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Sleep has never really belonged to one of Tommy's talents. It's not that he doesn't like sleeping, on the contrary even, it's one of his favorite things in the world. That is, if he manages to fall asleep and actually stay asleep for fucking once. The last five days, he has maybe slept for four hours in total, which is not really the first time, but it is probably the worst time so far.
This time, it's not just the not-sleeping that's slowly killing him. It's everything else. He's alone, which he usually doesn't really mind, he's pretty much always been a loner, but now he's alone. Alone in the fucked up heartbreaking negative sense of the word. He's alone in the house he shared with a person he used to love, alone with the rapidly decreasing stack of booze, alone with the deafening silence of the suddenly way too big rooms and above all alone with himself, his fucked up mind and thoughts that won't leave him alone -let him fucking breathe- for even a second.
With a groan he drags both hands through his greasy, sticky hair —that he hasn't washed for maybe a week, maybe more, maybe less, who knows— and rubs at the shaved sides to try and ease away some of the headache that's starting to worsen again. Headaches are something he's pretty much used to, he really can't remember when the last time was he went a full day without wanting to rip his head off. Usually it's just an annoying buzz constantly present under his daily activities though, but the last days it's been a little more than that. And to top it all off it worsens during the nights and sometimes during the day when crying spells hit him.
It's not night right now, nor has he been crying. He needs painkillers. And maybe some more booze. Or both.
The room is spinning and his vision is blurred as he's trying to get more or less vertical -mostly less- and he has to grab onto the wall as he tries to make his way to the kitchen. Somehow, he manages to get there without ending face-down on the cold tile floor. Absently, he grabs for the painkillers he left on the countertop earlier today, or maybe the day before —who really cares anyway—, jabs three out of the package and swallows them with five big gulps of leftover whiskey. The whiskey is a solid burn down his throat, making his eyes tear and his stomach churn in protest.
It's not that he's never thrown up from alcohol before. It's just, he's not even slightly drunk, hasn't had anything to drink yet since he woke up this morning. Seriously, his throat clogging at the heavy, sharp threat of vomit totally takes him by surprise.
"Fuck," he hisses, and, "fuck, shit fuck" again as he tries to stop himself from actually throwing up, tries to breathe through his nose. But he's shaking, trembling heavy, cold sweat on his palms making his grip on the counter a lot less steady and then he's throwing up. It doesn't last long and it's nothing but whiskey, bile and the pills he just swallowed, but his heart is beating frantically, he's shivering and sweating all over. Then his legs give out on him and he fucking collapses onto the floor while he desperately tries to stay conscious.
He really has no clue how long he sits there, head buried between his pulled-up knees, trying to remember every single breathing exercise he's ever been taught to calm him down, while he's trying to get the world to stop spinning. Then, when a familiar voice comes seeping in through the fog that is his brain, he's pretty sure he's hallucinating. He hears it again though, it's crystal clear and it's chanting his name, getting inside his head, filling it up even more and he feels like he's going to explode. He tries to respond, he swears he does, but the only sound that leaves his lips is a choked, hurt sounding low whine.
"Tommy, Tommy where the hell are you?" The voice is nearly in the kitchen now. Slightly panicked, he scrambles at the kitchen cabinets, somehow manages to get up before the owner of the voice enters the kitchen and finds him in the mess that is his own vomit on the floor. Then, like he's been hit by a fucking bus, it registers that the voice is Adam's. And any second now Adam is going to find him like this. His stomach does a triple loop and the world is spinning again, or maybe it never stopped spinning. Either way, when Adam enters the room he's pretty sure he's going to be sick again, he feels it burning, making its way up to his throat.
"Oh my god Tommy," there is honest to god shock in Adam's voice before something sounding way too much like anger seeps in as he continues, "shit Tommy what the fuck, what the fucking fuck?!" Tommy just stands there, breathing in hard, still shaking all over, trying to get his nausea the fuck under control. He's not going to vomit again, not with Adam standing there. There's anger boiling inside of him, totally inappropriate anger directed at Adam where he probably should be angry at himself, but Adam has no right to be angry at him either -or maybe he does, but what the fuck.
When he starts talking, fucking shouting at Adam, he knows he's being unfair, totally irrational, here. Adam can't help the mess he's got himself in, people come and go in a life, Adam was in his, he had it all and now they've grown apart. That shit happens and neither of them can help it. He very well fucking knows it. And like, this mess he's in is not even because of Adam —he's just a total heartbroken loser—, but like, everything just comes tumbling out of his mouth and he can't help himself, he just can't.
"What" he spits out, then fucking yells "what Adam, what?! Quite the shock huh, finding me like this when you come wandering into my house without a fucking warning, when you haven't seen me in like what, half a year?!" And he's not going to cry, he's totally not, except there's warm wet running down his cheeks and he's choking on his shaky breaths.
"Tommy don't," Adam waves his arms around, looking totally lost as he just stands there, gaping at Tommy wide-eyed, his lips a thin line on his picture-perfect hollywood-face, "I called you about twenty times the last two days, didn't you think people would wonder if you're still alive, I mean after those tweets and just…?" Tommy shrugs carelessly, balls his hands into fists as he breathes in shakily through is nose.
"No one would actually care if I weren't". Tommy's being a bitch, a totally irrational straight up fucking bitch, Adam's trying to help for fucks sake, but at least he feels something. Anger, totally overwhelming sadness and mostly self pity, he finally has somewhat of a reason to let something out. He's pushing at Adam's limits, he very well knows it and Adam's mouth goes impossibly thinner, his usually sparkly blue eyes this dark mixture between hurt and really, really fucking angry.
"Tommy, what the fuck, you know I care," Adam's voice is quieter than before and he shifts a bit, like he wants to get closer, but doesn't, "so many people care Tommy, have you even looked at your phone lately? Or twitter?" He looks genuinely worried and upset, and Tommy almost feels sorry for him, almost.
"They only care because they haven't heard from me for two weeks, you too Adam, don't even, you're way too busy to care about me and I don't blame you."
"Shut up Tommy! Just, shut up". Tommy can see Adam's trying to hold back tears, but instead of shutting up he continues.
"No Adam, you've got this great busy rockstar life of yours, did a world tour with Queen, have your album and single coming out, doing promo for that and all, which I was once part of, but not now, not anymore and that's ok, we've grown apart, I don't matter anymore, just don't say you care about me when you don't anymore Adam. Things change, we changed, but don't fucking lie to me", he blinks the thickest of tears away, inhales and licks salty tears from his lips, "and also apparently you're back together with Sauli, which you didn't even bother to tell me, so really, you shut up Adam". With every word he says he feels his heart tighten a little more, getting more and more breathless until he's whispering the last words, "you obviously don't need me in your life anymore, just tell me, be a man and fucking tell me".
"Tommy," it's a warning, loud and clear, Tommy's pushed it too far, he pushed Adam way too far and he's afraid of what's going to happen, "you don't mean this, I know you don't".
"What do you know," and gritting his teeth together, "were you even listening? I mean every single fucking word Adam". His chest clenches tight around the look Adam's giving him and it hits him that Adam looks so out of place in the mess that is his kitchen, his house, his fucking life for fucks sake. All picture perfect in his designer clothes, perfectly trimmed hair and beard and polished nails. And there's so much pain in his eyes, pain that Tommy caused with his own fucked up everything, that maybe he's is going to actually finally kill himself after Adam leaves. Hell Adam probably thought that was what he was doing anyway. Which he swears he wasn't, but maybe that would've been better after all.
"I'd leave you right now Tommy, I'd walk away right the fucking fuck now, because you really fucking hurt me, but you're going to do things you'll regret if I do, aren't you?" Tommy watches in complete silence, still breathing unevenly, as Adam glances over at the pills and booze on the countertop, on the floor, fucking everywhere, "fuck Tommy it was her wasn't it, what the fuck did she do".
And then, out of nowhere,or maybe it's everything he's been bottling up, probably the latter one, Tommy is actually crying for real, loud and uncontrollably, his hysterical sobs obnoxious sounding in the quiet of the kitchen. There's white noise in his ears and his vision blurs. "I'm never leaving you," Adam's words sound closer this time and when Adam's arms wrap around Tommy's shaking, dirty, tiny body, he tries pushing him off, because what the fuck, Adam has no right, Adam should hate his guts. He hates his guts. He punches at Adam's chest vigorously -at least attempts to-, but there is hardly any power left in him, so when Adam pulls him in even closer, probably smears Tommy's fucking vomit all over his Dior shirt, he gives up, goes limp and just cries.
"God Tommy," Adam rubs lovingly at his back, then through his hair and just holds him, their heartbeats pressed together, Tommy's still beating frantically, but slowly coming down, "I'm going to take you with me, I'm not leaving you alone". He wants to. He wants Adam to take him with him and take care of him and make everything ok again, just like the old days, except he can't. On a shaky breath he tries "but Etta," and then his body decides that he hasn't cried enough yet and a fresh flood of tears soaks another wet patch into Adam's shirt.
"She can come too, of course, my house is big enough, no excuses Tommy Joe" and then Adam pushes a hand through Tommy's hair again, pushes the greasy -in desperate need for a dye- strands backwards and kisses his forehead. A simple gesture, but it's filled with so much love, so much genuine love that Tommy hasn't experienced in ages, that his heart jumps and maybe shatters some more. "We're going to help you ok?" Another loving kiss is pressed to his temple, "god baby, you'll be ok". When he looks up at Adam through teary-wet lashes he can see a stream of glistening wet down Adam's cheeks too and he honestly wishes he could believe Adam, he wants to. He needs help and he'll take it.
"Thank you", it's a whisper, barely audible as it's muffled into Adam's shirt, but Adam's grip on him goes impossibly tighter as he sucks in an unsteady breath, "and I'm sorry".