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Blake was fourteen when he had his first transformation.
He always knew that that was a little weird, but he never viewed it as a bad thing. He knew that transformations only happened if you were dog tired, but not in a way that required sleep—he knew that because his parents told him, because he saw a few of his friends transform, saw what they were like (edgy, quiet, moody, anxious), and decided he was grateful that he hadn't ever done it. It drove him a little crazy that he didn't know what his other half was, but out in the sticks, you didn't ask.
Nobody knew that he hadn't transformed yet, not really—nobody thought about it, and nobody asked about it, and Blake was grateful for that. Sure, he always talked his friends through their tough times after they changed back, but they never addressed what their animals were, how long they'd been in that state. Nobody thought it was odd that Blake never came calling for comfort of his own, and he was relieved.
And then he was fourteen, and Richie died.
It was a car accident, and Blake didn't see it happen, didn't see the wreckage, not that he would've wanted to. His father sat him down and told him, voice trembling, that Richie'd been "taken from them" and that he “went on up to Heaven.” Blake had nodded, understandably shocked, and then his dad had called on one of their neighbors to come over because he and Blake's mom both transformed after that.
Blake didn't, not yet.
It wasn't that he wasn't upset about Richie—he was, but it was in that vague, sympathetic way that those who've never had death touch them so personally before feel sad when someone dies. It hadn't hit home for him yet, and so he spent a few days trying to understand the idea that he was never going to see Richie again—that his brother was dead. Blake had friends whose family members had died before, but still, it was all in that impersonal, second-hand grief that he'd met the idea of death and loss.
His parents were back before the funeral, and Blake made it through the service without crying, standing between them with each of his hands clasped hard in one of theirs. Neither of their eyes were dry--it was the one time he'd ever seen his father cry. It was then, seeing his brother's body going down into that hole in the ground, that Blake really got it.
Blake made it back to the house before he felt the trembling in his belly, somewhere down deep, a sensation he didn't yet know the meaning of. His parents looked at each other with concern, but let Blake run to his room and slam the door shut.
It took two weeks for him to change back.
Adam wants to ask. It almost seems like it would be fair, since Blake saw Adam's other side near the end of taping for the first season of The Voice, and started taking care of him during each transformation when they became more and more frequent during season seven.
The first red carpet interview they'd had together, though, Blake had been hounded by some reporter asking a series of stupid questions—and then came the stupidest of all: "Blake, what's your animal?" He'd leveled a hard, angry stare at the reporter—some woman who would soon not be working for E!—and resisted the urge to deck her.
"What the hell kinda question is that?" he'd spat out, and Adam had looked up from his own interview a few feet away. "You don't ask people that!"
"Your co-stars have been very open about their transformations," the reporter says, voice toeing the line between curious and meek. "It's a natural form of stress release, not something to be ashamed of--"
"Hey," Adam breaks in, putting one hand on Blake's shoulder, pressing his body into Blake's side. Blake raises his own arm to tuck Adam's shoulder under him, and the smaller man melts easily into his side. "That's kind of a shit question. I mean, you should Google that shit before you ask, y'know? They don't talk about that down South. It's just a cultural thing." There's a pause, and the reporter's expression is pinched and worried, and then Adam glances up at Blake, and impish gleam in his eyes. "It's either that or his animal is something he finds really embarrassing."
"I admit it," Blake says, playing along, "I'm just not as cute and cuddly as Adam here. Makes me sad, y'know? 'Cause you're freakin' adorable, man." Adam scrunches his nose in disgust, and Blake booms with laughter. "Yeah, you do that when you're a bunny, too."
They leave the reporter with a few feel-good clips and no real idea of Blake's animal, and no matter how many times Adam's wanted to ask, the question right there on the tip of his tongue, he remembers how livid Blake was when that reporter asked. So Adam doesn't ask, although he doesn't stop wondering.
Then Adam takes Blake home with him, and not in the way where they used to, when Blake would show up with a bottle of tequila and they'd mix margaritas and binge watch past seasons of the show. Adam takes Blake home with him.
It feels abrupt, but, thinking back, Adam figures it's something they've been building up to for a while.
Blake had climbed into his truck and then popped open the passenger door, expecting Adam to hop in—hop, Blake had chuckled to himself, remembering the adorable, indignant rabbit Adam was—and Adam had done it without a word. Blake drove to Adam's house. Adam didn't object. Neither of them mentioned the one kiss they'd just shared in the parking lot, although Adam couldn't get the feeling of that beard-burn off his mind, the contrast of it so stark when compared to the silky slide of Blake's lips.
Adam doesn't really know where this is going, and neither does Blake, but when they get to the house, Adam considers for a moment before casting a weighty, significant look at Blake and heading for his bedroom. Blake follows.
Too late, the morning after, Adam remembers Miranda.
He wakes up, feeling boneless and languid, with Blake pressed firmly against his back, one of the bigger man's arms wrapped around his waist, and he curls his toes, stretches out carefully, and—
And remembers that his best friend is married.
The air feels like it's been sucked out of the room, like he's been punched in the gut, and Adam feels his fingertips buzz in warning and he propels himself out of bed, ignoring Blake's still-sleeping grunt of protest, forcing himself to breathe deeply, rhythmically, going straight for his yoga mat. Don't change, not now, don't change, he chants to himself.
Fifteen minutes of yoga and a cup of coffee ensure that he isn't going to transform right now, but he still feels like shit. Adam wonders if he should maybe wake Blake up, kick him out, tell him--
Tell him what? Adam feels his stomach churn and groans, tossing the rest of his coffee down the sink.
(How could he tell Blake that he wanted him so bad that he felt like he could explode sometimes with the force of it, that fluttering kick he feels when he looks at the other man? How could he tell Blake that all the times he's transformed this season are because of him, without it sounding like an accusation? How could he tell Blake that he doesn't just want what the had last night—although that was admittedly so fucking great—he wants Blake, nothing more and nothing less, wants to possess him--?)
Blake wakes up on his own and finds Adam in the kitchen before he's figured out what to say.
“Mornin',” Blake drawls, wrapping his arms around Adam from behind. It's not really the kind of hug they'd ever shared before—well, Before—but it feels so familiar that Adam unthinkingly sinks back into it. “I smelled coffee.”
“Yeah,” croaks Adam, and he forces himself to pull away from the warm comfort, refusing stoically to look at Blake, heading for the Keurig. “What kind do you want?”
“Regular, none of that fancy shit,” Blake answers slowly, because the question is stupid because Adam already knew the answer, and Blake doesn't know why Adam won't look at him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Adam repeats, but his voice is still too low, too rough. He clears his throat. “I'm fine.”
“You sure?” Blake asks. There's a pause, because Adam knows the more he talks, the more it'll confirm for Blake what he suspects. “I know you don't wanna talk about it, but—yesterday's been happenin' a lot, hasn't it? Christina said as much.”
“That's--” Adam thinks about it. He wants to say “I should be feeling great because last night was everything I've ever wanted and you're perfect, but you aren't mine and you can't be,” but—he clears his throat again, shakes his head, and takes the easy way out. “It's just... I've been a little stressed out lately. Obviously.”
“Are you okay?” Blake asks again, and Adam shrugs. “I'm fucking broken,” he wants to say, “I hate that I know what it's like to have you now and realize that you can't be mine.”
“I guess,” Adam actually says. “I think that maybe—last night probably shouldn't... happen again. I mean, thanks for taking care of me and everything, but... I'm not—we just shouldn't.” He doesn't get a response, so he looks at Blake, finally, handing him his coffee for something to do with his hands, and Blake looks confused, worried, and—Adam's heart starts racing, and he forces those deep breaths again because he doesn't have time to waste being fuckin' Peter Cottontail today—devastated. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Blake says hurriedly, finally taking his coffee. “I'm fine. And I get it. It's not... a good time. I understand.” Adam nods, and then smiles. It's probably just about as convincing as the strained, painful half-grin that Blake gives him in answer.
“Do you want breakfast?” Adam asks, and Blake shakes his head.
“I'll go after I finish this,” Blake answers, gesturing with his mug, almost sloshing the coffee out the side. “Thanks.”
Things go back to how they were. Mostly, anyway. The season eight blind auditions are underway, and if Blake and Adam's banter is a little strained, a little more vicious than usual, then everyone chalks it up to Blake's four wins and Adam's two, and the rockstar's desperation to win.
They don't talk about That Night, and Blake doesn't seek out alone-time with Adam the way he used to. If Adam transforms again on set, Blake doesn't hear about it. He doesn't ask, because you don't talk about that (and because he doesn't think Adam would want him to know, anyway).
They aren't the same, and everyone can tell, but nobody knows why.
Christina thinks it's Adam's stress. She finds Blake in his trailer after a long day—they're almost done, almost done with the blinds—and sits herself down on his couch without asking if she could come in, and waits to be acknowledged.
“Hi,” Blake says, scrubbing at his face.
“Hi,” she echoes, a smile on her painted lips. She's gorgeous, Blake notes distantly, and her animal is so appropriate. He's read about it, in the interviews she's given. Christina's fearless, and she talks about her transformations without reservation. Although why shouldn't she? Blake's imagined what she'd be like, a sleek, black panther looking intently, haughtily at everyone, not-quite-dangerous, just enough of Christina left in there to keep the beast from attacking. He thinks it would be gorgeous to see.
“I've been thinking,” she continues after a long silence, when it becomes clear that he's not going to say anything, “about what you said about Adam's transformations. I think you're right—something's really bothering him.”
“Has it happened again?” he asks before he can stop himself. Christina nods.
“Twice so far,” she says. “Not for very long, but that's why our breaks got extended—it's Adam, so he refused to go home after. I thought you would've known.” Blake shakes his head.
“Adam's--” he stops, unsure of what to say. “I don't think I'm the best thing for him right now.” He doesn't know how to say “I fucked up by fucking my best friend when he was vulnerable,” so he doesn't.
“Are you two okay?”
“We will be,” Blake says with a shrug. “I hope.”
“You have to be,” Christina says flatly, and then her smile is back as she shakes her head. “You will be. You're such good friends. I can't think of anything that could tear you guys apart.”
“I can,” Blake doesn't say. He just nods instead.
“I think Adam needs to chill,” Christina says. “Pharrell wants to have a party at his place. I think it's a good idea. Adam needs to cut loose, stop associating us and everything--” She gestures vaguely to encompass the studio, the show, Blake. “--with stress and have some fun again.”
“You're probably right,” Blake agrees, but doesn't mention that he probably shouldn't be at this party, probably shouldn't be around Adam when he doesn't have to be, because Adam made it pretty damn clear that he doesn't want Blake near him when he let him down easy with a bundle of excuses in his kitchen that morning After. “I think it's a good idea.”
“Great!” Christina says, grinning at him. Blake can't help but smile back—he never can, with her. He knows it looks like they hate each other, most of the time, but she's so—her energy is just infectious. She's so powerful and yet so innocent and pure at the same time that it's impossible not to get swept up in the waves she makes. “I'll let Pharrell know. This Saturday, 8 o'clock. 'Kay?”
“Gotcha,” Blake says, “I'll be there.”
Blake doesn't make it to the party. He'd intended to go, of course, but when he got home Friday night after taping the first of the rehearsals for the upcoming Battle Rounds, exhausted and ready for a shower and a long sleep, Miranda was there.
He found her in the living room of the house he rented—he knows that, at this point, he should give in and just buy something, with all the time he spends in LA, but he hates the fucking place, so he doesn't, instead opting to rent something new each season—messing around with a series of dark, minor chords on one of his acoustic guitars. There's a black feather on the floor near her feet, and Blake knows exactly what that means.
Miranda's a crow, and while Blake was almost surprised, the first time she transformed in front of him, but there was just something about it that fit. Crows have kind of a reputation for being heartless, dark creatures, and a lot of Miranda's music was nothing if not that—but underneath, they were smart and they could be kind, and they were surprisingly fun, in their own strange way.
Blake goes to her, wordlessly crouching down in front of her, putting a hand on her knee.
“Hey,” he says slowly. “I thought you were in Nashville until next week.” The questions “what happened?” and “are you okay?” go unspoken, but she knows him well enough to know what he's asking.
“I was supposed to be,” she says easily, “but I got sent packin' early. They told me I needed a vacation, so I came to see you.”
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, and she shakes her head. “You wanna watch that Desperate Housewives?” It's one of her guilty pleasures, her addictions, and it's one that Blake indulges whenever he's around after she's transformed, letting her climb all over him to cuddle in the strangest positions while she comes back to herself.
Miranda shakes her head again. “I've got some ideas--” She plays another chord, and Blake nods. “--and I want to get this worked out before I go to bed.” There's a pause, and something isn't fitting into this equation, Blake can tell. Something's wrong. “You look beat. Why don't you turn in? I'll be there before too long.” Blake nods slowly, and squeezes her knee before rising and heading for the bedroom.
He wonders what he did to upset her, the next morning, when he wakes up and the guitar's on the floor and she's perched on the top of the kitchen cabinets, a sleek black crow looking at him with a deeply scrutinizing gaze. He calls Christina to tell her he isn't going to make it, and she's frustrated, but understanding. Blake puts on Miranda's soap opera and waits for his wife to come back to him as she perches cautiously on the arm of the chair next to him, cawing angrily when he tries to brush two fingers down her back.
Blake doesn't show for the party, but Adam didn't really expect him to. This kind of thing wasn't really his speed, unless you were talking about the after parties Blake attended (and drank at with gusto) when he won the show (four fucking times, man, come on, that's just not fair), and--
Who was he kidding? Adam knew why Blake wasn't there, and it had nothing to do with the hip-hop (and yes, for your information, he had endured enough of those jokes in relation to his animal to last for the rest of his fucking life, thank you very much) and the loud twenty-somethings on the production staff that Blake claimed to hate but secretly loved and everything to do with the fact that, if he'd showed, he'd have had to talk to Adam.
Now Adam's out back by Pharrell's pool, five shots in and feeling very little pain. He rolls up the legs of his jeans, silently and distantly thankful that he chose not to wear one of his many skin-tight pairs that night—and sticks his feet in the pool. He leans back on his hands, enjoying the way his mild drunkenness exaggerates the sway of the palm trees.
He hears the click-clack of heels, and knows it's Christina without looking. Adam hums, thinking that he had something he needed to say to her, but he's too drunk to remember.
“Adam,” she says, voice wary and softer than it usually is, “are you okay, sweetie?” He lets his arms give out, laying down on the warm tile beside the pool, kicking his feet softly in the water.
“'m good,” he tells her, staring up at the not-dark-enough sky, the combination of a few brighter stars and blinking white and red airplane lights.
“Are you?” she prods, toeing off her shoes and setting them down next to him before sliding her own feet into the water. “Blake called. He said Miranda was having a bad day and he needed to be with her.” Adam makes a choked noise before he can stop himself, and squeezes his eyes closed. “Is that why you've been upset? Blake?”
“I don't want to talk about this,” he groans.
“We all noticed something different about the two of you,” Christina continues, and Adam kicks his feet more viciously this time. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” Adam means to say, “everything is fine. I'm just stressed is all.”
What really comes out of his traitorous, drunken mouth is, “I took him home one night and let him fuck me.” Christina lets out a breath in what could be shock or sad, not-quite laughter. Now that it's out, Adam's mouth just keeps on running without his permission, like it always tends to when he's stressed out or upset.
“In the morning, I remembered his wife, and—fuck, that was awkward. I don't--” He shakes his head and throws an arm over his eyes—he could swear he could feel the earth rotating beneath him, but Adam knows he's just drunk.
“It's gonna be okay,” Christina murmurs, not knowing what else she can say, reaching out to touch his arm.
Adam lets out one low, soft sob, and then Christina has to jump in the pool to fish out a drowning rabbit.
What breaks Miranda's relationship with Blake, when it comes down to it, isn't Adam and the guilt Blake is carrying for what he did (and he feels more guilty, strangely, about the fact that he doesn't feel as guilty as he thinks he should).
Blake confesses to Miranda on Sunday morning what he did, when they're both sitting down for the brunch he's cooked them—and Miranda obviously knew then that something was wrong, because even though Blake is capable of cooking delicious, intricate meals, he doesn't, not unless something is really, seriously upsetting him—and he won't meet her eyes. Miranda's drinking a screwdriver, and Blake has a whiskey sunrise, and they both wait until they're a little tipsy before they start talking.
Blake dives in without preamble.
“I had sex with Adam,” he confesses bluntly, and Miranda blinks at him. He won't look at her, and she grins a little sadly to herself. It reminds her of the day after the one and only time she saw him transform after his father died a few years back, that ashamed, saddened expression.
“I'm surprised this didn't happen sooner,” Miranda answers, just as blunt. Blake looks at her, then, shocked, eyes wide, one hand around his glass. “I've seen the way you look at each other. I watch the show and I'm not blind, babe.”
“'Ran, I--”
She shakes her head. “I just have one question. Do you love him?”
Blake's free hand goes to his stomach, pressing down hard and his expression (sadness, that same shock, pain) tells her that he isn't aware of what he's doing.
She doesn't get an answer that day, because right after that question, Blake transforms.
What breaks Miranda's relationship with Blake isn't Adam. It's Blake, and it's Miranda, and the way they could never make themselves fit together when they were happy.
When they first met, they were miserable people, and the admittedly toxic relationship between them was enough to keep the misery at bay. For years, Miranda survived because of Blake and booze, and while she knows it isn't healthy, she knows she flies around as a crow more often than she should, it makes her happy, in her own sad and desperate way.
Blake asks her to marry him, and she accepts, and nothing changes. They're both on the road all of the time, and while he's so, so sweet to her, Miranda knows they both drink too much, and they won't admit to their faults, and they don't talk about their feelings (Blake wants to and Miranda... well, she just writes songs about it). Miranda knows when she marries Blake that sometime, somehow, it's headed for disaster.
When they first met, Miranda had imagined that disaster to be some kind of death. She honestly never imagined that she would make it to thirty years old, or forty, and fifty was a mind-boggling number for her. She knew that Blake felt the same.
And then Blake joined The Voice, and Adam came along, and it's so obvious that he's better for Blake, that he's good in a way Miranda could never be.
What breaks Miranda's relationship with Blake isn't Adam, it's everything else—the drinking, the sadness, the distance when they're on the road, an extreme inability to communicate. What breaks up Blake and Miranda is nothing more than Blake and Miranda.
Adam knows he's totally fucking screwed when he jumps in his car without a second thought after getting one simple fucking text from Blake: “You should come over. Please.”
He woke up in one of Pharrell's guest rooms wearing just his jeans (no underwear, no shirt, and no socks) and realizes that someone else must've dressed him. Straining for a moment, ignoring the pounding headache his hangover is forcing on him, Adam can barely remember Christina talking to him by the pool, and--
He must've transformed. Again.
But that's not important right now, he decides, finding his shirt and pulling it on, not bothering to look for his boxers, grabbing his shoes and keys and making sure his phone is shoved in his back pocket before heading out quietly. It's early still, and nobody else is up yet—he's not surprised, from the bits he remembers of the crazy night they all had.
When Adam gets to Blake's house, the door is propped open, and Adam enters cautiously. He remembers Christina mentioning that Miranda had been around, and he calls for her, too, when Blake doesn't answer.
“Blake? C'mon, man, you're the one who invited me here!” he yells again from the living room when he gets no answer the first time. “This isn't fucking funny, Shelton!”
And then he hears a strange clicking noise, and he turns his head--
When Adam gets to Blake's house, Miranda isn't there, but her ring is on the counter; when Adam gets to Blake's house, Blake isn't there, but there's a tall, energetic hound dog nuzzling into his leg and jumping up onto him until Adam gives in and scratches the dark head.
Adam grins, despite himself (despite knowing that it's really bad that Blake was stressed enough to change), because, selfishly, he'd always wondered what Blake was underneath. Now he knows.
“C'mon, boy,” he says, because this is how you talk to dogs, and until you actually test it, you never know how much of the actual person is left in the animal. “Let's go outside.”
He leads Blake out into the backyard, and he wonders for the first time if Blake's always chosen his rentals in LA for their large, open green yards out back just in case he happens to transform. Adam finds a deck chair and pulls it out from the patio to the grass, grateful for his sunglasses in the glaring light that's stabbing into his eyeballs, and he flops down onto the chair. Blake wags his tail, cocking his head to the side.
“C'mon,” he says, “get up here, boy.”
Blake isn't a small dog—some Googling tells Adam that he's a Bluetick Coonhound, which is so fucking appropriate for the redneck that Adam laughs out loud and gets his chin licked for his trouble—and they have a little trouble settling in so that both of them fit on the chair, but eventually, Blake's paws are on Adam's chest, pinning him down. Adam wishes briefly that he weren't so hungover so that he could run and play with Blake in the yard.
Adam drifts in and out of sleep, waiting for Blake to be human again. Every once in a while, Blake will catch sight of a bird or a squirrel and beat his tail enthusiastically against the chair, or get up to chase one of them, or to run around the yard for no reason at all (and the Internet told him this, too, was normal—these hounds were really active working dogs). Each time, though, once he settles down, Blake will jump back up to the chair to lay his paws and head on Adam, who will stroke down his head or his back, or get that spot behind his ears loved universally by all dogs.
The sun has already sunk back down when Adam wakes up without Blake. He casts around for him, and hears Blake—the human, normal Blake—clear his throat behind him.
“Thought I'd let you sleep,” he says, and there's something cautious and uneasy in his voice that twists and stabs at Adam's heart because this is Blake, and their relationship, their friendship, is supposed to be easy and comfortable, and-- “What're you thinkin' about?”
“Dunno,” Adam murmurs, sitting up and pulling his feet in so that Blake can sit down on the end of the chair with him, “You.”
“Oh.”
“It's really appropriate, you know,” Adam blurts out, even though he knows he probably shouldn't comment on Blake's animal, not with how sensitive he gets about transformations. “A Bluetick Coonhound—very you.”
“Yeah,” agrees Blake easily, a hint of a smile (a little sad, but still a smile) tugging at the corners of his lips. He clears his throat. “I called Miranda. She isn't coming back.”
“I'm sorry,” Adam says, and in a fucked up way, he actually is. He liked Miranda, although he didn't really like them together, and not just because he wanted Blake for himself. “Her ring was on the counter when I came in.”
“She's the one who texted you,” Blake says, and Adam's eyebrows inch up in surprise. “I, ah, didn't really have thumbs at that point.” His expression is sheepish, and Adam laughs. Blake looks tentatively pleased. “Just—I don't know if you're wondering, at all, or if you're even gonna ask, but we didn't split because of you. We weren't working in the first place. She told me she's going to rehab, for the drinking.”
“I'm sorry,” Adam says again, because there's not much else to say. Blake nods. “Do you want to talk about it?” They both know he doesn't mean Miranda, because Blake has been talking about her. Blake barks—heh, Adam grins to himself—a laugh.
“I thought you didn't like talkin' about it.”
“I don't,” Adam agrees, “but you're a talker, aren't you?”
“Guess so. I was thinkin' about you when it happened this time.”
“Oh,” Adam breathes, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and Blake shakes his head, reaching out to rest a large, heavy hand on Adam's knee.
“It's not like that,” he says. “I was—Miranda asked if I love you.”
“Oh,” Adam repeats, his eyes wide, and Blake grins at him before ducking his head and shrugging one shoulder. The gesture is meant to look casual, but Adam can see how tense Blake is.
“I don't like talkin' about my changin' because I—the first time was after my brother died,” Blake says abruptly, and it takes Adam a moment to catch up with the changing thread of conversation.
“I'm sorry,” he says, and it's beginning to feel trite, saying it so much, but Adam really doesn't know what else he could say. “Weren't you, like, fourteen when that happened?”
“Yeah.”
“That's pretty old,” Adam says. “You really didn't know what you were until then?”
“Nope,” Blake confirms.
“Huh,” he says. “My first time was after my mom dropped me off at preschool the first time. I was always a little ball of stress.” Blake chuckles at that. “At least I wasn't the only one, although there was another kid whose animal was a fox, and he kept trying to eat me until the teacher finally drug me out from under her desk where I was trying to hide.” Blake laughs harder at that, and Adam loosens a little, some of the tension bleeding out of him.
“Blake,” he says after a long moment, “what are we gonna do now?”
“I dunno,” Blake answers, and Adam bites his lip. “But we'll be okay.” Adam nods, the certainty in Blake's voice a soothing comfort. When Blake holds out his arms, Adam moves without thinking, letting his friend wrap himself around him.
“I told her yes, by the way,” Blake murmurs into Adam's shoulder finally. “When Miranda asked if I love you. I said yes.”
They show up on set on Monday with their fingers intertwined, and although Pharrell looks confused and Christina looks triumphant, both seem pleased.
During one of their shorter breaks—short enough that they have to stay in their chairs, but long enough that they start to get antsy, the audience around them chattering—Adam calls out to Blake.
“Hey, man,” he says, loud enough that everyone can hear him, and most of the audience quiets, “I changed my ringtone for you when you call.”
“Yeah?” asks Blake, tone amused and curious. They've defaulted back to something more like their usual digs, if a bit gentler than it was before they were... something. “What's that?”
“Is it that new song?” asks Christina. “'Sangria'? I really like that one.” It's a compliment, and innocuous enough, but Adam flushes, knowing that it's a reference to their new relationship.
“Nope,” he says.
“Tell me,” Blake demands. “You little shit, don't make me come over there--”
“Whoops,” Adam says as Carson starts signaling them that they're about to start filming again. “Out of time.”
The next break they get, Blake quietly takes out his phone and calls Adam, hoping that he's forgotten to put it on silent again. Adam's chatting with Pharrell when his phone starts to ring, the noise muffled through his jeans pocket, but still easily recognizable.
“You ain't nothin' but a hound dog, cryin' all the time--”
There's tittering in the audience, speculation now about Blake's animal, but none of them care. Blake tips his head back and laughs, hard, and Adam looks at him with affection and amusement and Blake shakes his head, a smile still on his lips.
“Love you,” he says easily as Adam heads back to his chair.
“Love you, too, hound dog.”