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Of Rhinestones and Little Fingers

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Little fingers press softly, cautiously, against the rhinestones over Adam’s eyebrows, tugging him towards consciousness.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

He’d ridden the performance high from a killer show smack into an interview that had forced him to shift gears, pull in the explosion of energy that was performing. Afterwards, he’d stumbled exhausted, into his dressing room and sat down to take off his boots. He’d leaned his head back to rest for just a moment, but apparently sleep had snuck up on him.

Sleep that now gives way to joy as tiny hands pat his product stiff hair.


There’s a whisper of words, a babble of sound that only the twins seem to understand. A sort of short-cut of words shared between them as their tiny fingers move, stroking over his be-glittered hair, slipping through the oozing stage make-up.

Adam has to grip his fingers against his leather pants to keep from opening his eyes, to let them play. He loves feeling them solid and real against his chest, even when they slip and little touches become sharp pokes against his eyes.

Their whispers turn to giggles and Adam can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face.


When Adam opens his eyes, the twins squeal in unison, shouting “wake!”

“Gottcha!” Adam says and surges forward, his arms full of screeching children. He growls a laugh into Marc’s belly, turns his head to nip at Bronwyn’s knee.

The twins howl with delight, wiggling in his clutches, first trying to get away then twisting around to tug his head closer, laughing and begging for more, crying “tickle!” and “silly!” and his favorite word over and over again, “dada!”

“I see they found you,” Ifan drawls, his words rolling soft and sweet like the Welsh hills he grew up around.


“’Ad!” Marc cries, trying to launch himself at his father. Adam tightens his hold on their wriggling son and works very hard at not laughing at the mix of horror and amusement on his husband’s face.

“Com’ere you,” Ifan says, tugging Marc into his lap as he settles on the couch. “What are you trying to do, give your Tad a heart attack?”

“’Ad! ‘Ad!” Marc cries, his 18-month old mouth not quite up to the challenge of the word ‘Tad’ just yet.

“Marc, Marc,” Ifan replies, then swings Marc up over his head and then down onto his lap.


Bronwyn slides off Adam’s lap to snuggle between her fathers, grabbing their hands and laying them one over the other, so their wedding rings line up. Adam smiles at his daughter, then ducks his head when Ifan bumps shoulders with him.

“What?” Adam asks. Ifan’s grin is as wide as his own.

Ifan leans over the puddle of toddlers between them and brushes a kiss along Adam’s cheek. Adam can feel the smile when Ifan whispers, “I think it’s sweet too.”

Leaning his head against his husband’s, Adam smiles; he’s sweaty and tired, and happier than he ever thought possible.