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Adam’s a competitive guy. Always has been. Even back in middle school, when the boys on the block would get together and shoot hoops and he’d be a whole head shorter than most of them, but he’d run and elbow and beat ‘em all every time.
When his agent approached him with the opportunity to be on The Voice, he was intrigued. He sat his band members down, talked to them about taking a couple of months off from touring and recording, and they had agreed that the promotional opportunities would be worth the break.
So, here he is. Sitting at an Apple Bees across the street from their Burbank set, pressing the buds of his headphones further into his ears and trying to visualize Christina’s music. He had promised himself he’d do this, the minute he found out who the other coaches were. Of course, he’s heard Cee Lo and Christina before; Forget You hasn’t stopped playing on the radio since Glee covered it a few months ago. But, he’s never listened to them before, not like this, not listening for strengths and weaknesses as a competitor.
He’d promised himself, but things got in the way, as they tend to do, and he sort of forgot the plan until he was on his way in this morning. So, he hooked his iPod up to his car stereo and listened to Cee Lo on the ride in for his first day of production. It was a long drive, but he got so wrapped up in Cee Lo that he ended up sitting in the parking lot, volume as high as it goes, fingers drumming on the steering wheel until he got a ‘where r u? ur late’ text from Christina.
And here he is now, while Cee Lo and Christina are doing promo shots, sitting in Apple Bees and bopping his head to Christina’s latest album, trying to figure out what types of singers she will be gunning for and what type of coach she’ll be.
“Apple Bees, man?”
Adam feels a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at all 6’6” of Blake smirking down at him. Adam pulls the buds out of his ears and motions to the empty seat across from him. Blake pulls out the chair, stretching his leg and straddling it.
“Seriously, Apple Bees?”
Adam shrugs and holds up his beer. “Couldn’t bring myself to go to Morton’s for a beer.”
Their waitress comes over and smiles a big smile at them. “Can I get you anything?”
Blake waves at Adam. “Whatever he’s havin’.”
She smiles, all white teeth and pink lips, and leaves with a little nod, swinging her hips and glancing back at them as she goes. Adam rolls his eyes, turning to Blake, who leans back in his chair, spreading his knees and staring at Adam.
Adam frowns. “What?”
“Nothin’.”
Adam shifts, resting his elbows on the table. “Cee Lo and Christina almost done?”
“Nah.” Blake chuckles. “Christina had some hair or nail catastrophe.” Their waitress re-appears, and Blake accepts the beer without looking at her. “We’ll have time for a couple rounds.”
Adam laughs. “Sounds like you have experience with women like Christina.”
Blake takes a long pull from the bottle, before placing it on the table and measuring him with a look that Adam can’t quite decipher. “Touring with Miranda.”
“Ahh.” Adam feels a twinge in his chest and he rubs at the spot for a second.
“Christina’s gonna be pretty stiff competition.”
Adam raises an eyebrow. “Just Christina?”
Blake shrugs. “I’m just happy to be on TV.”
Both their phones beep and Adam glances down to see that they’re ready for them. Raising his hip, he reaches into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. Blake goes to do the same, but Adam waves him off, throwing a twenty onto the table. “I got it.”
“Thanks.”
Adam gets up, grabbing his iPod from the table and stuffing it into his pocket. They start their walk across the parking lot back to the studio and Blake slips his hands into his pockets, squinting in the bright sun. “You listen to me yet?”
“Huh?” Blake tilts his head towards the headphones spilling out of Adam’s pocket, and Adam raises an eyebrow under his large-rimmed sunglasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on.” Blake grins, his eyes relaxing as they reach the shadows of the building and he holds the door open for Adam. “Misery’s a great song. Would be better acoustic.”
“Yeah?” Adam asks, moving inside and shivering. It’s LA, but it’s still early April and Adam’s just wearing a t-shirt. “I’ve been thinking about doing a piano version.”
“Mmm,” Blake nods, as if thinking it through. It takes until Adam’s sitting in front of the camera, trying to smile as they tell him to, that he realizes what it really means that Blake is that familiar with his music.
They ask him questions about what he’s looking for, who he’s looking for, and he gives them the quotes they want, things about passion and connection and being blown away by just a voice, regardless of age, gender, genre. They aren’t just lines, they’re things he really does believe in, but he feels sort of like a hypocrite when he sits down to listen to Blake’s best of album later that evening.
He may have grown up in LA, and he might have an apartment here, but he’s spent most of his adult life split between touring and New York. He’s only been back in the apartment for a couple of days, and the place still feels kinda empty, but he has wine and a pair of portable speakers and he sets his iPod up on the floor in his bedroom.
He gets comfortable, bare feet and shirtless, legs stretched out in front of him as he sits on the floor and leans against the bed. He starts the album. He’s never hated country music, but he’s also never paid it much attention and, from the first chords, Adam knows that any pre-conceived notions are going to be fucked.
He closes his eyes, taking a sip of his wine, and pretends that he’s in that coaches chair, listening to a blind audition where all he can hear is Blake, all around him, over him, through him, and gets lost in it.
Images of Blake flash before him – tall, handsome, cowboy boots clanking against the hardwood floor and Adam’s always liked a man who can pull off cowboy boots. He can feel it in the music, Blake’s confidence, his swagger, that little smirk he kept throwing down the chairs to him and Cee Lo all afternoon as they practiced pressing their buttons and not peering around their chairs. Adam has this innate curiosity, this need to ask questions, to know, and he had to be reprimanded more than once that peeking isn’t cute, it’s legally off-limits according to his contract.
Blake had laughed down at him at that, pretending to peer around his own chair just to rib him, and Adam knows that’s what he’s here for. He’s the boyish one, the kid pretending to be coach, who flexes his arms and flashes his tattoos and brings in the female viewers with his charm and his humor. He’s not so comfortable with that description of himself, though, and as much as he loves the spotlight, he thinks Blake’s tall, dark, country badass-ery is more up NBC’s alley than anything Adam, himself, can bring.
Adam sighs, drinking half his glass in one go and puts the album on repeat.
There’s just something about Blake’s voice, and this is why he agreed to do the show when his manager first suggested it. Because it really doesn’t matter what song or genre, not when a voice touches you like this, when the beauty and the power tug at him and Adam feels, suddenly, like he is intimate with Blake, more so than he has ever been with another voice.
Around about four am, Adam realizes he’s been hard for hours and he has to be up soon to get to the studio early in the morning. He knows he should be a little embarrassed when he flicks open the button on his jeans, lifting his hips just enough to push his form-fitting pants half-way down his thighs. His arousal has been like a pleasant hum in the back of his mind, but now there’s a damp spot on his briefs and he squeezes himself, cutting off a low moan so that he can hear Blake’s music rather than his own noises.
It lasts an embarrassingly short amount of time, which Adam would like to blame on his fucked-up internal clock or the fact that he hasn’t been laid in weeks, anything but the way that Blake’s tone sends tingles down his spine, and his hips are stuttering, leaving him weak and breathing heavy as he slumps back against the bed. His fist is wet and sticky and, eventually, he pushes to his feet and stumbles into the bathroom, using a washcloth to clean himself up. He strips out of his pants, leaving them where they pool on the tile by the sink.
He thinks about turning off his iPod, but he finally feels like he can sleep, his limbs limp and pleasantly warm as he falls on top of the covers in only his briefs. He’ll only have a couple hours of sleep anyway, but they’ll be lazy, slow, happy hours and he’ll deal with the meanings of whatever this is in the morning.