It Never Rains (But It Pours)

Questions Without Answers

"Blake, do not touch my presets."

"Touch presets!"

"Ugh, why the hell did I show you how to adjust a radio? Now look, I'm not telling you again. Keep your grubby fingers to yourself!"

Blake, naturally, paid no attention. He fiddled with the radio in the car, tuning away from the station Adam had been listening to and settling on a country station. Some overpaid country windbag who was probably dating some blonde was singing a ridiculous song about honey. Adam glowered at Blake and changed the channel. Now some oversexualized superstar who was probably married to an underwear model half his age was singing about sugar. Apparently, it was a day for songs about sweeteners. Blake turned it back to the country station, where the hillbilly was going through a ridiculous list of matching things to compare to his love. It made Adam roll his eyes in irritation, and he quickly switched it back. Now the high falsetto sounded amazingly like someone had just kicked the singer in the groin. Blake's eyebrows went up, and he turned it back. The two fought shamelessly over the radio for a few moments, Blake switching back to the country station and Adam returning it until Adam finally got frustrated and shut the radio off.

Silence.

Blake was staring at the marks on Adam's wrists again. The big man hadn't said anything, but with Blake, that didn't necessarily mean much. The observant blue eyes had locked onto the marks shortly after Adam came home in their new ride. When Adam had come back to the room, Blake had been overjoyed, sweeping him into a hug that lifted Adam clear off of his feet and not letting go until Adam started yelling and kicking. But once he spotted the marks, Blake kept reaching for Adam's wrists. Adam kept pulling them away, quickly trying to redirect Blake's attention elsewhere. Now Blake was reaching again.

"Don't, buddy," Adam called, pulling his wrist away once more. "Just leave me alone, ok?"

Blake remained silent, his eyes on Adam. Adam focused on driving, careful not to meet his gaze.

They made a quick stop at the home of their new landlord. Adam had directed Blake to wait in the car while he handed over the money and got the key to their new apartment. Then they quickly moved in. The apartment had a stove and fridge, but otherwise was unfurnished, which was bad news as Adam had lost all of his furniture. But it was dry, it was warm, and most important, it was Adam's. The two of them tossed their bags of belongings into the apartment, reverently hid Bessie in the closet, locked up, and were back in the car for the trip to Pharrell's.

Suddenly tired of the awkward silence, Adam reluctantly turned on the radio again. He switched to an easy listening station, knowing Blake seemed to enjoy that. It was certainly better than country. "I want you to listen to how the artists string the lines together in these songs," he instructed Blake. "When you write a song, sometimes the lyrics are harder than the melody. The melody gives you the time, with the beat. Then you need to try to make the words match that time. It can be challenging, because you need to find words that not only match up with the melody, but also rhyme."

"Rhyme time," Blake said, looking thoughtful.

"Very good! See, that rhymed, when you said 'rhyme time.' The words at the end of the phrases, or at least every other phrase, need to sound alike, the way rhyme and time do. Got it?"

"Got it."

Blake had his head slightly cocked. Adam was starting to understand more of Blake's gestures, which he thought of as "Blakeisms." This one meant, "I am listening very closely." Adam smiled, glad he'd once again managed to distract Blake from the marks on his wrists. He just wished Pharrell would be that easy. He was wearing a long sleeved hooded sweater, but his wrists kept peeking out and the marks were very noticeable on his skin. Sooner or later, Adam was going to have to fess up. He just hoped Blake wouldn't be too disappointed in him.