Length: 1200+ words
Disclaimer: Not mine, clearly.
Notes: Adam continues his guitar lessons. Beta’d by jerakeen.
This is becoming a series. Part 1 (Friction) here.
Friction: Practice Makes Perfect
Adam grips his glass of ice water tightly and stares down at the guitar resting on his lap. This is ridiculous. No way he’ll let a guitar get the best of him. He’s better than an inanimate object—his beating heart says so! Laying the glass down, he rubs his hand on his pajama pants to remove the water condensation. He picks up the guitar and tentatively places three fingers in the G formation. The strings cut into the grooves left there from an hour of practice, but he grits his teeth and strums a few chords.
“You are not going to win, you hear me?”
And now he’s talking to inanimate objects. Great. Not only is the guitar physically maiming him, it’s making him crazy. How did Kris ever master this thing?
He takes another drink from his water, holding the glass a few extra seconds to get some relief for his fingers. He’s been alternating between playing a few chords, then attempting to freeze his fingers into numb submission. So far it’s not working.
Carefully he tries the D chord, same three fingers, and winces when the strings slip into the already sore grooves. “God damn it!” he shouts. Then he clamps a hand over his mouth and listens to see if he’s disturbed Kris. He’s in the downstairs office, trying to be as quiet as he can, but Kris is a light sleeper—shouting will probably not go unnoticed.
When Adam doesn’t hear anything from upstairs, he picks up the guitar again and tries a few chord changes. G to D to C and…it’s the hardest jump for him to get from C back to G…all of his fingers have to move. He’s going to drop the guitar if he ever tries this on stage.
“They do make straps you know.”
Kris’s voice startles him and he almost drops the guitar for real. He turns to see a sleepy-eyed Kris standing in the doorway of the office, blinking into the light with half of his hair flattened to his head, the other half sticking straight up in the air. He looks adorable.
“You looked like you were going to let her fall to the floor on that last chord change.” Kris walks over and lifts the guitar away from Adam by the neck. He holds it close to his chest, like a parent cradling a child, and lets his fingers fly over the strings from G to D to C to some crazy chord Adam can’t even recognize, then back around again.
“All in the thumb,” he says smiling, and he tips the guitar forward to show Adam how he’s supporting the neck from behind. “You try.”
Adam takes the guitar back and sighs. Kris has been a patient teacher—a very patient teacher—but Adam is just a really slow study. That’s why he’s been keeping a standing appointment with this office at 3 AM. Something he didn’t want Kris finding out about.
But Kris doesn’t mention the late hour or why Adam is still stuck on the simplest chord progression, he just leans over Adam and the guitar and places his hand along Adam’s left at the back of the neck. “Like this,” he breathes, and the hairs on Adam’s neck stand at attention.
His fingers seem to absorb Kris’s talent by osmosis and move haltingly from G to D to C and then back to G again.
“See, you can do it.”
Adam tries again, moving from chord to chord, making a simple strum each time. Kris taps his hand to a non-existent beat against Adam’s shoulder, then he starts humming a tune, the melody weaving its way in and around Adam’s notes like string on a loom. Slowly, Adam finds himself putting multiple strums together, hanging on one chord, before moving on to the other. He’s going around and around the same three chords, but it actually sounds good for the first time since he started playing. It sounds like a song.
Kris moves his hand away from Adam’s and slinks away toward the armchair across the room. Adam’s fingers falter and he lets them fall from the guitar.
“No, don’t stop,” Kris says, turning in front of the chair. “Play me a song.”
But Adam’s fingers really hurt, and he would really much rather use them to explore Kris’s body. He lays the guitar aside and catches Kris’s hand just as he’s letting himself fall back towards the chair.
“No, come with me,” Adam says softly. Kris is warm to the touch. Adam’s fingers wrap around Kris’s wrist, and feel like they might actually combust where they rest. But he doesn’t let go. He digs the scarred flesh deeper into Kris’s arm and tugs him out of the room, up the stairs, down the hallway, to their bed.
It’s still warm where Kris lay sleeping just a few minutes before. Adam lies down and draws Kris down on top of him. He attacks his mouth feverously, running both hands up under Kris’s shirt until he rips it off over his head. His hands draw across Kris’s back, every inch of his skin coming into contact with the light sheen of sweat breaking out there, but from his wrists to his palms to his fingers feels glorious, until he tips his fingertips to drag them across Kris’s spine…
“I can’t feel you,” he laments.
Kris reaches behind him to grab Adam’s hand. Pulling it between them, he sits back on his knees and places Adam’s hand on the waistband of his pajama pants. Together, they push, Adam bringing his other hand into the mix, until the pants are discarded on the floor and Kris is sitting above him, an offering ready to be taken.
Lifting Adam’s hand in his again, Kris wraps it around his cock, sighing at the first moment of contact. Adam pushes past the tingling in his fingers, gripping with his whole hand and stroking up, down, up, down, building and building, faster and faster until Kris is almost levitating off of Adam’s body and his head is arched backwards.
“Feel. Me. Now?” Kris chokes out as each stroke brings him closer to the peak. He comes with a sudden burst all over Adam’s shirt, and falls back down, still with Adam’s hand wrapped around him. He slips languidly to the side, nipping at Adam’s neck as he works his way up to Adam’s mouth.
Adam kisses him forcefully, his breathing quickened just from watching Kris get off like that. His hand slips free of Kris’s cock, resting on his hip instead. He drags it slowly up the length of Kris’s body, tipping his fingers so that just the tips scratch along his skin. He can feel just a little contact through the soreness radiating out at the tops of his fingers.
“They’re still soft,” Kris whispers, reaching up beneath Adam’s shirt to rest his hand on Adam’s chest. His hand slips and slides its way down Adam’s chest, soft fingers tickling the hairs until he balances on his fingertips and Adam can feel the rough calluses scraping the skin.
Kris smiles and leans up for another kiss. “And this will be fun too when it happens.”
And Adam rolls over so that Kris is pinned beneath him, swallowing Kris’s lips with his own. He loves this man more than he could ever have imagined. And if he has to keep testing out his fingertips for calluses like this, he’ll learn how to play every song ever written—just for Kris.