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It really wasn't as bad as it had looked in the first place. So okay, the show was acoustic again and Monte's glare had bordered on lethal, but the rolling green meadows and thick forest with its delicate sunbeams flitting through foliage, the steep cliffs abundant with flowing crevices, all in all, pretty much made up for it.
Also, everyone's hair was so shiny. Adam was pretty sure there were cartoon hearts in his eyes, and also tiny little winged hair products fluttering around his head.
"Adam," Tommy said. He was using that tone of voice again. Adam knew what it meant.
"But Tommy," he sighed. "It's so pretty." It was like the trees sparkled.
"Yeah," Tommy said, and made a grab for Adam's pitcher.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa" Adam said, snatching his hand back protectively. "No need for drastic measures." His ale sloshed bit in the pitcher, but careful maneuvering kept it all in. Adam looked up at Tommy triumphantly. Tommy rolled his eyes.
"The really sad thing," he said, "is that these Elves don't even know that they don't have to get you drunk to molest you."
"They're not getting me drunk to molest me," Adam protested. "They’re being polite hosts."
"Right. That's why they dressed you in a little black dress that barely covers your ass."
"A, I have a fine ass and I'm happy to share it with Rivendell, but B, don't be an asshole, it's not a little black dress, it's just a hobbit robe because they were out of big people robes, that is all."
Tommy snorted. "They want to get in your hobbit robe." Adam didn't appreciate his tone of voice.
"I like my hobbit robe," he declared. "It reminds me of Kris. And I like my ale," he said. "It reminds me of music."
"It reminds me of roofies," Tommy said, eying the Elves on the other side of the clearing suspiciously.
"It reminds me of the ocean," Adam said, and closed his eyes. He could almost hear the waves whispering, taste the salt, feel tiny drops of cool spray on the skin of his face...
Tommy snapped his fingers in front of Adam's face, and Adam's eyes flew open. He really wanted to go to the ocean. Tommy's scowling expression wasn't very supportive. Tommy would make a really hot angry Elf.
"You would make a really hot angry Elf," Adam told him, unable to help himself from reaching forward and touching Tommy's hair. "You should grow your hair out. You'd be like Britney Spears meets Spock. You wouldn't have to be angry though, Elves are hot even when they aren’t angry."
"Jesus Christ, what did they put in that drink?" Tommy said, and knocked the pitcher from Adam's hand. The drink spilled on the grass. It sizzled a little.
"My ale," Adam said sadly.
"That’s it, we're going home." Tommy grabbed Adam's hand, slung his bass over his shoulder and started marching towards the others. Adam looked over his shoulder at the Elves, who looked as distraught as he was.
"But Tommy, Tommy, wait," he said. Their hair was so shiny, he really wanted to touch it. And maybe rub his face in it a little. "Tommy, I want to stay some more."
Tommy didn’t even bother to reply.
"To-mmy," he stressed. "I want to stay. I want to go to the ocean. There could be mermaids. I can hear its call—"
*
A day after they got home, Tommy drafted a petition that Adam's entire band, sans Adam, signed unanimously, and emailed it to Adam's mom. It said:
DEAR MRS. LAMBERT,
PLEASE STAY OUT OF OUR TOUR SCHEDULE FOREVER.
SIGNED,
ADAM'S BAND.
When Adam came to practice a week later with sleek blond extensions reaching halfway down his back, they emailed an addendum:
SERIOUSLY.