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“Oh.”
A quiet, fragile syllable that falls into the space between them -- Tony’s voice impossibly small. And, searching the expressive face caught in the cradle of his hands, Adam watches as bright umber eyes seem to turn inward in self-examination.
Tony traces his fingertips along the lingering tingle, the humming on his lips, and manages a thoughtful sound. “So,” he murmurs “that is what it feels like.”
The sudden, firm press of a mouth against his own. Chapped lips and Adam’s warm palms and the sandpaper rasp of stubble. And Tony with his brain a white noise of static and whirling thoughts, all too aware of his coffee breath and the pauses between each frenetic, rabbiting heartbeat.
A kiss.
It is what he has dreamed of for so many years -- kissing Adam Jones, being kissed by Adam Jones -- and at the same time it is nothing at all like little teen-aged Tony Balerdi had imagined kissing boys would feel like. He feels like he has swallowed the sun, like he might burst. And, really, he just feels like he could cry because he doesn’t understand, because it means nothing to Adam, because it is over before it had even really begun.
What happens now?
He hollows his cheeks, irons his mouth into a hard line to quell the tingling of his lips. And Adam is still holding his face in his hands, savoring every one of his features like he is trying to commit it to memory, gentle fingertips tracing the roundness of Tony’s cheeks, the set of his ears, the hard knob of his skull. There is such impossible, devastating warmth in the blue of his eyes, and all Tony can manage is a curt, awkward “thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Adam grins.
And then he does it again.
This time there is no fierceness, no crush of lips -- Adam kisses him slow and deep, drawing him in close, and Tony is stupid with panic. How many times had he let himself hope for exactly this? How many vulnerable moments has he spent, imagining this kiss? And now he is here and it is real and he is unable to command his numb lips to move, unsure what to do with the hands clenched at his sides.
Adam stops.
“Tony.” He is so uncharacteristically gentle, so careful . “Hey, Tony. Am I doing something wrong here? ‘Cause, I thought --”
“No.” It isn’t just Tony’s voice, but his entire self that seems to quaver. He is sick with the agony of it, fighting to find the words to form his small confession. “No, you’re -- it’s only…”
The realization dawns, staggering.
Adam lets him go, takes a step back to allow Tony the room to breathe, and somehow that only makes it all so much worse. “Tony,” he draws out the question, heavy with understanding. “You ever been kissed before?”
His silence is answer enough.
Oh, Tony.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” But Adam says it fondly and, when he sits down hard on the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand across the nape of his neck, none of the tenderness has gone out of his eyes. “I’m sorry, I should’ve -- you okay?”
Tony, feeling unspeakably small standing in the middle of Adam’s hotel room, is at once the most and the least ‘okay’ he has ever been in his life. But he nods, says “I’m okay.” And then again, as though the more he says it, the more he might believe it. “I’m okay. That was… it was nice.”
“Nice.” Adam flops backward onto the bed and immediately regrets it, each fresh bruise eager to remind him of its presence. He groans, dragging palms across his face. “Fuck, you deserve better than nice .”
It slips out before Tony can stop it, before he can overthink; a suggestion made with the quirk of an eyebrow, suddenly bold. “Then come back over here and show me.”
“Oh?”
Adam sits up -- too fast -- and finds that he regrets that even more, doesn’t quite manage to hide the way he winces. He blinks and Tony is there with firm hands, pressing him back down onto the mattress, protesting “you’re still hurt,” preoccupied with the image of Adam bloodied and battered in the alleyway.
“I’ll live,” Adam assures him, and he has never adored Tony Balerdi more. “I’ll live, c’mere.” He tugs at Tony’s wrist, draws him down onto the edge of the bed with the warm line of their thighs pressed together. When he captures Tony’s face in the cradle of his palm, Adam feels the way his breath catches, the way Tony goes still and then -- ever-so-slowly -- lets himself relax into the touch. “There we go,” Adam soothes. “That’s better.”
This time, Tony meets him in the middle.
It is clumsy and exquisite -- Adam’s hands exploring the softness of Tony’s hair, Tony’s fingertips catching the rough stubble along his jaw. Tony lets his uncertainty fall away, opens up to Adam and learns fast, delighting in the messy, wonderful intimacy of it. And it is only when he is lightheaded, dizzy with the need to breathe, that he finally pulls away.
In the silence as they each try and catch their breath, Adam searches Tony’s face -- admiring the riot of his hair, the flush high on his cheeks and damp upon his kissed-pink lips and the way his umber eyes seem to shine with gold.
“God,” he says at last, reaching out to smooth a stray lock of hair from Tony’s brow. And Tony thrills to hear that he seems just as stunned. “If the real Michelin men show up tonight, we’re fucked. I’m gonna be too busy thinking about kissing you to do any cooking.”
“A good thing we have the others, then.” Tony’s breath ghosts against his fingertips when Adam traces his handiwork along the swell of his lower lip. “To make up for it.”
Adam hums, shifting to tuck Tony into his side, to settle the warm, heavy head against his shoulder. He fits there like a missing limb, a piece that Adam hadn’t known he’d been missing. The world has never felt so right and Adam has never felt so content, so tired, and he knows Helene will have things well in hand in the kitchen. “I say we let ‘em make up for it a little while longer,” he decides, pressing a chaste kiss to the smooth place between Tony’s brows. “If they’re gonna be cooking for Michelin, they could use the practice.”