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His fingers move, shift over buttons and joystick, but—
"No!” His body thumps the pavement, motionless. Tom looks over at Wayne, thinking. Re-evaluating. “Again? I’ll kick your butt!”
Wayne chuckles. “Yeah.” Like Of course, again. Like No, you won’t.
Which is maybe pretty accurate.
Wayne gets them into the game again and it is on, Tom picking Ken, like he has each time. He knows what he likes. Sometimes.
Clicking buttons and pushing the joystick like he knows what he's doing, he makes Ken kick Wayne's character, only to get clawed. A lot. It ends too soon, ends with Tom’s character dying. Again.
And it probably isn’t a good thing that part of the reason he doesn’t mind is Wayne’s grin every time he wins, the sly look in his eyes. Not that he looks at those lips. Which are far too red. Far, far too red. Tom's not sure when his reflexes crapped out; probably around when his brain decided stupid = do it.
But then, this really hadn’t been his idea. At least, it hadn’t been what he meant to suggest when he called Wayne.
They’d talked music, not quite business, before Wayne muttered “hang on,” and covered the mouthpiece. “Can you tell my folks I don’t need a babysitter?” It was the dejected voice of someone who wasn’t as young as everyone thought; someone who expected to be told no.
“I can do one better; I’ve got nothing going on if you want to hang out.” And really, it only made Tom feel a little pathetic to suggest this. So most adults have actual lives; music prodigies are way cooler. And they're very, very good with things like their hands. Which really is not what he meant at all. He had no thoughts in that direction at all when he suggested the hanging out. No thoughts in that or any other direction. He was absolutely without thought at all, when he was not suggesting anything. Or something like that.
He’d shown up at the swank hotel; the mirrored elevator was a distraction from the long ride up, and not because he was thinking that maybe his thirties had really done a number on him because my god where did those lines come from and what happened to his hair and didn’t he used to be cool? He didn’t feel cool anymore. It was totally not those thoughts that distracted him, on the way up to spend time with Wayne who turned out to be lying on a bed that really didn’t look worth what it had to cost a night.
Wayne's father had opened the door, tie around his neck but not yet knotted.
“They’re going to the theatre.” Wayne announced, not bothering to sit up.
Tom had already known this, now that he thought about it. Goliath really did know how to butter up prospective clients. There was a ticket for Wayne too, but clearly he had a different idea what to do.
By the time Tom had lost the first game, the family had left, Wayne's father giving a stern look from the door as though they were going to jump out the window and run amok the moment he left.
Having lost three times, Tom's distracted enough to look around. A guitar case lays along the floor by the far wall of the suite; two bedrooms, bathroom the size of Tom's kitchen. Not exactly home.
Wayne's smiling at him again, sitting on the edge of the bed still holding the controller. "Are you hungry?"
They are in Switzerland or maybe Poland, the neutral place, but he was always bad at geography and it doesn't matter when they're still in New York and Tom doesn't have the key to the minibar. So he shrugs.
"I'm gonna have room service send us a pizza."
Tom scoffs, loud and teasing. "Dude, be a rock star. You can't order something every Joe Shmo orders! Plus, this is on Goliath's dime and the thought of Little Mary Profit Me's face when he opens an outrageous room service bill would bring me weeks of happiness." He's maybe running on and on but sometimes when he's alone with somebody he just can't shut up. Especially if he's trying to not think about things like how that person has nice eyes and is probably too smart for Tom's good. "No, I'm kidding, he'd never see the bill, that's a completely different department. He wouldn't know if you ordered a basket of condoms. Don't, by the way, I learned the hard way that your parents will find out."
Wayne is blushing now and really, Tom should look into filtering what he says, because that look on Wayne's face says that he didn't need to know this. Even if it is far too nice to see Wayne blushing this time - or is it again? - and he looks- It's a good look on him and wow, bad train of thought.
"From an artist I used to look after! Like, Jackie, you know Jackie? 'Jump, jump, jump meeee'? No? Well, she's brilliant, fifteen, nose ring, tattoo across her stomach that reads 'I am the queen of me' in Japanese. Funny story—She’d meant for it to say 'fuck this shit' in Swahili. Amazing guitarist, truly a master; never could grasp any sort of linguistic abilities. Anyway, she thought the whole basket of condoms thing would be a funny joke too and it nearly got me fired. The sad part is that really—it was a laugh riot."
Wayne laughs, probably not sure how much of this is exaggeration, which really isn't much, because this is the music business. He moves to the head of the bed and picks up the phone, voice quiet as he orders room service like it's a prayer.
Then his hand is on Tom's arm and really, it's a nice hand. Not that Tom is focusing on it, or that he keeps coming back to thoughts like these. God, he’s going to hell, and Wayne’s got guitarist hands. Guitarist's hands, the calluses real from strumming, not superglue like Tom does when he really jams.
"Come on, tell me what you want." But that impish look on Wayne's face? Clearly fabricated by Tom's mind. Because there is no way Wayne's trying to come on to him.
Just like kissing him, totally hallucinated that. Bad nachos. Which, actually, sound really good right now.
"Um, nachos. And cereal." Wayne's giving him a weird look, one that probably means something cryptic and intense. Or something like Tom, you’re an idiot. "Lucky Charms, just the marshmallows though, not the gross bits."
"Whatever." He's grinning again and really, all that grinning should hurt or something. The phone doesn't jangle when he hangs it up finally; phones don't jangle anymore, it just clicks. Tom wishes it would make more noise because Wayne's just looking at him and he keeps doing that, sitting cross-legged on the bed with bare feet and a smile that says he knows Tom's freaking out a lot.
"Oh. Um. Yes. Did- Did I ever tell you about--"
But he doesn't have a good story. The only story he has right now is "hey, remember that time we made out at CBGB and had a really good time other than I didn't know what to do with my hands?" and that's not a very good story, more like a foolish idea that he's almost pretty sure couldn't have really happened.
Except Wayne's looking at the clock like he's trying to figure how long it'll take to sift the marshmallows from a box of cereal and what he can do before then and oh god, Tom's on his bed with him and really, really he needs to work on thinking. Thinking is a good thing; keeps people from maybe doing things like this.
And okay, that's Wayne's tongue. Which is funny, because he doesn't remember Wayne being close enough to kiss. Not that he's complaining. Or should he be? He'll worry about that later. Right now he’s trying not to squirm because there’s a hand reaching up his shirt and no, bad, clothes staying on. He’s not that stupid. Yet, anyhow. Because yes, hours until the family comes back, but room service will be coming before too long.
And maybe he can't decide if he's making out or freaking out but there's no reason he can't do both.
Other than Wayne's hands are tugging up his t-shirt again, so really, probably should focus on that. And Wayne's this skinny guy, bones and barely any fat; Tom's own soft gut can't compare, just like his gaming reflexes and guitar prowess. Not really eager to make an in-depth comparison.
Or. Well. Really.
Tom thinks he can hear something, no rhythm or pattern to it, no variety or depth. Definitely not music.
He pulls back. "Door. That's the door.Your, uh, your-" His voice cracks. Just a tad. Not at all like a little boy. "Our room service, the food is here. To, um, to eat it." His hands slide back from Wayne's hair, another thing he doesn't remember happening so maybe he needs to work on finding his mind again since clearly it's been missing and misleading him for days and days, lost even before his foot tour of NY.
The bellhop, or service aide or whatever PC term they want to be called now on penalty of even more rudeness, keeps looking from Wayne to Tom and back, memorizing the scene for gossip later or something, but it's too late to do anything about Wayne's hair or the guilty look on Tom's face.
Wayne’s writing in a tip on the bill and doesn’t notice the look he’s getting, which is good. Maybe. Or bad. Tom can’t tell. But it’ll be a good thing if he gets big, which he probably won’t if Tom keeps doing the stupid thing with him, but he can’t always stop himself.
Tom thinks maybe he should explain this to Wayne, but, well, what would he say? 'I shouldn't do this, but you need to be the one that stops because I apparently have the self-restraint of a four year old'?
Anyhow, words later. Now nachos.
How does he manage to not get cheese in his hair?
"How do you manage to not get cheese in your hair?" Tom's own hair is too short for that to regularly be an issue, but Wayne's all hair, nose, eyes, and music. Not that the hair's a bad thing, and how exactly did this happen? Or vaguely. Vaguely works too.
It's easy to understand the idea that maybe he's on the brink of a midlife crisis, maybe even believe it a little, but he's pretty sure most people's don't turn into a sexual identity crisis.
If that's even what this is.
It's not like he's checking out Jake or guys on the street or anything. Just Wayne. He doesn’t even know any fancy words for blanket. And past history of dating people with no talent makes Wayne even more an oddball.
Of course, Wayne doesn't count as dating. That wouldn't— Well, for one, his parents would kill Tom. Wayne's father looks like he owns a shotgun.
Between M&M's, Wayne gives him a quizzical look. "You're not eating."
Oh. "Oh." Tom blinks. "Right."
Wayne smiles again and pushes the tray towards him.
Milk sits in its rich fancy jar thing which is in no way near as cool as the little bitty milk cartons you get in cafeterias, waiting to be poured over the cereal. He can almost watch the color change, but instead focuses on eating. Or swirling ripples through the marshmallows and glancing up at Wayne like Wayne won't notice.
By the time the milk has settled into a funny-tasting, puke-greenness, Wayne has moved the tray off the bed other than the dish of M&M's, blue eyes steady on Tom. He doesn't bother to look away even when Tom glances up.
Tom pauses, spoon in midair. “Can I- um, can I help you?”
Wayne smirks. “Maybe.” Tom swallows the last of the marshmallows, almost nervous. Then they're kissing again and really, Tom's done thinking for a little while anyhow.
Even if that means Wayne gets to trick his shirt off.