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Blake isn't sure what it is, exactly, about the scene before him that's so captivating. Maybe it's the questionable lighting or the strange mood he finds himself in or the whiskey he's sipping, but there's just something that's making it completely impossible to tear his eyes away. And he knows he should look away, knows how stupid it is to be sitting here blatantly staring the way he is, but he can't seem to help it. Can't seem to make himself give a damn. He's sitting at a bar with an open tab and the only thing that can hold his attention is Adam and his pool cue.
From his spot, Blake has an unobstructed view of the game taking place across the room. He forgets how to blink every time Adam leans over to line up his shot because his too small t-shirt rides up and his stupid skinny jeans leave nothing to the imagination. And it's kind of the point, really, that Blake doesn't need to use his imagination anymore because he knows intimately what's hiding under those jeans, what’s barely being covered by that shirt, has traced over every inch of skin with both his hands and his mouth. He has played connect the dots with the freckles that embellish Adam's back, knows between which set of ribs to touch to make him shout with laughter and squirm away, can point out each and every bruise that's currently serving as decoration on Adam's skin alongside the black ink of his tattoos. There's a sliver of black boxer briefs that appears over the waistband of his jeans, and Blake's eyes follow that line along the small of his back before they skip down to the fine curve of his ass, then back up again to bare skin. When Blake licks his lips, he swears he can almost taste that maddening stripe of flesh he's being teased with.
Every so often, when Adam circles around to the far end of the table and looks up, their gazes meet and Adam shoots a quick wink in Blake's direction. It does nothing but add fuel to the fire burning in Blake's gut, and he swallows down a mouth full of whiskey in a very poor attempt to quell the flames. Needless to say, it doesn't work. Because the more Blake drinks, the less he cares, and the more he wants to get up and cross the room and lay Adam out on that pool table like they're safe behind closed doors instead of out in public.
"If you stare at him any harder, I might start to worry that he'll suddenly burst into flames."
Blake is startled by the female voice suddenly coming from his right, and his trance is broken when he quickly looks over, clearing his throat. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Right, I'm sure you don't. Just like I'm sure he doesn't know you're sitting over here, tattooing your name all over him with your baby blues," Christina says with a smirk, waving to get the attention of the bartender.
Blake snorts softly and drains the rest of the whiskey from his glass, sliding it across the bar once he's done. "Like I would really want my name among the random shit he chooses to get tattooed on himself."
"You kinda missed the point a little bit there, Blake."
"Nah, I just chose to ignore it because of how stupid it is," he replies, then motions to the bartender for a refill.
"Aw, Blake. I'm sure he'd go home with you if you just asked him to."
Blake rolls his eyes, can't really help it. He steals a quick glance back at Adam before he looks over at Christina again, studying her for a moment. "Are you sure you don't want him to be goin' home with you?"
Christina makes a face and pretends to gag, quick to flash a bright smile when she's handed a fruity looking concoction with two small straws sticking out. "Now you're just grossing me out when all I'm trying to do is help out a friend. Where's the love?"
"You are so full of crap, it's not even funny," Blake says, but she laughs anyway before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
"Enjoy the show, lover boy."
Blake watches her walk away purely out of habit, and when he looks across the room again, he finds Adam to be the one watching him this time with a puzzled look on his face. Blake just shrugs a shoulder as he wipes the blood red lipstick from his cheek, his heart lurching inside his chest when Adam smiles then turns back to finish his game. He makes a show of slowly walking around the table and studying each possible shot he could take, taking his time when he finally picks one to line it up just right, hips swaying ever so slightly as the cue slides through his fingers three, four, five times before he finally makes his move. He hangs his head for a moment when he misses and steps back a safe distance after he straightens up, fingers laced together behind his head while he waits for Tony to go. Blake admires the way his shirt has ridden up even more than before, the slice of stomach he's being flashed with now, the cut of Adam's hip. He's busy contemplating the way that line disappears down into Adam's jeans and how perfectly his mouth fits right there when suddenly a shout sounds and Adam is banging his fist on the table; game over and apparently he just lost.
Blake thinks it's a good thing Adam didn't win, thinks it will serve to keep that cocky rockstar ego of his in check, and for the first time that night, he turns all of his attention to the drink in his hand. It dawns on him that he's not drunk, not even buzzed, and he idly wonders when the last time something else had been more important to him than alcohol. It’s interesting and a little disconcerting at the same time; it’s also something he should probably think about more and in a serious way, but he can’t really be bothered right now, not when his head is full of too many other things.
Adam's hand lands on his shoulder a minute later, and Blake swallows hard, feeling the heat from Adam's body where he stands closer than necessary. Blake inhales a deep breath and there it is, that smell he's learned is uniquely Adam - musk, a hint of cologne and whatever weird kind of soap he uses.
"I lost. Thanks for that, by the way."
"You're welcome?" Blake responds, blinking a couple of times like he has no idea what Adam is referring to.
"It's entirely too late to play innocent with me, Shelton," Adam says and reaches around him for his glass of whiskey, draining what's left of it in one easy swallow. Blake opens his mouth to object, to argue or be offended or something, but the hand on his shoulder squeezes and Adam leans in just a little bit closer, lowering his voice. "You've been killing me with that goddamn face all night. I think it's time for us to go, don't you?"
Blake stands up without a second thought and digs his wallet out of his back pocket, tossing a couple of bills onto the bar to cover his two drinks plus a generous tip. He doesn't think about how obvious this could possibly look, the two of them suddenly leaving together when the night is still young, nor does he really care. The sudden urge to reach for Adam's hand is a little overwhelming and hard to resist, so Blake shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he follows Adam to the door.
Just as they're about to step outside, Blake turns back and finds Christina watching them, her expression curious. All he can do is flash a smirk before he rests a hand on the small of Adam's back, fingers curling in his t-shirt as they walk out together.