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People tend to think Thomas Joseph Ratliff is a little weak in the head because he’s pretty, makes himself blond on purpose and is non-confrontational - in the traditional sense anyway. Sometimes even Adam so-self-aware-and-perceptive Lambert falls victim to that trap - or maybe just because he thinks he’s so stealthy, with all his theater training.
They’re sitting alone together, in some kind of approximation of a living room that’s actually good enough, in that kind of comfort you have only with really close friends: you’re happier if they’re there, but you both know there’s no expectation or obligation to interact in order to validate or justify your presence. It’s been pretty silent so far.
“Stop it. You're wearing out the pretty.” Tommy snaps, voice flat - but then again, when is it not? - and not bothering to look up. He can take fangirls trying too hard in too-short skirts and way too much glitter aggressively lurking in his general direction, torn between completely overlooking personal space and maintaining an eerily devoted kind of distance, but this? This shit? From his boss? Scratch that; it’s been years since he’s thought of Adam that way, who is he kidding? He can take Adam seriously every other way, but ‘boss’ is not a label that suits him. His partner in popstardom crime on the road? No. Adam’s acting like a freak, staring like he’s never seen him before. They’re past the ‘Oh, I think you’re pretty’ phase. It’s mutual. It’s fine. It’s not even an issue. So what’s with the ogling? Tommy Joe Ratliff, guitarist turned bassist turned lead guitar extraordinaire, just wants to be left alone.
Adam sets his open book down on his thigh. It annoys Tommy because it cracks the spine on the book, but he doesn't say anything. He knows to pick his battles.
Settled lengthways and taking up all the space on a couch that would normally comfortably accommodate three people, Adam is obliviously thwarting the laws of proportion while plowing his way through a thick book with calm resolve. One could try to guess the subject matter, but no one really can ever tell: it could be either a classic novel (Tom Hardy? Kafka? Brontë?) or some convoluted mix of Astrology, Buddhism, Macrobiotics and dolphin therapy and how they’re going to save the world. Tommy’s seen him read both, only a week apart.
Tommy himself is somewhere between sitting and balled up in a one-seater couch across from Adam, who supposes he’s on his usual routine of god-knows-what-he-does-on-the-internet: looking for an excuse to stir shit up on Twitter or wanting to recommend some obscure little band because the drummer is his friend.
“Aw, honey, your pretty doesn't wear out. You came with a lifetime supply,” Adam says.
“Flattery won't get you anywhere. Stop staring at me. I told you, get your own damn cup of tea. The kettle's right over there. Jesus.”
“You're just grumpy because you're officially an old-timer now.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Tommy then makes a conscious decision to not talk any more and grins inwardly. He's not the yapping kind on any regular day, but now he stretches out the silence with intent, just to see how long Adam can take it. He's wicked like that, mostly because he's pretty sure he's right.
Two-point-thirty-three minutes are filled solely with the muffled thud of a fingertip hitting the mousepad and the occasional click of keys on a laptop. Tommy is currently saving recipes into his bookmarks. Easy enough ones. Rock 'n' roll, huh? He’s a grown man, he tells himself. He lives on his own. He will cook a meal from start to finish when this promo tour is over and he gets back home. And he will make a habit out of it. Can't be that hard, right? People do it all the time. His mom will stop rolling her eyes over the phone. Hah.
His brand-spanking-new, factory-pristine eyeglasses are perched on the bridge of his nose, and he’s nearly constantly aware of them. They still feel new and strange on his face, and he keeps stealing glances from reflective surfaces to see what he looks like – now in much better definition, and how could he live like that before? It's not even vanity, not for the most part; it's just curiosity. He can't decide if he's looking for the new person he is, or reassuring himself that the old person is still there.
Oh, the silence thing? He was right. Adam goes for cool, but Tommy senses him bursting at the seams. Two world tours with someone will make you read them like that.
“So you're really going for the emo look there, huh?”
Adam seems to be invested in annoying Tommy today.
“You know all those times you said you'd like to become a therapist if your career had gone in a different direction? You'd be a lousy therapist. Yap, yap, yap. You need to be able to handle the silence, I'm sure you know that.”
“ ‘Enjoy The Silence’ ?” Adam pokes.
Tommy shoots a knowing secret-handshake smile over the rims of his frames towards Adam – oh yeah, he's totally milking all the potential from his newfound accessory - and decides to indulge him. This friendship they have is so awesome. He really loves the guy.
“These glasses suit me just fine. I don’t have to pull out the deviant diva look 24/7 like it’s in my written contract or something.”
“I was expecting something less... conventional from you, Tommy. I may suffer some dismay over this. There are certain fashion expectations regarding the people I associate with.”
“What, like pink Hello Kitty ones with a cute little bow on one side? Stick it to the man, fuck gender roles?”
Adam ponders for a beat.
“Maybe. I'm not always sure how your mind works, but you always deliver, I'll give you that. The fans would love it.”
“The fans love everything.” There’s dismissal in Tommy’s tone, and enough people will easily read it as arrogance. Underneath, it’s - still, and maybe fundamentally - laced with disbelief that other people’s positive judgement of him as a musician or performer or whatever is to be trusted, but anyone would miss it if they didn’t know him a little bit more than on the surface. He calls it ‘the call center effect’ when people try to prod him about it, and it usually generates a laugh and dissipates the subject right there, thank fuck. He doesn’t like talking about it.
“The fans would love you in nothing but the frames.” Adam’s trademark eyebrow goes up, his smirk a mix of mock-tease and barely contained laughter.
“They think that because they've never smelled my sweaty armpit.”
“Pretty sure there's a lot of them who'd want to. Be lining up around the bus by tomorrow morning if we offered. Pay, even.”
“Well, they're never getting that fantasy fulfilled, are they.”
The flatness in his voice erases questions marks from spoken sentences, and how does he do that, the innocent bystander would ask? It’s like some perverted, pointless superpower. But then again, why should one be surprised by that? Perverted, pointless superpowers are what Tommy Joe Ratliff is made of.
“Good for them, too. Keep the dream alive.” He lets the saying linger with his best cheesy inspirational-speaker-slash-infomercial voice.
“Are you gonna wear them on stage? 'Cause I'm telling you right now, we are not riding the Blink 182 wave.”
“I'm not sure yet. What do you care, anyway? You're just trying to tease me; I know.”
“Or are you going to be squinting at the crowd like an old man?
“Has gotten me this far. It's part of my coquettish allure.” So okay, maybe Tommy’s tone is a little smug. It has a point to make.
“Geez, go to France twice and he thinks he's fluent..."
“I realize you see yourself as the master of the eyefuck, but some of us are more... refined. Sophisticated in attaining our desires. One day you'll get there, grasshopper.” Tommy goes to the trouble of turning around in an awkward angle and patting Adam’s knee twice, like a total cliché.
He honest to God pats his leg. Condescending little fucker. That’s what good Catholic school does to you.
“I'll have you know,” Adam proceeds in a put-upon tone that is just this side of not fake enough, “I have a myriad of fascinating and complex facial expressions. Have you not seen the fanfictions lately?”
“Oh, you're doing that again? Or have you even ever stopped? You're pathetic, Lambert. Really, what the fuck.” Another slayed question mark. This time, however, because Tommy is not asking; he’s telling.
“Yeah, 'cause I don't know you look yourself up on YouTube. A man needs a pick-me-up sometimes. It's cool. I won't tell if you don't.”
“Fucker.” Tommy grins, all affection and complicity.
“Old geezer.”
“'S not what Samantha thinks.”
The tone of the conversation changes, a smile lilting into Adam's voice despite his best efforts.
“How's it going with her?”
“Good. She doesn't push. Says she misses me when I'm away, but doesn't bust my balls over it.”
“You miss her, too.”
“Do not.”
“Okay.”
“Geez.”
“I know.”
Adam is now composed of seventy percent water and thirty percent mirth. He is so reveling in the tables turning in this conversation. The only reason he's not gloating is because he's such a good person. He's really an example to society at large.
“I'm going to ignore you now.”
Tommy puts on his headphones and pushes play on a playlist he wants to think is random. Adam can make out 'Lovecats' through the tinny sounds coming from the earbuds.
He can see right through Tommy, and Tommy knows it, but they’re comfortable playing pretend about not knowing that. They don't always have to be 20/20.