Work Text:
Misery loves company, that's why it's you and me
Buying each other drinks, back at the bar, as thick as thieves
Stealing these little sips
Doing our best to make the best of the worst of it
("Came Here To Forget”, by Blake Shelton)
***
It’s an unremarkable weeknight in the middle of January and Adam is drowning his misery at his favorite hole-in-the-wall just off Sunset Strip. The dreary winter weather—California winter, but still—matches his foul mood perfectly.
Their newest album has failed to sell half as well as they hoped. Every musician knows something like this is coming sooner or later, but, fuck it, this is just their third album. They haven’t even been successful a full decade. He isn’t ready for the dream to be over. None of them are. But, for many reasons, he felt he was hurting the most.
His bandmates didn’t put their deepest heartbreak into the song lyrics. God bless them, they all worked hard, they all spent fucking months and months in perfect, horrible, relaxing, stressful Switzerland making this album. But Adam is the only one who paid such a high price for the inspiration. It might’ve been everyone’s sweat, but it was his blood and tears, his heart scattered in pieces all over the lyric sheets and tracklist notes. This was the most gruelling thing he’s ever done. By the time they had the record ready, he couldn’t fucking listen to it. But it’s ok, he thought, at least it will pay off.
Well, it is all over now. Well, not that over, they are still on the label. But they are officially in a career slump, and it would take some really drastic actions on their part to pull off a come back. He’s already been offered potential co-writes. He said ‘no’ to every single one so far, but it’s not long until the label will no longer be asking. Hence, the pathetic weeknight drinking all by himself.
“Hi, pretty boy,” says an unfamiliar voice belonging to the man sitting down on the barstool immediately to his right.
“I’m pretty drunk but I bet I could still make a punch connect,” Adam responds without checking who the voice belongs to.
“Bless your little hate-filled heart but I ain’t lookin’ for a fight,” the voice responds, the smirk sounding through the words.
Oh god damn it, Adam thinks, rolling his eyes. The fucking southern drawl. He has a thing for cowboys. Could the universe really be so cruel, throwing this at him, today of all fucking days? He finally shifts a little bit, to take a look at the stranger. The noise that escapes him couldn’t be any more embarrassing.
The man is gorgeous, all blue eyes and dimples and curls and just the right amount of beard that’s actually more like stubble and long fingers and long legs and the downright delicious amount of chest and neck exposed through the partially unbuttoned shirt. Flannel, dark blue jeans, cowboy boots—this guy is Adam’s wet dream magically come to life. And he’s looking right at him with hungry eyes. Adam swallows and keeps staring.
The cowboy laughs. “Well, I think I just saw the desire for a fight vanish from your eyes. Reckon it’s safe for me to offer to buy you a drink now?”
The teasing tone finally makes Adam snap out of it.
“Well, you can try. It’s a free country, after all,” Adam says pointedly. Isn’t that what rednecks love to repeat ad nauseam?
“Nice one.” A low chuckle. “What are you drinkin’?”
“Tequila,” is Adam’s instant reply.
“As good a poison as any,” the guy declares. He then gestures to the bartender. “Two of Patron, please.”
“Oh, wow, a man of culture.” Adam’s taken aback by how the stupid cowboy makes him feel. Not the Patron thing. It’s just… it’s been, what, a minute and a half? And Adam is somehow already obsessed. Although the man having good taste in tequila is a plus. With their drinks in front of them, Adam continues: “So, what brings you to LA?”
“Work,” is the cowboy’s only answer.
“Doesn’t look like work.” Adam throws a pointed glance at the glass the guy is holding. Drinking alone on a Wednesday night doesn’t rule out work at other times of the day—Adam knows that. But he supposes what he’s actually asking is, what is this guy, who so clearly doesn’t belong this side of Texas, doing here in Adam’s favorite shithole of a bar, fucking hitting on him.
“This isn’t. This is ‘my girlfriend cheated on me and I’m tryin’ to forget.’”
“Oh, so I’m your rebound?” Adam pretends to be pissed, and based on the smirk he gets, he guesses he fails miserably.
“You could be.” The man fucking winks. “Didn’t mean it that way though. Just came in to get drunk and, well, kinda got distracted.”
“Well, you might’ve successfully distracted yourself from getting drunk, but I’m still keeping on track.”
“What’s worse than a cheatin’ girlfriend?”
“A lifelong dream getting destroyed.”
The guy quirks a corner of his mouth. “Alright, that might just be worse.”
“I’m glad you agree, cowboy.”
He has to give it to the man, he doesn’t even miss a beat.
“You make your way to nicknames real fast, rockstar.”
“Isn’t ‘pretty boy’ a nickname? You started it.”
“Damn it!” The guy exclaims. “Guess I’m forgettin’ stuff I don’t actually wanna be forgettin’.”
“Don’t worry. The stuff I’ll want you to remember you’ll never get out of your head even if you try.”
The man’s eyes instantly darken with desire. “That a promise?”
“You bet your ass it is,” Adam says confidently, then shakes his head. “I guess I better cool it with the drinking, after all.”
The guy does a fist pump. Holy shit, Adam thinks, he is so fucking lame I’m half hard already. He really, really needs to cool it with the drinking, lest any more embarrassing thoughts pop into his head.
“Are you just coolin’ it or puttin’ a complete stop to it? I was just about to buy ‘nother round.” His dimples are actually insane.
“I could go one more,” Adam says.
“That’s what I like to hear.” The man gestures to the bartender for two more of the same.
“So,” Adam starts uncertainly, “‘girlfriend’ cheated on you. Not sure if you noticed what gender of person you are currently hitting on.”
“Oh, I noticed, pretty boy.” A shit eating grin.
Adam doesn’t want to push his luck and annoy the guy with too many questions, but he has enough shit to deal with already, and being someone’s experiment isn’t his plan for tonight.
“And uh, you trying out something new or…?” Adam finally gets out.
The cowboy sighs, suddenly exasperated. “Jesus christ, are you always this distrustful? I’m bisexual.”
“Well, and I could be straight,” Adam counters.
“Please.” The man laughs. “And I’m an NFL quarterback.”
It’s Adam’s turn to laugh. “You could be—how tall are you?”
“I’m 6’5. But don’t let my height fool you into believin’ I’m at all athletic.”
Wow. If Adam gets any more turned on, someone will notice and kick them out.
“My apartment is not far from here,” he blurts out just like that instead.
The man’s guffaw makes half the bar patrons turn to look at them. But Adam doesn’t even have time to get mad, because Big Country is already fishing out his wallet and nodding toward the exit, his intent extremely clear.
***
When Adam wakes up in the morning, the guy is already gone. This was a casual bar hookup, so he's not sure if he expected anything different. Last night was so good, though, that Adam’s just a tiny bit hurt anyway. He realizes belatedly he never even gave the stranger his name, or learned what his was. Come to think of it, the only things he learned about the man are that he’s tall, Southern, and good in bed.
He spends the rest of the day somewhat mad at the guy for just leaving like that, but the feeling of despair he was carrying in his heart for months and then drowning at the bar last night is finally gone. He can finally move on and do right by his bandmates.
And if occasionally he misses the tall handsome stranger and regrets not knowing what name to choke out when he comes jerking himself off, well, that’s his secret to keep.
***
Adam decides that the ‘something drastic’ that needs to be done for their band to get out of the slump might involve him being on TV. The guys are not happy, but in the end they all agree the idea is crazy enough that it might just work. So he says 'yes' to being one of the coaches on a new singing competition show called The Voice, alongside Christina Aguilera, Ceelo Green, and someone in country music (he hears they are thinking Reba, but that’s not confirmed yet).
On the way to the NBC headquarters in Universal City, his manager tells him NBC went with some guy as the country coach. Blake something. Adam’s never heard the name, and doesn’t particularly care. He’ll meet him soon enough. As long as he isn’t a terrible bigot, Adam is sure they’ll get along just fine. But probably not more than that.
Coming into the boardroom, he freezes on the spot, making his manager walk straight into him, cursing.
Curly hair, dimples, beard, long fingers, long legs, denim, flannel, leather. One of the best fucks of his life is standing at the other end of the room, talking to fuck knows who, half turned away from the door where Adam is currently standing trying to not faint. A couple of seconds go by, and the brightest bluest eyes finally shift to him, and the man’s jaw drops comically. Oh. He didn’t have any idea, either, Adam thinks, and he’s positively giddy. This is about to become the most amazing, most insane, most torturous job ever. And he can’t wait.
Blake.
Maybe he’ll finally get to whimper the name to the man’s face.