actually. "Misha's...interesting."
"Misha's great," said Adam. "He wants me to come by and check out this project he's working on."
"Is that anything like inviting you up to see his etchings?" said Kris.
"Only if I'm lucky," said Adam. "Is there anything I should know about him, then? If he's into whips and chains...well, okay, it's not a dealbreaker, but I at least want to know about it before I get there."
"Not that I'm aware of," said Drake. "He's just interesting. Kind of intense. A little weird but kind of brilliant."
"Huh," said Adam. "Well, I'll let you know what happens, then. Some of it, anyway. If I'm lucky, there'll be bits that aren't fit to tell."
"That's never stopped you before," said Kris, but then the waiter returned and Kris ordered himself his own coffee and conversation finally moved on to other things.
:::
Misha's studio was in his loft; actually, Misha's loft was his studio, the only parts of the vast open space spared from art pieces and debris being the kitchen area and (possibly) the small loft where Adam assumed his bed could be found. And even the kitchen had a few bits and pieces here and there amid the coffee cups and takeout containers.
"Come, sit down," said Misha, moving a box of shattered dinner plates off a backless bar stool. "Sorry about the mess. The cleaning service only comes every other day."
"Of course," said Adam, "that explains everything." He perched himself on the stool and then took a better look around, trying to get a sense of how Misha worked, how he lived when he wasn't working. Or if he lived when he wasn't working, which given the evidence seemed debatable.
"I was just in the middle of something," said Misha, which seemed like his standard state of being. Adam rested an ankle on his knee and watched as Misha finished braiding what looked like a collection of ribbon, wire and chain together. Misha hummed as he worked, and didn't even attempt to make conversation until he'd tied off the end of it.
"Done?" said Adam a few moments later.
"It'll keep now," said Misha, setting it aside. "I'm not sure what I'm going to use it for yet, but I had a dream about it last night."
"Your work always come to you in dreams?" said Adam, sliding off the stool again to join him.
"Only when I'm lucky," he said. "Most of the time I actually have to make an effort."
He made a vague gesture, which Adam didn't realize was meaningful until he saw that Misha was gesturing at an overfull bookcase full of books on mythology and psychology and art history and geology and probably a lot more things piled in there that Adam couldn't see. Work. Research.
"Do you want the tour? It's pretty short, so maybe you should just take a look around if you want. Bed's up in the loft and bathroom's through that door. Everything else you can pretty much see if you turn around in a circle."
Adam grinned at him and did exactly that, but there was no way he was going to take it all in without turning in about ten circles. Twenty circles. "Can I look around?" he said. "Is there anything off limits?"
"Go ahead, touch whatever you want," said Misha. "Let me watch you."
"You want to watch me...look around?" said Adam. Misha nodded and grabbed a sketchbook off the top of the bookshelf and Adam understood what he was saying. Not kinky, just artistic. "Sure, why not?"
Misha sketched him while he was checking out a mosaic sculpture on the end table. And again while he was on his hands and knees trying to find the beginning of a pattern in the tiles on the floor. And probably again while he was looking up the stairs towards his loft, but Adam's back was to him then and he couldn't say for sure.
Then, while Adam was looking way, way up at the steel-and-glass-bead vine that was crawling up the wall between the tall windows, he felt Misha's arms come around him from behind. When Misha kissed him on the neck, Adam finally turned his head a little to look at him. He wasn't surprised, but he hadn't expected it to happen quite like this.
"You've been thinking about it too, right?" said Misha, then laughed. "Did that sound weird?"
"No weirder than anything else," said Adam. "I inspire you. That's a pretty huge turn-on."
"It's a pretty huge turn-on for me, too," said Misha, his hands slipping downwards, over the front of his pants, resting right there as they stood in front of the window. "Are you an exhibitionist?"
"Not...as much as you might think," said Adam, because there was a difference between a performance and a performance. "Do you want to take this upstairs?"
Misha gave his thigh a little pinch, then let go of him to lower the blinds instead. "Right here," he said, "in the middle of all my work."
Adam didn't protest at all when Misha dropped to his knees in front of him and opened his pants. He might've had something to say about the hard tile floor except that Misha had throw rugs everywhere, including one he'd already tugged over to cushion his knees.
A little while later, once their clothes were discarded to the four corners of the room and he had saliva in almost every nook and cranny of his body, Adam did end up flat on his back on the bare floor anyway, hard against the knobs of his spine but not painful enough to stop when Misha sank down on his cock and rode him. On his way over here Adam had figured this would be a couple of mutual blowjobs if he was lucky, maybe a cup of coffee afterwards, not athletic sex on the floor with a dangerously pointy sculpture poised precariously nearby.
He definitely wasn't complaining about the turn of events.
"You're so complicated," said Misha afterwards, trailing a hand up Adam's sore back. The word sounded quaint when he said it, and curious in a way, like there was an unspoken question in there somewhere.
"Isn't everyone?" said Adam, his words just faintly slurred with contented exhaustion. "I've never met anyone who was exactly what they appeared to be. It's just part of being human."
"But it shines out of you," said Misha, "all these different sides to you. The passionate and the steady and the languid and the whimsical."
Adam had never been described quite that way before. He decided he kind of liked it.
"You make me want to build something amazing," said Misha. "Like a pyramid, or the Eiffel Tower."
"Those would take a long time," said Adam.
"And they've been done already," said Misha. "But something amazing. Something new."
"Right now?" said Adam. "Right this second?" Of course, what he was really asking was, 'do I have to move?'
"No," said Misha, running a hand down the middle of Adam's bare chest now. "Not right now. But soon. You're my inspiration."
:::
"He called you his what?" said Drake, laughing at him over banana pancakes that, thanks to the meager contents of the kitchen, were a lot more banana than pancake.
"He didn't mean it in a weird way," said Adam. "I'm not just decorative or something. I think it's kind of cool."
"His muse," said Drake. "Who says that kind of thing?"
"I would say that kind of thing," said Adam, "if I had one. He's a Burner too, he gets it, you know, the spirit of inspiration and collaboration. Okay seriously, you're going to pull something if you don't stop laughing."
"I doubt it," said Drake. "Being friends with you has strengthened my laugh muscles to the point where I'm pretty sure they could endure just about anything."
"You're just jealous," said Adam. "I bet you've never been anyone's muse."
"I'm pretty okay with that," said Drake, still laughing, if a bit more quietly. "Come on, you have to admit, it's a little funny."
Adam stuck to his guns, though. "It's not funny, it's awesome," he said. "I'm inspiring. What's more awesome than that?"
"Hey, if it makes you happy I'm not going to argue with that," said Drake. "And clearly it makes you giddy as a schoolgirl."
Adam was tempted to retract his pancakes for that. "I just got laid in a spectacular way," he said, "which, by the way, makes the schoolgirl analogy really gross. Of course I'm in a good mood. And apparently I'm going to get laid a number of times over the next few weeks, which I serve as a muse for an avant garde artist conceiving a large-scale art installation. It's the best thing to happen to me in ages."
"The sex part, or the muse part?" said Drake. "Because I know you were in a bit of a dry spell, but...."
"I could've picked up someone if I wanted," said Adam. "This is better, though. Semi-regular sex with no strings attached. And he's funny. And smart."
"He is funny and smart," agreed Drake. "And a little weird."
"Well, we're all a little weird," said Adam. "It comes with the territory."
"Can't argue with that," said Drake, and raised a glass of orange juice to the sentiment. Adam figured it was as close to concession as he was going to get.
:::
It wasn't a regular thing, not like an appointment. Adam didn't show up at Misha's place at two o'clock every Tuesday afternoon or anything like that, he didn't strip down and lounge over a bearskin rug while Misha sketched him. Frankly, if he had to describe it—and he did, because his friends were extremely nosy—it was a lot more like a booty call, really. Misha called him up and as long as Adam wasn't working he headed over.
And it was a lot more frequent than once a week.
"I finished something today," said Misha as soon as Adam arrived on a Tuesday night, crooking a finger and beckoning him to follow.
"The one you've been so excited about but refused to show me till you were done?" said Adam.
"I wasn't sure it was going to work out," said Misha, "and I felt like I needed to know it was going to be right before I got you involved, but that was exactly wrong, you should have been on top of it right from the start. I want to make up for that now."
Adam was used to not quite understanding what Misha was talking about half the time, but he'd developed enough faith in him that he just went with it.
The piece was imposing even in this large space, parts of it reaching up for the ceiling (if not coming close to reaching it). As he got closer Adam could see the careful seams, the places where it could come apart in order to get it out of the loft, but only because he knew how Misha worked now. He was endlessly fascinated by the way Misha put things together, by the way Misha's mind worked.
"Don't picture it here, though," said Misha, "picture it out on the playa, the sun and moon glinting off the metal and glass."
"It would look like fire," said Adam wonderingly.
"Exactly," said Misha. "Go ahead, touch it, put your hands all over it."
Adam did, feeling the rough edges of the metal, the spiraling glass, the way the wire spun and bound them together. And as he put his hands all over the art, Misha put his hands all over him. Adam wasn't surprised but it, but he wasn't so used to it that it didn't send an excited little shiver up his spine, knowing how desired he was. Knowing what was to come.
"This is your installation for Burning Man," he said. "This is the idea you've been searching for."
"I going to do four of them," said Misha. "Fire, water, earth and air. The four classical elements, all bound together in a single piece to reflect four facets of a whole, four personas." And then he added the cherry on top. "It's a portrait."
Adam didn't think he'd ever felt quite so flattered before in his life. Or quite so turned on.
"So what do you need me to do?"
"I want you to stand perfectly still for the next three hours while I cover you completely with cooking oil and plaster of Paris."
"Wait, what?" said Adam, twisting his neck around to look at him. Misha didn't even crack a smile, but Adam could see the grin in his eyes. "Dick!" he said, laughing and turning so that his back was to the art, just barely brushing up against it. "You had me going."
"So what do you think of it?"
"I think I'd really like to live inside your brain for a little while," said Adam as Misha leaned in close to kiss him, "just to figure out how it's so amazing."
"Careful," said Misha against his lips, "the glass might cut."
But instead of moving them away from the piece, Misha just moved them around the other side of it, to where the edges were more undulating than sharp, to where the metal was curved instead of angular. Then he kissed him again, then again, then tugged on the hem of Adam's shirt till he got it up over his head, carefully tossing it out of reach.
"I don't want to damage anything," said Adam softly as Misha pushed him back against Fire.
"You won't," said Misha, sucking a faint mark into the hollow of his throat, one that would quickly fade but felt fire-hot in the meantime. His lips were still on Adam's skin as he began to work on Adam's pants and Adam finally caught up, fumbling at Misha's clothes until he managed to get them half off too, until their tangle of mouths and arms meant they had to part for a moment to get them out of the way.
Being backed against the piece wasn't any worse than being flat against the floor, and had the added bonus of being just that little bit more exciting. He was bent back in an awkward position when Misha went down on him, a little bit up and over, and his legs shook as he held himself there but he felt dizzy and breathless and excited. Despite the strain on his muscles, it was so intense he almost wished it would never end.
He felt a little crazy by the time he did come, and too weak to reciprocate as his back slid down an arc of metal and he planted his ass on the floor. Misha was already taking care of himself, though, and Adam's eyes weren't open even far enough to watch. He just knew when Misha slumped down beside him, breath feeling impossibly hot against his neck.
"It's not enough just to make it," said Misha, as the overheated skin of Adam's shoulder left foggy streaks on the polished metal, as they both caught their breath. "I wanted us to be a part of it. I want us to sweat on it and come on it and twist our hairs into the joints. There needs to be something alive about it, by us being alive around it."
And it just blew Adam's mind that the sex was part of the art, that it was an essential aspect of this piece. That Misha's art wouldn't be complete without it.
"Now," said Misha, blowing cool air against his skin, "now it's finished."
"We do good work," said Adam, though work was entirely the wrong word for it. The day he called sex 'work' he was on the next bus to San Diego to move back in with his parents, because that was a line he wasn't crossing. He had pride, but not that much pride. "So, three more of these, you said?"
"Three more of these," confirmed Misha, looking up to give him a sly smile. "Do you think you're up for it?"
"Can't fucking wait," said Adam, and closed his eyes and let the cool metal of the piece soak him in.
:::
This was not his kind of crowd, and Adam knew it before he even took the stage. Not that Adam didn't play to anyone who would listen, but even 'listen' might have been too much to ask tonight. He was just going to hope that a brawl didn't break out while he was up there, and if one did, that it wouldn't be because someone threw a beer bottle at his head.
At least there was one friendly face out there, though he could have used a few more, just for the moral support. It was just one of those nights, though, when everyone was tied up with their own thing and no one had a lot of opportunity to get away. Drake was probably wishing he had some support at the showing he was at, and Kris could probably have used it at the new club that he was playing, but sometimes it didn't work out that way.
Adam threw out the torch songs and cranked up the classic rock and managed to get out alive and intact, and if the crowd hadn't been quite as enthusiastic as some, they hadn't been actively hostile either. Adam called it a win.
"I got you a drink," said Tommy when Adam sat down. "Actually, I got you two. You looked like you might be needing them after that."
Adam rubbed his throat a little and wished he'd done more warm-up exercises. And more research. "Thanks," he said, "you're not wrong. At least I don't feel the need to flee."
"I half figured you were going to race back to Misha's place as soon as you were done anyway," said Tommy.
"Nah, he hasn't called," said Adam, tacitly admitting that was pretty much the only reason, "so you're stuck with me. I think I might be a little too tired to handle it tonight anyway. I mean, last time—"
But Tommy probably didn't want to hear about that and Adam just downed half of his first drink instead of answering.
"Last time what?" said Tommy, though. "Last time it was so good you passed out? What?"
"Almost," admitted Adam with a short laugh before sipping his drink again. "He does that a lot. But last night, last night he made me wait about five hours before he let me come. And believe me, I would do it again, but I just don't think I have the energy right now."
"It all sounds pretty intense," said Tommy. "I mean, five hours? Really?"
"Well, it felt like five hours," said Adam. "It might only have been three. But it was a whole lot more than one, I can tell you that much."
"You have way more patience than I do," said Tommy. "When I come it's like a race to the finish, you know?"
"I'm not sure that's something to brag about," said Adam. "Is that how straight people do it?"
"I didn't mean it like that," said Tommy, elbowing him. "I just like my sex straight up, no games. You know?"
"Well, I'm not saying you have to try that," said Adam, "but let me tell you, if you've never gotten kinky at all? You have no idea what you're missing. It's a whole new world."
"I like my world," said Tommy. "In my world, I am a fucking god. You don't know what you're missing. Sex doesn't have to be about tricks, sometimes it's about being the best at what you do."
"It can't be both?" said Adam. "I like my variety."
"Oh yeah, we all know about you and your variety," said Tommy. "We've all heard you go on in great detail about your love of variety."
"Come on, that's not fair," said Adam. "I only give details when I'm drunk."
"Yes, well, for a while there you were drunk a lot of the time," said Tommy. "It was more than I ever needed to know. Though at least if I ever find myself needing to give a hell of a blowjob I know exactly what to do."
"If you haven't done it for one of the many guys who've already tried to pick you up," said Adam, "then I think it's knowledge you're not going to need."
"I just can't help it," said Tommy. "I like girls. They're pretty and soft and fun in bed."
"I'll take your word for it," said Adam. He looked up at the stage, where all remnants of his performance had been moved away for the next act—some kind on retro hair band, and not in the awesome way. "Remind me why I took this gig?"
"Cash up front," said Tommy, "which is always pretty good incentive. I don't know, I think they were kind of into it."
"Using the term very loosely, maybe," said Adam. And with that, the first drink was gone. Good thing Tommy had gotten him two. "I guess it could have been a lot worse."
"You could have not gotten cash up front," agreed Tommy. "So are we sticking around here, or do you want to go somewhere fun for the rest of the night, since you don't have to rush off and get laid?"
"Just let me finish this drink," said Adam, "and we can have all the fun you can handle."
:::
Adam got to see the next piece of the installation as it was in progress, as Misha conceived it piece by piece by piece, color by color and angle by angle. He wouldn’t say he was particularly involved, other than being present while some of it was going on, but then that was his role here. His role wasn't to make so much as be an instrument in the making.
"So how are they all going to fit together when you're done?" said Adam. "How is it assembled?"
"I'm going to figure that out after I get there," he said cheerfully, like it was going to be a piece of cake. "I'm counting on being inspired. It's all a part of the process. Do you want a drink?"
"You don't need to get me drunk," said Adam. "I'm a sure thing.
"I do occasionally have manners," said Misha. "There's a bottle of wine on the counter. I thought we could have a drink. I could put some music on. There's an iPod dock underneath my laundry on the table by the wall."
Sure enough there was, and while Misha poured them both some wine Adam tracked down his iPod, too, and then found something for them to listen to, not too loud but not too cliché either. If there was Barry White on there, and somehow he was sure there was, he didn't go looking for it.
He sat on the floor with his back against the half-buried couch as he watched Misha painstakingly wire a piece of fabric to an undulating frame, like the boning of a corset, a waterfall or maybe a rocky stream or maybe something that existed only inside Misha's mind. Whichever it was, he knew very precisely just where every wrinkle, every curve and every stitch should go. Adam watched right up until Misha reached out and grabbed his ankle and pulled him closer.
Adam slid easily over the floor, bracing himself with one hand so he didn't fall over, his wine glass left behind. Then he braced himself with both hands as Misha proceeded to pull his pants off by the ankle, already loose and unbelted at his waist. When he kissed Adam's calf, it was about as dirty as a body kiss could be.
"Okay, stand up," he said, and Adam had no idea where he was going with this but he didn't hesitate to stand up and let Misha manipulate him. Though the extent of the manipulation this time was coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around Adam's waist and kissing his shoulder, something Adam sometimes thought was his favorite position.
"Are you finished?" said Adam, looking at Water in all its glory.
"What do you think?" said Misha, hands drifting down to the crease between Adam's torso and his thighs. "The truth."
"I still want to get inside your brain," said Adam. "This is not even remotely a literal interpretation, but I know exactly what it's meant to be."
"A literal interpretation would have been challenging," said Misha solemnly. "It's hard to sculpt with water. It keeps getting everywhere."
"And yet I would not be at all surprised if you tried," said Adam, reaching down and moving Misha's hands to where he wanted them, one of them up under his shirt and the other palming his cock.
"I'll try anything once," said Misha, kissing his neck again, sucking a faint mark into it as he wrapped his hand around Adam's cock and started slowly stroking it.
They were so close to the piece of art that all Adam had to do was tip forward and he would be brushing against it, he didn't even have to reach out. As Misha stroked his cock he came perilously close to brushing his wrist against it every time.
"I'm worried we're going to stain it," said Adam.
"I'm hoping we're going to stain it," said Misha and dropped to his knees behind him and licked a long stripe up one ass cheek. He tried to keep jerking him off but his hands were obviously needed more elsewhere, and Adam took over jerking himself off while Misha spread his cheeks and licked between them, tongue working down to his hole and fluttering against it so expertly that Adam's legs shook.
When Adam came it was in streaks over one undulation of the fabric. "Shit," he murmured and Misha said, "leave it, I'm going to be adding waterstains to it too," and Adam felt like he was more literally a part of this art than ever.
:::
"I did the most amazing work this morning," said Misha, grabbing Adam's wrist and practically dragging him into the loft.
"Already?" said Adam. "You can't be finished the next piece of the installation already."
"No, this is something else," said Misha. "It was transcendent."
"Transcendent?"
"Transcendent," said Misha. "It was the most amazing night, and then the sun came up and it hit my windows and I just worked right through."
"Have you even slept yet?" said Adam.
"I'll sleep later," said Misha. "Come upstairs. First I'm going to ride you, then I'm going to show you what I was working on. I can't wait to show it. It's made to be shown off. Just like you. It would be criminal if you weren't a performer, and it would be shameful if I didn't put this piece in a show."
"You had me at 'ride'," said Adam, and Misha hauled him up into his loft and onto his bed, covers already askew and half on the floor. "Just don't fall asleep on me, because I'm totally going to finish anyway if you do. I mean it."
"You have my permission," said Misha, "but I'm not going to. I'm going to ride you so hard and tight you're going to come twice. You're going to see stars."
If they didn't start right now, the first time Adam came was going to be before they even got naked. "Quit talking," he said, even though that was a bit of a tall order for both of them, and pulled his clothes off so fast he heard something tear. Whatever, though, it wasn't as though he'd come over here in anything that wasn't cheap and easy to get out of.
Misha was already naked from the waist down, and when he went to pull his shirt off over his head, Adam held his arms there so that the shirt was halfway off, both binding and blinding him.
"Can you do it like this?" he said, rolling them over so that Misha was on top of him, almost but not quite straddling his body.
"If you help," said Misha, his voice muffled by the cotton shirt. Adam was absolutely ready to do that, moving Misha's hips so that he was straddling Adam's body in just the right way, then watching him squirm as Adam fingered him hard, impatiently, ready to push himself inside. Sometimes they wanted it slow and intense and lasting all night. And sometimes it was better hard and fast and reckless.
This was definitely one of those times.
Misha's fingers clutched at the edge of the t-shirt and for a moment Adam just wanted to clutch at them and share some small moment, but his cock had other ideas, and as soon as Misha's body was remotely ready, Adam was moving him into position.
"Ready?"
"I'd be doing you already if it was in my hands," said Misha, flexing his leg muscles as some kind of proof. And it was so fucking heady, being responsible for bodily lowering Misha onto him, lining up his cock and pulling Misha down onto it. Misha trusted him to be completely responsible for this, and Adam was careful with that trust.
Misha might not have been able to use his arms, but the rest of him was completely capable, and now that he was where he needed to be he used his thighs and gravity to bury Adam deep inside himself. Adam drew in a shuddery breath and watched Misha's fingers flex again against his shirt, watched him roll his shoulders and watched him move his head and elbows, pushing the fabric into new shapes.
"Okay," said Misha finally, and Adam heard him loud and clear.
His muscles were already twitching with anticipation and as soon as he got the go-ahead his hands were grabbing Misha's hips so hard it crossed his mind he might be faced with finger-shaped bruises when they were done. But Misha made no complaint, and frankly it was possible his heels were going to leave bruises on Adam too as Adam fucked up into him and Misha fucked back down onto him, panting and squirming and grinding himself down on Adam's cock.
Adam felt so fucking deep and so fucking tight and he knew he should be gripping Misha's cock and jerking him off but all he could do right now was hang on and fuck him hard and fast and grit his teeth as his orgasm slammed into him so hard he could feel it up his spine.
"Oh God," he gasped. "Oh fuck."
And he could hardly take it that Misha was still working him, still moving. He practically saw sparks in front of his eyes as it all got to be too much, and he felt almost as blind as Misha when he finally groped for his cock and got a firm grip on it and jerked him off as hard and fast as he'd fucked him. Misha came within moments, and only when he'd finished, when Adam was wiping his hand on his stomach, did he finally tear the shirt off the rest of the way and duck down and kiss Adam so hard he very nearly drew blood.
It felt like it took a very long time for Adam's heart to slow, for him to catch his breath. Misha was stretched out next to him when he finally did, arms above his head and grabbing at the headboard to stretch out sore muscles.
"Well, you definitely stayed awake," he said, rolling onto his side to run his fingers down Misha's finally-bare chest, playfully pinching a nipple as he went. Misha batted him away, but he definitely didn't look uninterested.
"Wanted to show you my work before I passed out," said Misha, finally grabbing up Adam's hand and lacing their fingers together to keep Adam from teasing him. "Not sure I'll make it."
"Maybe you can point me in the right direction," said Adam, "and I can find it myself."
"On the kitchen counter," murmured Misha. "You'll know it when you see it."
"It fits on the kitchen counter?"
"Sometimes you inspire big things in me and sometimes you inspire things that are very, very small."
Adam almost made a joke about how nothing about him was very, very small, but Misha's eyes were closing and so he just kissed him asleep instead. And once he drifted off, Adam finally got up off the bed and found his underwear and headed down to the kitchen.
He wasn't even sure what to call the delicate spiral of glass that was no bigger than a drinking glass but made up of dozens of pieces all put together in such a way that when the light hit it, it made the most amazing picture on the countertop and up the wall. He was almost glad Misha was asleep because he didn't know what to say, just stared at it for a very long time, watching the changes as the light moved.
It was beautiful, and it was because of him.
:::
There was something about being with Misha that got Adam all fired up, and not just sexually (though of course there was a lot of that too). Misha made his brain work as much as his dick.
And this was why, on a Sunday afternoon, instead of lazing around watching television, he was humming to himself and scrawling down snatches of lyrics on the back of an old flyer. He'd worked on songs before, with friends, contributing a lyric here, maybe writing the bridge, but he'd never written a song before that was all his.
He knew someone who did, though, and as soon as he had something worth sharing he was scrolling for Kris's name in his contacts.
"Hey, are you up?"
"Of course I'm up," he said. "I just got back from church. What's going on?"
"Nothing," said Adam, getting up off his couch and pacing the room. "Here, listen to this." He hummed the melody at first, because that was all he had, not proficient enough on any instrument to accompany himself, then sang the first couple of lines before trailing off.
"That's cool," said Kris. "Is that new?"
"Yeah, I wrote that," said Adam, "I just wrote that." He didn't realize how much like a little kid he sounded until Kris started to laugh. "Don't make fun of me!"
"I'm not," said Kris, "I promise I'm not. I think it's great. And you're so excited."
"I am excited," said Adam. "I just woke up and I felt like I had to write, you know?"
"I know exactly what that's like," said Kris. "Is there more?"
"Yeah, yeah, there's more," he said. "Not a whole song yet, but do you want to hear what I've got?"
"Of course," said Kris. "Give it to me. Just let me put you on speaker so I can take my clothes off."
"Tease," said Adam. "Though at least that means you really, really like it."
"Shut up," laughed Kris. "I just want to get out of my church clothes. Go on, sing me through it."
And Adam did, because changing clothes or not, this was Kris and he knew Kris would be giving him his almost undivided attention.
"So?" he said when he was done. "What do you think?"
"I think you need to finish that," said Kris. "It would sound great with some bass, all slow and dark and sexy."
"Yeah, I guess it's a little sexy," said Adam. "It feels a little sexy."
"It's pure sex," said Kris. "It needs a full band, though, not just a piano. You need to get the guys to rehearse it with you. When it's done, obviously."
"It might not be done if I don't get some help," said Adam, but even as he said it he was jotting a few more things down, a phase that floated into his mind, an image from the last night he'd spent with Misha. "Do you have clothes on now?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" said Kris. "So do you think you're gonna do more, or is this a one-time thing?"
"I don't know," said Adam. "I've just been inspired lately."
"Gee, I wonder why," said Kris, his voice muffled for a moment. Adam wondered if that was him pulling on a shirt. "You seeing him today?"
"I don't know," said Adam. "We don't really plan it. If he calls me up, then I'll go over there."
"What if you want to call him up?"
"It doesn't work that way," said Adam. "What would we even do at my place? He couldn't do his art here."
"Weird," said Kris. "Well, if you're bored later, give me a call. Most of the guys are laying low but I'd be into a movie or something. We could probably convince Cassidy to come."
"Yeah, if Misha doesn't call then yeah, I'll do that."
"If Misha doesn't call, right," said Kris, and Adam could imagine him smirking at him. "Go write the rest of your song then, and I'll talk to you later."
:::
"Your phone's ringing," said Drake, poking his head in the still-steamy bathroom and interrupting Adam's rendition of "Oops! I Did It Again".
"It'll just go to voicemail," said Adam, leaning closer to the mirror and scowling at his reflection for a moment. It was probably about that job he was finally forced to get, which made him a little less than eager to take the call. "You came in here just to tell me that."
"It's your third call since you got in the shower. I thought it might be important."
"Oh," said Adam, and made sure his towel was secure around his waist before following Drake out to where his phone was going off once again, right where he left it on the couch. He really needed to change that ringtone; it was kind of irritating when you had to listen to it for more than about five seconds at a time.
"Hey, Misha," he said as his hair dripped down the back of his neck. He would have pulled off his towel to wipe it dry, but there was only so much casual nudity that Drake was willing to put up with. "What's up? Do you want me to come over?"
"Just calling to say hi," he said, though. "I was working on this project and thinking about you."
"More of the installation?"
"No," he said, "just this commission. I do occasionally have to sell things to make my mortgage payments."
"I always wondered if you actually worked for a living," admitted Adam. He was feeling a little off-kilter now that it was clear the call wasn't just to get his ass over to Misha's loft, but not unhappy. Definitely not that. "Tell me about the project?"
"I can't promise it'll be interesting," said Misha. "I'm working to spec, so it's a mosaic design based on a portrait. It feels a lot more like craft than art right now."
"And this somehow made you think of me?"
"It made me think of how I'd do this if it was supposed to resemble you instead of someone I've never met," said Misha. "I would probably be working much less literally. You're a person who appreciate art for its ability to suggest rather than imitate."
"Also, it would be kind of weird to see my face used as an end table or a bird feeder."
"This one is a bona fide wall hanging, but you make a compelling point," said Misha. "There is a reason I'm not a painter of portraits, though I once dreamed of being a street sketch artist in the south of France."
"Really?" said Adam, trying to picture it.
"I mean, actually dreamed about it," clarified Misha. "There was also a green leopard who liked to eat shoes. Expensive leather pumps. It was all very disconcerting. Also, he danced."
"A dancing leopard who liked to eat expensive shoes," Adam repeated, and Drake looked at him sideways before disappearing into the kitchen.
"Who was green," said Misha. "Yes. Do you think I should try to figure out what it meant?"
"I think it meant you had spicy food before bed," said Adam. "So why are you doing a portrait if you hate them?"
"I don't hate them," said Misha, "I just prefer it when other people do them. But this one is paying well, and it's for someone I'd like to keep as a patron. Refusing him a portrait of his wife in glass and ceramic seems like a perfect way to do that. I'm not the temperamental artist type. I can't get away with temper tantrums and have people love me even more for it afterwards."
"No, you're the eccentric artist type," said Adam, "but a pragmatic eccentric."
"Yes, exactly," said Misha. "Pragmatic eccentric. I like that. I'm going to have it printed on my cards."
"As your professional designation?"
"It's so much more descriptive than just 'mixed-media artist'," said Misha. "I mean, which would you rather associate with?"
"I'm not sure I'd be particularly concerned with your title, once I saw your work," said Adam, then caught a glimpse of Drake's raised eyebrow as he peeked out of the kitchen. "Your art. It was what got my attention, after all."
"I thought what got your attention was me demanding you pose for me," said Misha.
"Oh, well," said Adam, looking up to meet Drake's eyes only to find he'd disappeared again. "It's possible I'd more than heard of you. It's possible I was interested before we actually met."
"Interesting," said Misha. "Very interesting."
"Don't read too much into it," said Adam, and laughed, but Misha seemed to be genuinely interested. And flattered.
And it was interesting to talk to him and just have it be conversation. About art. About music. And, during one brief tangent, about reality television. When Adam finally hung up, Drake was waiting for him in the kitchen, apparently having made himself a drink since there was no sign of him having done anything else in there while Adam was on the phone.
"Are you heading out now?"
"What? No," said Adam. "Can you make me one of those too?"
"Not if you're going to be driving right away," said Drake. "You can have water. Or ginger ale. Or the dregs of the orange juice, but I think that's mostly pulp at this point."
"I'm not going out," said Adam. "I'm not going over there tonight."
"Oh," said Drake. "Shit. You guys didn't just split up, did you?"
"No, of course not," said Adam. "He's not finished his installation yet. He just called to talk."
"Huh," said Drake, and finally did make Adam a drink. "Interesting. Go put your pants on and maybe I'll let you have this. Your towel's starting to slip."
"Like it's anything you haven't seen before," said Adam, but he slipped out of the kitchen and threw on some around-the-house clothes and let the conversation sort of settle in his head and his heart.
:::
Kris had a regular gig at a little coffeehouse in WeHo, which barely paid at all but he got free drinks and usually moved a few CDs so it was a good gig for him. Adam showed up for it whenever he could, and not just out of moral support. It was a pretty chill place, just like Kris, and sometimes Adam just wanted to be chill.
Kris definitely had a couple of admirers tonight, a kind of serious-looking guy who looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days and a tiny blonde thing with pink streaks in her hair. He kept flashing a smile at their table between songs, and one of the fun things about Kris was that Adam had no idea which one of them he was flirting with.
When his set was over, though, it was Adam he came and sat with. "I was surprised to spot you," he said. "I thought you'd be at that guy's place again tonight."
"Who, Misha?"
"There's another guy you're seeing?"
"We're not really seeing each other," he said, but no, no, he wasn't seeing anyone else all the same. "We're just working on a project."
"I've got to tell you," said Kris, "as far as euphemisms go? I find that one kind of lacking in oomph."
"An art project," said Adam. And if there was a lot of sex involved, well, it was artistically relevant sex. "But enough about my sex life. How about you?"
"If you want to talk about my sex life, this is going to be as short a conversation as it always is."
"Your love life, then," said Adam, nodding towards Kris's admirers. "Or your potential for one."
Kris's grin was a little sly. "Cute, huh?"
"Yes, but which one?"
Kris just cheerfully shrugged. "Both?" he said. "I met them at the counter after my first set. He's Anoop and she's Alexis. They're students."
"They're groupies now," Adam teased him. "Bet they show up for your next show. Bet they've already asked where it is."
"If they did, they asked someone else because they didn't ask me," he said. "So why did you change the subject? Since when do you not want to talk about you?"
"Ohhh, burn," said Adam. "I can't take an interest in you?"
"Not when you've got some mysterious new guy in your life," said Kris. "If Drake didn't know him, I would've thought he was a figment of your imagination."
"What?"
"Well, it's all a little strange and surreal, isn't it?" said Kris. "A mysterious artist comes out of nowhere and sweeps you off your feet, telling you you're his muse. It's all very romance novel."
"You read romance novels?"
"I watch Lifetime sometimes, all right?" he said. "Don't change the subject again."
"It's not as weird as you're making it out to be," said Adam. "Mostly it's just a lot of great sex. I mean, have you ever done it on a giant canvas while smeared in body paint?" Kris just stared at him pointedly. "Okay, have you ever thought about doing it on a giant canvas while covered in body paint?"
"I might have had a dream about that once."
"You must go through so many sets of sheets."
"Thankfully my mother made sure I knew how to do laundry before I left home."
"This is why abstinence is bad for the environment."
Kris just rolled his eyes at him. "So you're saying it's as good as it sounds?"
"I'm saying it's better," said Adam. "That's all this is. Just a lot of adventurous, artistic sex, no strings attached."
"I like strings, though," said Kris. "And I think you do, too."
"Shut up and drink your coffee," said Adam. "You know you're going to want time to pee before your last set."
"It's true," said Kris shamelessly, and this time he really did let the subject go. For now, anyway.
Part Two
