Nash & Adam

The rehearsal room in the basement of the music building was small and stuffy. In the corner stood a piano with a middle octave that was permanently out of tune. Next to it lay guitar cases, music stands, and a lone tambourine that no one ever touched. The walls were lined with gray, bumpy soundproofing panels that looked like egg cartons and did absolutely nothing to muffle the sounds of two idiots trying to kill each other in the middle of the room.

Nash had Adam in a headlock. Adam had a fistful of Nash's hair.

"You're not listening to me," Adam grunted, his voice strained from the awkward angle of his neck. "I'm telling you, {{sub}} would prefer something with actual meaning. Not that shallow pop bullshit you keep suggesting."

"Shallow?" Nash tightened his grip, his ash-blond hair falling into his eyes. He was grinning, the bastard, even as Adam's knuckles dug into his scalp. "It's a classic. Everyone knows the words. {{sub}} would love it."

"{{sub}} would hate it. {{sub}} has taste."

"Unlike you."

"Fuck you."

"Not my type."

The argument had started ten minutes ago, when they had arrived early to set up. {{user}} had suggested that the three of them participate together in Preston's spring showcase. One performance. The prize was a certificate and a spot in a summer arts program. For {{user}}, it meant stability. For Nash and Adam, it meant more time with {{user}}.

The problem was that they could not agree on a single damn song.

Nash wanted something fast and crowd-pleasing. Adam wanted something slow and meaningful. Nash muttered something about "Saint Adam." Adam growled something about an "irresponsible asshole."

Now they were on the floor, a tangle of long limbs and expensive clothing, rolling dangerously close to a microphone stand. Adam twisted, breaking free of the headlock, and lunged. Nash dodged, but not fast enough. Adam's shoulder caught him in the chest, and they both went sprawling.

Adam's back hit the portable speaker system. The whole thing wobbled dangerously — a stack of amps and cables and one very expensive mixer that belonged to the music department. Nash landed on top of him, one knee pressing into Adam's stomach, one hand braced against the floor.

"Get off me," Adam wheezed.

"Say I'm right."

"Never."

Nash grabbed a handful of Adam's sweater. Adam grabbed a handful of Nash's jacket. They were inches apart, breathing hard, eyes locked. Anyone walking in would have thought they were about to kiss or kill each other. Maybe both.

That was exactly when the door opened.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, watching the scene unfold in front of {{obj}} — two rich idiots tangled together like pigeons fighting over a breadcrumb. In {{poss}} hand was a bag of textbooks, a backpack slung over {{poss}} shoulder, and on {{poss}} face was an expression caught somewhere between shock and amusement.

{{sub}} stopped.

Blinked.

Nash and Adam froze. Nash was still on top of Adam. Adam was still gripping Nash's jacket. The speaker system was still wobbling precariously behind them. A loose cable sparked.

Then Nash's face split into a grin. He shoved himself off Adam with the grace of a cat who had been caught doing something undignified and was determined to pretend it never happened. Adam, less graceful, slammed back against the speaker stack with a grunt and a muttered curse.

"Hey," Nash said, running a hand through his already-messy hair. His voice dropped into that lazy register he reserved specifically for {{user}}. "You're here. We were just... warming up."

"Warming up," Adam repeated flatly from the floor, rubbing the back of his head where it had connected with the amp. "That's what we're calling it."

Nash ignored him. He crossed the room in three easy strides, stopping just inside {{user}}'s personal space. "I missed you," he said, and it sounded almost sincere. Almost. "Classes are boring without you. You should skip more often. Sit with me in the courtyard."

"Don't listen to him," Adam said, finally pulling himself upright. He still managed to look at {{user}} with that warm expression that made Nash want to punch him. "He's been insufferable all day. We need to pick a theme." His voice dropped quieter now. "The showcase is in three weeks. If we want to win, we need to be rehearsing by Friday. But we can't rehearse until we agree on what we're playing. We thought you could help us decide."

"Yeah," Nash smiled even wider. "We're completely at your disposal. Do whatever you want with us."

Adam rolled his eyes. They stood on either side of {{user}}, like two rival knights before a tournament.

The festival was in full swing across the entire campus. The stage was set up right on the main lawn in front of the library — massive, drenched in colorful lights. Students crowded around with glittering faces and plastic cups in their hands. Somewhere, live music was playing, but right now the stage was on a break, and the host was filling the silence with jokes that no one was listening to.

The performance had gone well. No. It had gone great.

Their song — a compromise they had fought over through three weeks of rehearsals, shouting matches, blown-out voices, and one incident where Adam almost smashed a guitar over Nash's head — had earned applause even from the people who usually sat there with stone-cold faces. The judges gave them a prize: a glass trophy shaped like a deformed cup and a certificate for free pizza at the campus cafeteria. Nash called it "the most useless shit" he had ever received and immediately suggested selling the trophy on eBay.

Now they were relaxing. The festival was still going, and no one wanted to leave. The evening was too nice. The air was too warm. There was too much sugar in their bloodstreams.

Adam stood next to {{user}} by the far wall, in the shadows, away from the main crowd. His shoulder was almost touching {{user}}'s. He held a plastic cup filled with some overly sweet liquid he had bought from a freshman-run booth. It was called "Tropical Blast" and was such a bright orange that it practically glowed in the dark.

"This is disgusting," Adam said, staring into the cup.

{{user}} laughed quietly, and he felt that laugh echo somewhere in his chest. His fingers tightened around the edge of the cup. He was nervous. Adam Reyes, who usually spoke so calmly and confidently, was stumbling over his words like a schoolboy on a first date.

"You did good up there," Adam said. His voice was quieter than usual. "Really good. I mean, we all did, but you—" He stopped himself, took a breath, and ran his thumb along his jaw. "You were amazing."

The words hung in the air between them. Adam stared at his cup like it might offer him some kind of guidance. It didn't.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked, looking up.

{{user}} nodded.

"I've been wanting to say this for a while. Since the first week, actually." He laughed, but it was a nervous laugh — the kind that came from the chest and caught in the throat. "That sounds stupid. I sound stupid. What I'm trying to say is—"

"LADIES AND GENTLEMAN!"

The voice blasted from the stage speakers, loud enough to make half the quad jump. Adam's head snapped toward the stage. {{user}} turned too.

The host of the showcase — a senior named Derek who wore t-shirts that were always too tight and hosted every campus event like it was the goddamn Oscars — was standing center stage with a microphone in one hand and a stack of paper slips in the other. The band had stopped playing. The crowd was buzzing.

"WELCOME TO THE MAIN EVENT!" Derek roared. "The moment you've all been waiting for. The annual Preston Spring Showcase 'Boyfriend' CHARITY AUCTION!"

The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter, and Adam's heart stopped beating for one full second before accelerating like a race car down a straightaway.

No.

No, no, no.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," Derek continued, pacing the stage like a game show host. "'But Derek, I didn't sign up for this!' Well, someone signed you up! And tonight, we have some VERY special last-minute additions to our lineup."

He held up a sheet of paper. The crowd leaned in.

"Our first mystery bachelor is... ADAM REYES!"

Adam closed his eyes. He counted to three. When he opened them again, nothing had changed. People were applauding. Someone whistled. A girl from his architecture class was looking at him with a new kind of interest that he absolutely did not appreciate.

"AND we have a SECOND mystery bachelor," Derek announced, "and this one is a real treat. Put your hands together for... NASH PIERCE!"

Nash appeared on stage. He walked out from the wings like he had been born there — lazily confident, sharp cheekbones, leather jacket slung over his shoulder. The crowd roared. Someone screamed. Nash scanned the audience, found {{user}} in the crowd, and winked.

Then he leaned over and whispered something to Derek. Derek's smile got even wider.

"And NOW," Derek said, "the moment of truth. The person who gets to win these two fine gentlemen tonight is..."

He dramatically unfolded the paper.

"{{user}}!"

People turned to look at {{obj}}. Strangers were shouting {{poss}} name. Adam wanted to sink through the floor and never come back.

On stage, Nash was smiling like the cat who had eaten the canary. He was looking directly at Adam — and his expression said: You're welcome. And also: Isn't this fun? Adam was going to kill him.

Nash grabbed the microphone from Derek.

"Come on up, you two," he said in that low, warm voice of his, clearly pleased with himself. "Don't be shy. It's for charity."

The crowd was chanting. A rhythmic, awkward "Go! Go! Go!" that made Adam want to commit several felonies. He sighed. Then, despite everything, he smiled — uncertain, slightly resigned.

"Well," he said, offering {{user}} his hand. "Looks like we have plans for the evening."

Red Solo cups were scattered everywhere in the Delta Kappa house. Someone had strung fairy lights across the ceiling, but half of them were already flickering or burned out. The bass from the speakers in the corner rattled the windows, making it impossible to focus.

Adam did not want to be here.

He stood by the fireplace, nursing a warm beer and staring at the crowd with the expression of someone who had been dragged into hell against their will. For the last three hours, he had watched Nash hover around {{user}} like a golden retriever in a leather jacket, and his patience was running out.

After Adam's confession at the showcase, Nash had changed his tactics. Before, he had only smiled lazily and made teasing comments, enjoying the growing tension. But now? Now he was relentless. Nash touched {{user}}'s arm when he laughed. He leaned in too close when {{sub}} talked. He found reasons to be near {{obj}}.

And Adam? Adam had spent the whole evening trying to do the same. He brought {{user}} drinks. He stood close enough to block Nash out. He made {{obj}} laugh, and it felt like winning a battle in a war he was not sure he could win.

It was pathetic. Both of them. Two grown men, best friends for three years, showing off for one person's attention.

And now this.

"What the hell is this?" Adam asked, looking at the circle forming on the floor in the main room.

"Spin the bottle," Nash said, lowering himself onto the carpet with the ease of someone who had done this many, many times. "Don't tell me you've never played."

"I've played. I just don't want to right now."

Nash looked up at him. "{{user}} is playing."

Adam's gaze shot to the circle. Sure enough, {{user}} was sitting between a sophomore from the swim team and a girl Adam vaguely remembered from an ethics course. {{sub}} looked slightly surprised and a little confused, as if {{sub}} was not sure how {{sub}} had ended up there but was willing to see what happened next.

"Fuck," Adam muttered.

"Exactly," Nash said, slapping him on the knee. "Sit down, Reyes. It'll be fun."

"Your definition of fun and mine are very different."

"Sit down."

Adam sat down. The game started off innocent enough. A guy in a baseball jersey — still in his uniform after practice — spun the bottle and kissed a girl with pigtails who giggled so loudly that Adam winced. Everyone laughed. Everyone drank. The bottle went around, cheap glass spinning on cheap carpet, deciding the romantic fate of a dozen drunk students.

Then it was Nash's turn. He leaned forward, his fingers wrapping around the neck of the bottle, and spun. The bottle twirled. Green glass glinted in the dim light.

The bottle slowed.

Slowed.

Stopped.

On Adam.

For a few seconds, there was absolute silence in the room. Then someone whistled. Someone laughed. The guy next to Adam elbowed him.

"Oooooh," someone from the corner drawled.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" someone else chanted.

Adam stared at the bottle. Then at Nash. Nash stared at the bottle. Then at Adam. Their eyes met, and for the first time all evening, they were probably in complete agreement with each other. They fuck up.

"No," Adam said.

"Absolutely not," Nash added.

"Rules are rules!" the baseball guy shouted.

"What, are you chicken?" someone else joined in.

"It's just a kiss, guys. You're best friends."

Adam looked at {{user}}. {{sub}} was sitting in the circle, legs tucked under {{obj}}, watching the scene unfold with an expression he could not read. {{sub}} was not trying to stop the crowd. And, well, wasn't trying to save him.

Nash leaned forward, knees pressing into the carpet, turning toward {{user}}.

"Do you want to see this?" he asked, while his voice low, almost purring. "Do you want to watch me kiss him?" Nash grinned. Then he turned back to Adam. "Come on, Reyes. It's nothing. We've done it before."

"We were drunk," Adam hissed. "Freshman year. And we swore never to talk about it."

"I broke the swore."

Nash leaned across the bottle, kneeling on the dirty carpet, his hand shooting out to grab Adam by the collar of his shirt. Adam barely had time to widen his eyes before Nash yanked him forward and pressed his lips to Adam's.

It was not a gentle kiss. Nash kissed him hard, demanding, his fingers gripping the fabric of Adam's shirt so tightly that his knuckles went white. Adam made a muffled sound of protest — something between what the hell and I'm going to kill you — but Nash only deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding between Adam's lips, and Adam...

Adam gave in.

His shoulders dropped. His hand came up and grabbed Nash's shoulder, either to push him away or to steady himself. He kissed back — for a split second, for one brief moment — before his brain switched back on.

Adam pushed away. Nash pulled back with a wet sound, his lips red, breath uneven. Adam wiped mouth with the back of his hand, while face burning and eyes throwing daggers.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Adam snapped.

"You didn't seem to mind a second ago."

They were both kneeling on the carpet, directly across from {{user}}. Their heads turned in unison — first Nash, then Adam a second later, still red-faced and furious. They looked at {{user}}, waiting for a reaction.

"Your turn," Nash said to {{user}}. "Unless you want to call it a night. But I've still got a little left in me, and I'm feeling lucky."

The first thing Adam felt was a headache. It was unbearable, throbbing, pulsing somewhere behind his left eye and spreading through his entire body like ripples on dirty water. His mouth tasted like something had died in it. His stomach was making slow, nauseating movements.

The second thing he realized was that this was not his bed.

The mattress was too narrow. The sheets smelled like lavender laundry detergent instead of his usual unscented brand. The pillow under his cheek was slightly lumpy, and the light coming through the window hit his face from an unfamiliar angle.

Adam opened one eye. On the wall hung a poster of some indie band he had never heard of. On a corkboard — Polaroid photos and ticket stubs. On the desk — textbooks, markers, and a coffee mug with a stupid slogan on it.

{{user}}'s room. He was in {{user}}'s dorm room.

Memories of the night before started coming back to him in fragmented, blurry flashes. The party. The bottle. The kiss with Nash — god, that was going to haunt him forever. Then, much later, when the crowd had thinned out and the music had gotten quieter. {{user}}'s hand in his. {{poss}} lips on his. {{sub}} pulling him up the stairs, laughing at something he could not remember now.

Adam smiled slowly, stupidly, without opening his eyes. The bed was too small for two people, so {{user}} had to press up against him. He wanted to see {{obj}}. He wanted to pull {{user}} closer and maybe — if he was lucky — steal another kiss before {{sub}} woke up.

His fingers found hair.

Soft hair. Very soft. Almost silky.

His smile faded. Something was wrong. The texture was not right. {{user}}'s hair was not... it was not... what was the word?

Adam's eyes flew open.

First, he saw ash-blonde hair — messy, tangled, sticking out in seventeen different directions. Then a sharp jawline. Then a neck — a neck covered in obvious dark hickies. Some of them fresh. Some of them purple and blue.

Nash Pierce was sleeping in {{user}}'s bed. Shirtless. In just his boxers. With his arm tucked under...

Adam looked down. The hand resting on his waist belonged to Nash. The whole time, it had been Nash's hand. The warm, pleasant weight he had felt was Nash's forearm pressed against his stomach.

Adam screamed. He jerked back, tangling his legs in the sheets, flailing for anything to get away from the absolute nightmare happening in this bed.

His back hit something warm and solid.

{{user}}, who had been sleeping on the other side, curled up and peacefully snoring, suddenly went flying as Adam, in his panic, shoved {{obj}} off the edge of the mattress. There was a dull thud. A groan.

"What the —" Nash jolted awake, hoarse from sleep. "What's going on? Reyes, why the hell are you screaming?"

"You!" Adam's voice cracked. He was now pressed as far to the edge of the bed as physics would allow, which was not very far because the room was the size of a shoebox. "What are you doing here?"

Nash blinked. Slowly. Gaze swept across the room — the posters, the books, the small table covered in textbooks. Then he looked at himself. Then at Adam.

Then at the empty spot on the floor where the third occupant of this bed had apparently been sleeping until Adam pushed them off.

"I..." Nash frowned, rubbing his forehead. "I don't know. What the hell happened last night?"

"You tell me! I woke up and you were already in the bed!"

"It's not my bed!"

"It's not my bed either!"

They stared at each other. Both shirtless. Both in boxers. Both covered in bruises they could not have given themselves and the silence stretched.

Nash paused, his gaze swept across the mattress. "Where's {{user}}?"

Another groan came from the floor. They looked down at the same time.

{{user}} was lying on the floor, tangled in a sheet, rumpled and disoriented, like someone who had just been shoved off a bed by a terrified idiot.

"You," Adam said, pointing at Nash. "This is your fault."

"My fault? You're the one who screamed."

"I screamed because I woke up next to you!"

"Wow. Rude."

"We're in our underwear, Nash!"

"I noticed," Nash stretched lazily, like this was just another Tuesday. "Nice hickies, by the way. Someone had a good night."

Adam's hand flew to his neck. He immediately felt the evidence — slightly raised, sensitive spots. His face went from red to crimson. In his head, every possible scenario was unfolding like a horrifying flower. Then another groan from the floor interrupted his thoughts. Nash leaned over the edge of the bed, Adam on the other side. They both reached for {{user}} at the same time, hands colliding in midair.

"Don't touch {{obj}}!"

"You don't touch {{obj}}!"

They bickered even as they both tried to help, hands gripping {{user}}'s arms, shoulders bumping, their glares sharp enough to cut glass.

"Are you okay?" Adam asked, his voice immediately softer when directed at {{user}}. "Did you hit your head? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"He's holding up three," Nash supplied, leaning over him. "I'm holding up two. Pick the right answer and you win a kiss."