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linzeestyleI have nothing to say for myself. Sometimes you are just blindsighted by a new fandom -- and by "new fandom," I mean "sparkly alien from planet Fierce." And then you write 14,000 words of American Idol fic.
/o\ Thanks,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tasyfa, for assauging my worry that I'd just be transposing Pete into Adam's skin. And revid, I am going to hold off on harassing you to beta until I get the Kradam House Lights written (this is not what it will actually be). I'll post this to communities tomorrow (where does one post these things?) but for now...done.
And now I have to pack so I can go to Disneyland for my birthday this weekend! :)
Title: like gasoline
Author: Linzee (linzeestyle)
Pairing: Kris Allen/Adam Lambert
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: ~14,000
Disclaimer: This story lies.
Warnings: Infidelity, mentions of drug use. If you googled yourself, your siblings, your spouses or your friends to get here, you know where the back button is.
*
Guess you've got it all worked out so far;
you adjust your reason until you see the light from where you are.
(Rob Thomas, "Gasoline")
*
They're five days away from the first date of the tour when "It" leaks.
Literally. That's the name of the video.
"It"'s not a sex tape. Or at least, that's the by-line, what Idol's press statement says. It's an experimental performance, or something or other. "It's kind of a gay 'Brown Bunny,'" says Adam brightly to Seacrest when he's interviewed, as unruffled as anyone has ever sounded whom the entire internet has now seen give head. "Andy Warhol did it, and I was going through this psychedelic kind of phase."
"So it's staged," asks Ryan, and even Kris, sitting in his apartment kitchen and pushing his spoon at soggy cereal he's no longer in the mood to eat, can hear the lead in his voice.
"Jeez, say yes," says Kris to no one. Katy's already at work. It's him and the radio, just like old times.
"I guess you could say that," Adam tells Ryan, and Kris swears he can hear the relief over the airwaves. "It made me feel like I was Chloe Sevigny."
Kris exhales, running his hands through his hair and staring down at his cereal.
It's amazing, wonderful, horrible timing. If Kris was on the outside he'd call 'staged,' or 'planted' -- they have bus call in less than forty-eight hours. Their first show is at the Rose Garden and Adam's face is inescapable. But Kris isn't on the outside, and he remembers when the pictures leaked: remembers the charge in the house, the way management laid down all kinds of 'suggestions' for what Adam could and couldn't say. Remembers coming in to their room and finding Adam watching Bill O'Riley one evening, his own personal photos held up and censored and Adam's expression amused, but bruised a little, too. It stays with him when Katy drives him to the airport, when she kisses him and hugs him and gives him another one "for Adam," because the girls at her work have been talking about it and she worries "even big kids get their feelings hurt."
They have hotels, for two days in Los Angeles. Hotels and a curfew and room arrangements like the mansion. Adam's already there when Kris swipes the key card, feeling five minutes or a thousand years away from Conway and before. 'All the same but the door man,' Kris thinks with a half-smile; he wouldn't let the door hop take his bags up for him.
Adam, when he sees him in person for the first time in three weeks, is stretched sideways across the bed farthest from the door, feet and head dangling off either end. He shoots up so fast it makes even Kris dizzy. "Kris!!" The 'come here' is implicit, and Kris sets down his guitar case and leaves his bag cart in the doorway long enough to slide past the first bed and let Adam drag him down onto the second. His face ends up mashed into Adam's v-neck and he's breathing in nothing but cologne and detergent and concealer.
"Oof." It comes out mumbled and mashed against Adam's shirt. "Hey, man. How's Hollywood?"
Adam laughs. "I live here! I should be asking you that question."
"Well, given that I've been here for like, two hours..." Kris doesn't worry too much about pulling away from Adam, just readjusts himself so his cheek is pressed into his chest rather than his face. He can't hide his smile when he says, "pretty awesome."
"I saw you in People! Was that amazing?" Adam pulls away enough to shake Kris' shoulders, excited like this is all still shiny-new and thrilling. Not that it isn't, of course -- but Adam's the one that's been in the maelstrom, not Kris, who's had time to start doing phone-calls with co-writers, think about sound and market and take walks in a town where people still know him as 'the Allens' older boy.'
Still, Kris laughs. "It was... pretty weird." He remembers being at a coffee shop at home when his cover came out, seeing a woman in one of the booths across the way reading an article with his face on the other side. "Hey, Rolling Stone though!" And Us!, and Enquirer, but those things were out of Adam's control. At some point he wants to talk about that, but he doesn't want to start, knows everyone else will focus on it alone.
"Oh, yeah, that. How silly was that, really?" Adam lets him go, flopping down on the bed and tugging so Kris lays down too. They're on their backs now, shoulders almost touching, both staring at the ceiling like kids at a sleep over. "I really wanted the cover to just say, 'duh!' but that's not very rock and roll. Everybody around here thought it was so funny. 'Oh my God, you came out, all these years we thought you were completely heterosexual!'" Adam's voice lapses into a high breathy and improbable parody and Kris snickers, glancing over to watch the expressions that accompany it. "But my mom got to see me on the cover of Rolling Stone. That was really great."
It's a little silly. To anyone who was eavesdropping right now, they'd sound like they hadn't talked to each other since the press crush in May. It's untrue, of course. Adam loves the phone. Kris finds his phone buzzing at five AM because Adam forgets about time zones or 'decent' hours for 'normal' people, or in the middle of the afternoon, because by the time Adam's finally woken back up in San Diego it's close to supper, in Arkansas. During rehearsals they'd go days not seeing each other but for sidelong glances across a stage, but Kris started eating dinner with his cell phone on the counter, texting Adam one-handed and laughing at his own typos. But the thing is, for some reason, they haven't talked about this: Adam tells him about his favorite clubs, or soundtracks he's in love with, or the burlesque show he wants to stage or about meeting Gerard Way. And Kris, in turn, teaches Adam what life on the other side is like, tries explaining why nothing at Burger King is barbecue and the idea of a "crick" because they don't have those in California. There's a whole wide chasm of things they don't know about each other; each conversation is throwing a rock into the middle, building up a pile until Kris starts to see the bottom.
They don't talk about Idol, because it's what they have in common. But Adam's version of fame is a different fractal than Kris', and he's curious, sharply so.
"You gotta be so tired and we haven't even gotten on the bus yet," teases Kris, and Adam groans and flops sideways on the huge hotel bed, staring up at Kris through his (blue, now) bangs. It looks like he's taken a shower recently -- with the product gone his hair drapes strangely, enough of a mohawk style now that it doesn't make much sense unstyled. Kris reaches out and ruffles it, rubbing his fingers over the short part and remembering all the time he spent in high school and college with that really unflattering crew cut, largely because he never had to give it more attention than a bar of soap over it in the mornings.
Underneath his fingers, Adam practically purrs. "I'm going to have to keep you if you do that much more." Kris chuckles and keeps up the motion, running his hand gently across the side of Adam's skull the way his mom used to, when Kris was a kid. "Don't think I won't -- I'm pretty sure I can smuggle you out in my jacket, Pocket Idol."
"Yeah, you really shouldn't google yourself."
"I just google you, sweetie," Adam simpers, batting his eyelashes. Kris swats his head.
*
Danny's assigned to the bus that Kris and Adam share, but within two days you wouldn't know it. Kris asks Danny about it when he comes in for his shampoo, on a stop on the way to Vancouver.
"I'm just playing it by ear, you know." It's said with the same innocuous earnestness that always unnerves Kris, with Danny, and he's starting to wonder if Danny even realizes why he's avoiding their bus.
"Because of Adam?" Kris feels shocked at himself as soon as he says it -- shocked and proud, maybe, because Kris has never been the kind of guy to rock the boat. Danny puts his hands out to his sides in surprise.
"No! No--hey, I know we all stick to the rules here." He grabs up a couple of T-shirts, too. "Come on. Adam's, you know. I like the guy a lot, he really brings something to the show. But you know I don't make the rules." Danny points to the ceiling with a half-smile and helpless shrug. It turns into a wave, and then a, "See you at sound-check!" and Kris is left clenching one of his fists against his jeans and hating in a way his parents would have never taught him to do.
It's okay though, it's alright. When Adam comes back before the buses start again it's with Allison, and one of Allison's suitcases, in tow. "We'll be the cool bus tonight," says Allison before she launches herself at Kris in a hug that's all teenage-girl enthusiasm. Kris buries his face in her hair and grins because somehow he'd forgotten how much he missed her, until now. They make popcorn and dye the front sweep of Adam's hair the same red as Allison's.
"Have you seen it?" Allison crawls into Kris' bunk the next morning, too early for Adam to be awake.
"It?" Kris is confused until he remembers, "oh, 'It.'"
Allison nods, eyes wide. "I shouldn't have watched it and I did but don't tell Adam."
"I haven't seen it," says Kris, because it's true.
(They'd come off the stage in Sacramento last night to awkward laughs and shuffled feet because Adam had used Kris like a human stripper poll during "Smooth," and Kris had slid up next to Adam on the way back and said, I hope they don't make us make 'From Adam to Kris' now.
"Oh, honey, I hope they do," Adam had whispered, leering, and Kris had laughed and knocked against him and said, I know what kind of movies youmake.)
"Do you think it's real?" Allison is wide-eyed and Kris thinks, 'Oh my God you're so young.' Her expression says it doesn't matter except where she's curious, except where she's maybe got a crush on Adam or is maybe just at that age where talking about sex is still taboo and thrilling and new.
"I think you should ask Adam. And I think you're way too young to think about it."
"I'm seventeen," she says, and Kris thinks, 'Oh my God,' again and laughs.
"And you're too young to be in my bunk." Kris pushes at her shoulders playfully, and Allison giggles and falls backwards, rocking on her heels at the foot of the narrow cot. They're both awake now, though, and when she tumbles back out into the walkway Kris follows her, too-long pajama bottoms scuffing on the gripped rubber floor as he shows her where Adam keeps his stash of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
"You should watch it," Allison says, conversationally, over big cooking bowls the size of their heads while they flip through Direct TV channels neither of them has even seen before.
Kris chokes on his cereal. "That's not really my thing. And it shouldn't be yours, Alli, what."
Allison laughs. "No, really! It's very Adam. I don't think he'd be embarrassed."
"You want me to tell him you watched it?" Kris gestures with his thumbs back to the sleeping area. "Because I can totally--"
Allison tackles him, clapping her hand over his mouth. "Oh God, don't you dare." Kris laughs, muffled behind her palm. "Seriously. I will kill you."
"You're not really all that scary, baby girl," says Kris, when released, adopting Adam's pet name without thinking. Allison chuckles and tosses a piece of cereal at him, and when he looks over at her, all wide-eyed 'what?!' she rolls her eyes.
"You're like, little Adam." Grins. "Really little."
"Aw, can it." He reaches over and swats at the back of her head. "Now shh, you're missin' all the good TV." It's morning-shows, mainly, but none Kris gets on his dinky television at home, and none of them are guest-starring on anything, so it's the best entertainment he's had all week.
Allison stays with them through Vancouver, until a handler comes and shoos her back to the girls' bus. They didn't want us trafficking in children, quips Adam when Allison packs up her stuff; Kris gets it, but it's still sort of funny to think about. "We sure as heck aren't a threat to anybody's virtue," he tells Adam, flopping down into his bunk.
"Speak for yourself. I have compromised plenty of virtue." In his own bunk across the narrow hall, Adam rolls sideways, looking over at Kris lazily. With his head propped on his arm and his lids heavy and weighted he definitely looks the part, and Kris finds himself ducking his head, chuckling nervously as he feels himself color.
He blames this, maybe, for his decision to watch the tape.
It seems rude, inexcusably, at first: Adam's his friend, not a spectacle. But everyone's talking about it. In Washington Adam gets cat-calls and actual protests outside the Dome -- it's ten people, maybe, but it still shows up on Yahoo's front page. FOX news and E! are both talking about it constantly, and none of the other contestants seem to share Kris' issues, because Lil and Megan appear to have watched it play-by-play, and even Michael's discomfort and the way he won't touch Adam are, Kris is guessing, not the result of just having heard stories.
He breaks down in Sacramento. It's their first day off between tour dates; Adam's out shopping with Megan and Matt when Kris pulls up his laptop and googles until he finds it. It doesn't take long. It really is everywhere.
To be perfectly honest, Kris isn't sure what he was expecting: he's seen porn, and Adam's pictures, and he kind of expected this to just split the difference between the two. Low-light footage of leather straps and glitter, maybe. There's plenty of glitter, but it's also fairly college-artsy: the footage is shot in high-contrast, over-exposure lending a strange, slow, drug-like quality to the images. On the tiny laptop screen, it's hard to see details, but though the other man isn't familiar, he recognizes Adam immediately. Slicked black hair and dark lines around his eyes and along his mouth like burlesque makeup -- the costuming is intricate, even skewed by the grainy style. As he watches Adam suck a line down the other man's neck he thinks, inanely, what a waste of work it is: there's probably so much color in their clothing, and it's all lost to the black and white.
And then Adam hits his knees, and suddenly Kris isn't thinking about the work involved. The camera pans in close as Adam pulls out the other man's already-hard dick: it's obviously not "staged" -- Kris is pretty sure you can't stage what Adam is doing, the way his makeup-dark lips close around the head, the way his cheeks hollow with effort when he applies pressure with his mouth. Watching without sound, there's something surreal about it, liquid-smooth and timed, like a dance. It's even more pronounced when the on-screen Adam goes down all the way, fluid movement as his throat works, sucking cock like it's theater. When he comes back up, it's with black-polished fingers wrapped firmly around the shaft, and the camera pulls out enough to show Adam's other hand, sliding into the tight lamé pants of the other man, down and around and -- oh, jeez. Kris' heart jumps at the same time Adam's on-screen partner jerks, the moment Kris realizes oh, he's doing--
Kris shuts the laptop with more force than necessary, taking huge gulps of air and staring at the wall of his bunk. There's blood pounding in his ears and he knows his face is probably flaming red; he's hard in his jeans and he feels vaguely ashamed, nervous like he's gotten caught doing something wrong. Porn, he thinks dumbly, trying to reign in his breathing. It's porn. It's totally normal to get turned on by it. You're lonely and this is stupid.
It doesn't make his dick softer, though, and it sure as heck doesn't wipe the image of Adam from his mind, lips wrapped around another man's cock. Kris shoves the laptop away and balls his hands at his sides; he is not going to jerk off to Adam's not-sex tape. He already feels guilty for having watched it at all.
"I've been on this bus too long," Kris says, out loud, to the emptiness of the cabin -- even though it's stupid, really, and he knows he's only been on it a week. Small spaces, though, and the whole cabin smells like Adam: like all of the product and goop Adam's got lying around, the same chemical-and-perfume smells Kris remembers from the mansion, from performing, from the sweat of the lights every night this week. It's familiar, most of the time, a kind of strange homey comfort coming from sterile venue showers and carefully-kept green rooms; visceral familiarity, the sense that they're still both in this together.
Usually, anyway.
Kris spends the rest of the day keyed-up, wired, jittery like he needs to get off and irritated because he can't. It makes him snappish and terse during rehearsals, snarking at Matt when he screws up on "Smooth" and stiffening when Adam brushes his shoulder on his way up to the stage to practice "Slow Ride" with Allison. It's like he can feel Adam's skin through his shirt, and it just makes him feel guilty, even as he remembers what Adam looks like without it.
"I really don't think I've ever seen you like this," says Adam with concern. "Are you feeling okay?"
"What? I'm fine!" It comes out with no conviction at all.
"Stress is a killer," offers Anoop. "So is homicide, if you keep going off at everybody."
"Babe's just not used to being alone for this long." Lil looks at him appraisingly, and Kris is ready to go yes, that's it! before she continues, breezily, "You know, just 'cause your wife isn't here doesn't mean you can't wine and dine," waggling her fingers at him. Kris feels himself turn red and Megan tsks in agreement.
"Your bus is practically empty anyway." She says it with no small amount of envy, and Lil mutters something about settings and fucking loud that has Danny reaching over to try to cover Allison's ears.
"I'm pretty sure I can handle myself," says Kris, and then flushes all over again when he realizes what he's said. Slouching against the door frame, Adam is bent double with laughter. It's embarrassing as hell, but even worse when Adam waves him over on the bus later on, Kris coming back from brushing his teeth and Adam curled up in his bunk with the curtain open, watching what looks like Labyrinth on his tiny iPod Touch.
"I'm sorry for ragging on you before," Adam says, too earnest for the hour and how jittery Kris still is. "It's okay though, you know? I don't mind."
There's a glorious, blissful second where Kris doesn't know what Adam's talking about -- and then he does, and he covers his face with his hands, muttering oh man because really. The entire tour knows he's horny and he's going to throw himself under the bus before they get to... wherever city it is they're going right now.
Kris peeks out from between his fingers; Adam is still looking at him expectantly. Like he honestly expects Kris to go, 'Oh, okay!' and jump into his bunk to... whatever.
"I can't... we're never, I mean, there's no--" He moves a hand away from his face to wave it between them helplessly. "With someone else here, y'know?"
"No, I don't." Adam blinks at him, smiling in that way that says 'you're kind of a dumbass.' It's affectionate though -- it always is, and right now that's more of a problem than a comfort. "Really, don't let me stop you," Adam says with a sleepy half-smile, waving an earbud in Kris' direction. "I know I won't."
"You don't--I mean..."
"Oh, I can be quiet." And Kris knows he looks mortified, because Adam's hand comes out to tap his cheek. "Don't look at me like that. Think about it like dorm life. I'm going to sleep, Skip. Goodnight."
Adam rolls over, and Kris can hear the tinny sounds of some band he doesn't recognize when Adam turns his iPod on. It's his cue to leave, and he shuts the curtain behind him, sliding across the small aisle and into his own bunk still completely, absolutely mortified. He doesn't think he could get less turned-on if he tried, and he curls up on his side facing the wall away from Adam.
He falls asleep trying very, very hard not to think about Adam being "quiet."
*
The day of the actual Sacramento concert, Adam and Kris have a satellite appearance to tape for The View. Or rather, Adam has a satellite appearance to tape for The View; Kris is along for the ride, he suspects, and given that no one will be performing he's content to ride shotgun. They're put in a sound-stage with a big screen and some cameras and Kris fidgets with his wedding ring, watches Adam examine the lighting.
"You ready for this?"
"Bring it."
It isn't the most awkward interview Kris has experienced. That still belongs to the press junket after, the immediate shock and the questions that started with, "Why do you think you won over Adam," like all of Kris' work would only ever add up to one fluke that put him over the top of the one who should have been there. He's asked about his wife and his religion and his church; he gives some answer about singing gospel that makes Adam glance over, a weighted look like there's something in him Adam still can't figure out. It makes no sense, Kris thinks: he's so very transparent.
"I can never imagine you being that theatrical," Adam says admiringly when Kris stares back at him, expectant.
"It's really not."
"But it is -- I went with Br-with a friend, in Texas once, and it's very..." Adam waves his hands, executes a strange motion that manages to be both flippant and a little graceful. Their long-distance hosts laugh, and Kris feels his mouth turn upwards. "And I didn't burst into flames when I walked in the door!"
Kris coughs to hide his laugh; Adam knocks their shoulders together. "Sorry, oh, sorry." He turns back towards the camera.
"Speaking of performance, Adam," and Kris' eyes go wide because he realizes, a second before it happens, that oh my gosh Barbara Walters is going to ask Adam about his sex tape. Followed immediately by does that mean Barbara Walters has seen Adam's sex tape? Adam's got to be thinking the same thing, but all he says is hmm when the question continues, "You've made quite a splash on the internet recently."
"It's very big," explains Adam, helpfully. Kris chokes a little.
It doesn't go unnoticed, and someone asks, "So have your tour mates... have they seen it? Have you gotten critical reviews?"
Adam shrugs, smiling. "Well they ain't sharing. You'd have to ask them, I think."
"Well what about you, Kris? What did you think?"
Kris freezes for a beat too long, feeling himself color. "Uhh." Laughs, awkwardly, because holy crap. Doesn't look at Adam at all when he says, "I haven't watched it, so I probably can't comment." He can feel Adam's eyes on him though. 'He knows that's not true,' Kris thinks, idly.
It's the first thing out of Adam's mouth when the taping's over. "You lied," Adam tells him, one hand between Kris' shoulder blades steering him out the door to where their van is waiting. They stop in front of the side door, Adam turning to face him with a bright expression. "You've seen it!"
He isn't sure what reaction he was expecting from Adam, but amusement was certainly not it -- and yet Adam really does look like he finds it all hilarious, rocking back on his heels and clasping his hands in front of him with enough enthusiasm that it almost counts as clapping.
Kris sputters uncomfortably, searching for words. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic his family says they can spot a mile off. "Yeah, I mean...it's kinda hard not to, man." He looks up with what he hopes is amusement, playing off a joke. "It's kind of exploded."
"Sweetie, they all say that." Adam giggles at his own joke and Kris feels himself flush; he laughs, but he can tell it sounds uncomfortable, because Adam apologies immediately and reaches out to squeeze his arm. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be making jokes about it. Do you want to talk about it?"
Kris blinks at him. "You wanna talk about your sex tape with me?"
"I just thought maybe if you wanted to." Adam shrugs. His mouth twists in a little curved line and Kris finds himself wondering what the smile would feel like against his thumbs. It makes Kris feel guilty, because it's an unfair thought: Adam's been amazing this entire time, almost too eager to make sure Kris is completely okay. Comfortable, Kris figures, ever since the Rolling Stone interview, and given how honest Adam's always been, Kris hates when all he says is, "S'just weird to see somebody ya' know going at it like that." It feels hard in his mouth and he knows it's the wrong thing to say: the words like that fall heavy between them and Kris immediately wants to take them back.
The corners of Adam's mouth turn down, a little, just for a second. "Wouldn't it be?"
Kris wants to say, No, because he knows what Adam is thinking and that's not it at all. He doesn't say anything though, just shrugs and reaches out to pat Adam's shoulder before he climbs into the waiting van.
It's got individual seats, no benches to clamber close on. Kris tells himself he's relieved when Adam sits in the row behind him, anyway.
*
It's not Kris' best show.
It's not bad, per se -- because it's hard to completely fail when you're performing glorified karaoke -- but Kris feels like all his energy's been sapped, wonders briefly, absurdly, if it's because of Adam. Like all of Kris' luck and talent are just sapped off of the crazy energy Adam radiates, like theatrical osmosis. Tonight Adam gives him a wide berth, touching him with diplomatic precision, like Adam's physical presence is something he has to cordon off, like if he got too close he might have something to apologize for. It would be enough to make Kris angry but for the fact that Adam's off his game too, and when he comes off the stage stiff and quiet from Bowie Kris starts rethinking his opinions on parasitic karma.
When Kris checks his phone, there's a message from Katy on it. Always is, of course: once he reassured her that yeah, he actually does leave his phone back-stage when he's singing, she started calling every night about the time he was on, Just for good luck, her recorded voice cheers. The message is usually his favorite part of the night, but it just makes something in his stomach drop, now, even as he leaves his own message in response, murmuring, "You're totally asleep but I love you anyway," into the voicemail in not much more than a whisper, like anything louder would somehow wake her up. It's a lonely delayed kind of call-and-response; when he shuts down his phone it's with a hollow, heavy feeling, like all the miles between here and a year ago have taken up residence inside of his ribcage.
And now I've gotta go have Adam keep not talkin', Kris thinks, and then takes it back in his head. More distance, and it bothers him even more than the missed phone calls. He shrugs it off, though; Adam's just closer, his absence more obvious.
Kris looks down at his silent phone. Please, God, let Adam still be awake.
To be fair, it's barely midnight when Kris hits the pass code, but he still murmurs, Thank you, silently, when he finds Adam awake: in the lounge, no less, curled up on the couch reading "The Bloody Chamber." He brings a hand up in greeting but doesn't move otherwise; Kris kicks the couch, demanding attention.
"Hey, can I try that again?"
Adam glances up. "Hmm?"
"What I said yesterday." Kris sits down on the couch tentatively, like he thinks Adam is going to tell him to go away. Not likely, Kris figures, but he'd be within his rights to do so. "I didn't mean that, about the tape being weird."
"Oh, that." Adam waves his hand dismissively. "You worry too much."
Jeez. "Are you gonna let me talk or not?"
"Alright, alright." Adam sets his book on his knees, still open. "Dish." It's not exactly full attention, but Kris takes it anyway.
"It wasn't weird because it was you and a guy. It was just..." Kris stares at his hands. "Look, you've been really honest with me, so don't laugh, okay?" 'Holy crap, say it,' he thinks. "I liked it." Wow. Kris takes a deep breath. "That was really weird to say," he adds, huffing.
"You 'liked' it." Now Adam's book is on the floor, and he's staring at Kris like he's a butterfly under glass. "As in, 'Oh hey, I like hot dogs!'?"
"Wow, I hope not."
Adam's eyes narrow. "So... ohhhh. Oh, I see." Now Adam's smile is back, genuine and without the hurt Kris remembers from the van. It almost makes it worth it, how humiliating this is. "You kinda thought it was hot, liked it."
Kris scrubs his face; Adam tilts his head.
"There's nothing to be embarrassed about. It was meant to get you off."
Kris' head snaps up. "Huh?"
"Well not you specifically. But you don't make porn just to look at, and oh, it's porn." Adam's smile is sharp and wicked, and Kris' face must register his surprise. "Oh, don't tell me you're surprised."
"You lied?"
"I didn't lie. But I can't tell Barbara Walters everything. It's family hour, Kris."
"Oh." Kris swallows. He finds, suddenly, he can't look at Adam directly -- his eyes are dark and Kris keeps noticing things, like the way his eyeliner is smudged and how long his eyelashes are. He glances down, focusing on Adam's neck. It's not really an improvement, Kris decides almost immediately. Adam swallows and Kris thinks about the stupid video again, about the line of his throat and the way he'd leaned into it.
Kris doesn't make a conscious decision to lean in, himself; he's only really aware he's doing it when he feels Adam's breathing, sharp and surprised against his lips.
Adam pulls back before Kris has time to do more than glance the corner of his mouth, clumsy. "What are you doing," murmurs Adam, close enough to Kris' skin that Kris shudders. His voice is affectionate and soft and Kris feels suddenly, sharply stupid.
"I-I'm sorry," Kris stutters out, hand flapping uselessly in explanation. "I don't know, I wasn't thinking, I just, I meant--"
He has just enough time to register Adam rolling his eyes, a muttered at least do it right, would you and then his head is being tilted back by firm fingers, and Adam's mouth is back on his.
It's weird, Kris thinks, how different it is. Not that he questioned that the mechanics were different -- but kissing Adam is different than with any girl Kris has known. Not pushy, maybe assertive, and Kris finds himself falling into it, letting himself be led. When Adam's tongue traces the seam of Kris' mouth it opens willingly, curiously. Adam deepens the kiss and Kris sighs with something like surprise, at the feel or maybe just how much he likes this: Adam's big hand on his jaw, the warm feeling of his knees barely touching Kris' thighs. Kris finds himself moving, trying to get closer; he gets up on his knees until he's straddling Adam's thighs, and Adam groans and bites at Kris' lip.
"Oh, fuck," mutters Adam, and Kris wraps his fingers in Adam's hair, pulling him in again.
Adam leans backward, one of his legs going up to rub hard against Kris' crotch, and Kris gasps and rocks into it like a stupid horny teenager. Adam laughs and murmurs something that sounds like baby and Kris thinks oh and breaks the kiss, tilting his head back and letting Adam lick his jawline. It's such a bad idea, but it sure as heck doesn't keep it from feeling good: Adam is biting a line along his neck and Kris is grinding against him frantically, reminding himself of make-out sessions that never went anywhere and truth or dare games in middle school, back when somebody's friend's dad's warm pack of Bud Lite was reason enough for a field party. Of course, kissing a girl for the first time and kissing Adam right now are worlds apart, in every sense, and when Adam licks into his mouth Kris actually moans. It's mildly embarrassing, and Kris mumbles, "Screw you, it's not like I'm gettin' practice," when Adam chuckles. The chuckle drags out into a gasp when Kris' knee brushes against Adam's own hard-on, and Kris moves in for another kiss, shivers. Trails his hand down Adam's chest slowly and tries not to worry that he doesn't know what he's doing.
Adam covers Kris' hand with his own, stopping it without pulling it away.
"This isn't a good idea." Which is true, and Kris nods slowly, keeping his face pressed into Adam's neck. "It'd be cheating," Adam continues, and Kris squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Hearing it out loud makes it worse, and Kris thinks, 'I don't want to mess up with Katy,' because it's also true, and if he holds onto it hard enough, it might... fix it. Somehow.
He pulls away from Adam and runs a hand through his hair. Nervous habit; he's probably got a tic in his jaw, too.
"I'm sorry," says Adam, so sincerely it kind of makes Kris want to shake him. "You should probably..." Adam gestures, and Kris looks down at his jeans. Right. Crap. He feels himself go red, enough blood having apparently made its way back up north to demonstrate exactly how embarrassed he is. Adam's hand comes up to cover his own mouth, probably hiding a smile. Kris shifts uncomfortably, sliding back off of Adam's lap and onto the cushions.
"I feel like a teenager, jeez."
Adam shakes his head, swinging his legs so he's sitting forward on the couch, and Kris can't help but notice the careful way it puts more distance between them. Can't decide if he's relieved or hurt, and his own arms come up to wrap around himself.
"I'm gonna go to bed," says Adam, softly. "You can shower, I don't mind. I... we can talk about it, if you want--"
Kris shakes his head. God, no. "I think sleep, yeah." He pushes himself up off the sofa, wincing at the way his dick presses against his zipper. "G'night," he mumbles, pushing himself past the curtain separating the lounge from the bunks. He's still hard, so turned on it actually hurts, and screw dorm life, or guilt or whatever: he's barely rolled into his own bed before he's fumbling at his pants, gets them down just low enough to wrap his palm around his dick. A few awkward tugs and he's coming, hot and sticky over his fingers and the mattress, and jeez, he can smell it in the air, sex and the shame that doesn't even have the decency to grant him an afterglow.
Kris has never been one for repression, but he still feels a sharp tug of shock when he rolls onto his back, semen cooling on his thighs and stomach and ceiling too-low and foreign above him. 'I have a thing for Adam,' he thinks into the darkness, blinking at how stupidly obvious it seems. 'What if it's more than that?'
Kris rolls out of his bunk late the next morning, bleary-eyed and foggy, and momentarily has no idea where he is. The mattress feels foreign, the low ceiling and thick curtain claustrophobic and weird. It's a good minute and a half before the night before clicks back into place. "Oh... gah." There are a few moments in his life where Kris wishes he were more comfortable swearing; this is definitely one of those moments.
Adam, for his part, is not in the bus anymore. They're parked, Kris is guessing at the venue, and he figures Adam's probably in sound-check, working on his solo stuff or his song with Allison. It's not really abnormal to wake up and find Adam gone -- it's just the fact he didn't leave a note, or draw something dirty on the bathroom mirror, and the more Kris thinks about just how he and Adam treat each other, the more he realizes this has probably been out of hand for a little longer than he thinks.
Kris scrubs at his face, putting his toothbrush back in the mirrored cabinet. 'I'm glad he's not here right now,' he thinks, resolutely, staring at his reflection for signs that he's lying.
Kris whistles, impressed. "Wow, man, obvious." It's said to no one, and no one responds. Kris sighs and goes to find his pants.
Rehearsals are a sleep-walk. He's only here because today of all days, he's scheduled with Adam: they're trading out Kris' Keith Urban cover for a duet on "Walk this Way," and Kris would be excited as heck if he wasn't scared to face Adam on a stage. It's nervousness that has him sitting here now, fumbling his way through Matchbox Twenty and rearranging "No Boundaries" another three times. At this point he thinks he's going to just show up and perform it salsa one day, hope maybe the shock alone will make the song less terrible. He's ready to do that now, except he realizes halfway through the last chorus that he's being watched. Somewhere during his warm-up, Adam's come out onto the edge of the stage, where he's currently sitting -- on one of the amp cases, long legs knocking in rhythm against the side and bopping his head along like he's enjoying himself.
Warmth slides up Kris' spine, and he ducks his head, concentrating on the way his fingers move as he finishes the song.
"You're great," says Adam, quietly, when the song is over. "I mean, you've always been good, but you're just amazing now. I could watch you forever."
"Thanks. Um." Kris ducks his head, pulling his guitar-strap off so he can put it back in its case. "Were you there the whole time?"
Adam shrugs. "Heard you singing. Came over to make big heart eyes." The joke's no different than it usually is, but Adam says it carefully, and Kris knows it's a test. This is up to Kris: he can ignore it, he can brush it off. Or he can... push Adam away, he supposes. It surprises even him, how violently the thought makes his stomach clench. His hand comes out before he has the time to think about it, squeezes Adam's forearm tight enough that it has to hurt.
"Yeah right, you just came to hear how completely awkward I'm gonna sound singin' Aerosmith with you."
Adam laughs, sounding surprised. "You aren't giving yourself enough credit, Allen. I know you can rock it." He bites his lip, staring for a second before asking, "We can do this still, can't we?"
Adam looks so wide-eyed about it that Kris can't help but think he means more than the song -- but it's the song he asked about, and it's all the same answer besides.
"Of course, yeah," says Kris with a smile he hopes is reassuring. 'I know you're just tryin' to get your big solo moment. Not gonna work, you're stuck with me." It doesn't ease the tension in Adam's shoulders, though.
"I just worried..." Adam shakes his head, blowing out a puff of air in annoyance. "I'm gonna say it. Is this going to be weird?"
Kris swallows. Oh. "I hope not. We're adults. I mean, we don't always get--" Kris is not going to say what we want, here. "Stuff happens, you keep going."
Adam rocks back on his heels. "Okay." And then again, "Okay," like it's the end of a conversation. "You will. We will. And this tour is going to be so fierce."
That makes Kris laugh, a gunshot-sound of surprise because, "Wow. That's pretty bad."
"Oh, yeah." Adam chuckles. "I'm going all-out tonight. I bought snakeskin pants, you have no idea." Adam shimmies his hips, and it's almost a relief to not have to hide it when his gaze drops, just for a second before he's looking back up.
"You've got a whole slew of twelve year old girls you're gonna give unrealistic expectations."
"In men, or in clothes?" Adam spins again, just for good measure. "I was thinking I'd put on a show. And hey, my boy Sarvey could use some dreams he'll repress in the morning." And just like that he's Adam, the eye at the center of this last year's hurricane and Kris' roommate and something like a best friend. It's strange, Kris thinks, how easy it is to slip into that; there's still that slow burn in the back of his head, occasionally, a reminder that that's what lust for another guy feels like, but it's honest, and they both know it, and Adam's right: they'll be okay.
The show goes off without a hitch -- Adam's pants are skin-tight and he's managed to dig up a shimmering shirt Kris is pretty certain is not FOX network-friendly, and out on stage performing Bowie no one could say Adam doesn't look every bit a rock star. Even Gokey's whistling when Adam comes off the stage, clapping his back and saying something about 'girl clothes' that makes Adam scowl, briefly. This close, Kris can see where Adam's painted glitter around his eyelids, dusted his chest with something like Katy's fourteen year old cousin would buy at Claire's in the mall.
"You look awesome," mutters Kris on the way back to the green room, rubbing a towel over his sweat-damp hair because it keeps him from having to look at Adam.
"Thank you," says Adam, and then, "look but don't touch, right?" more ruefully.
"Pretty much." Kris shrugs, tossing the towel at Adam. "No use lyin' though."
"Mmm." Adam doesn't say anything else. When they pile into the buses, one hour and a cold (for Kris) shower later, Adam grabs his blanket and a pen and paper pad and settles himself on the lounge couch. "Just working out some ideas," he says with a smile, making a dismissive motion with his hand. "You're up past your bed-time. Shoo."
"You sure--"
"Shoo."
Kris admits, there's a part of him that doesn't want to, like a kid getting sent to bed. But he's not a kid, and he's pretty sure hanging around like this when they're both revved up from the show and worn and tired around the edges is just asking for problems. Just setting boundaries doesn't make them stone -- heck, Kris is fairly certain Adam's boundaries are set in velour at best. He shrugs and rocks on the balls of his feet, wishing Adam a hurried g'night before he slides back behind the curtain into the sectioned off bunk portion of the bus.
Generally, Kris doesn't have much trouble with sleep; God knows Adam's harassed him about it enough. Tonight, though, Kris finds himself wired, listening to the soft noises of Adam turning and shifting on the pleather lounge sofa, to the way the wheels grind and buzz as they pass over old-paved highway. He drags out his beat-up Zune, texts Katy for a while, until she finally stops responding -- asleep, most likely, it's so much later in Arkansas. It occurs to Kris, idly, that he doesn't know where he is.
The thought bothers him a little, makes him feel off-balance and decentered. He makes a mental note to ask Adam for their itinerary, tomorrow.
He stares at the black-out curtains until he finally falls asleep.
continued in part two
/o\ Thanks,
tasyfa, for assauging my worry that I'd just be transposing Pete into Adam's skin. And revid, I am going to hold off on harassing you to beta until I get the Kradam House Lights written (this is not what it will actually be). I'll post this to communities tomorrow (where does one post these things?) but for now...done.And now I have to pack so I can go to Disneyland for my birthday this weekend! :)
Title: like gasoline
Author: Linzee (
linzeestyle)Pairing: Kris Allen/Adam Lambert
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: ~14,000
Disclaimer: This story lies.
Warnings: Infidelity, mentions of drug use. If you googled yourself, your siblings, your spouses or your friends to get here, you know where the back button is.
*
Guess you've got it all worked out so far;
you adjust your reason until you see the light from where you are.
(Rob Thomas, "Gasoline")
*
They're five days away from the first date of the tour when "It" leaks.
Literally. That's the name of the video.
"It"'s not a sex tape. Or at least, that's the by-line, what Idol's press statement says. It's an experimental performance, or something or other. "It's kind of a gay 'Brown Bunny,'" says Adam brightly to Seacrest when he's interviewed, as unruffled as anyone has ever sounded whom the entire internet has now seen give head. "Andy Warhol did it, and I was going through this psychedelic kind of phase."
"So it's staged," asks Ryan, and even Kris, sitting in his apartment kitchen and pushing his spoon at soggy cereal he's no longer in the mood to eat, can hear the lead in his voice.
"Jeez, say yes," says Kris to no one. Katy's already at work. It's him and the radio, just like old times.
"I guess you could say that," Adam tells Ryan, and Kris swears he can hear the relief over the airwaves. "It made me feel like I was Chloe Sevigny."
Kris exhales, running his hands through his hair and staring down at his cereal.
It's amazing, wonderful, horrible timing. If Kris was on the outside he'd call 'staged,' or 'planted' -- they have bus call in less than forty-eight hours. Their first show is at the Rose Garden and Adam's face is inescapable. But Kris isn't on the outside, and he remembers when the pictures leaked: remembers the charge in the house, the way management laid down all kinds of 'suggestions' for what Adam could and couldn't say. Remembers coming in to their room and finding Adam watching Bill O'Riley one evening, his own personal photos held up and censored and Adam's expression amused, but bruised a little, too. It stays with him when Katy drives him to the airport, when she kisses him and hugs him and gives him another one "for Adam," because the girls at her work have been talking about it and she worries "even big kids get their feelings hurt."
They have hotels, for two days in Los Angeles. Hotels and a curfew and room arrangements like the mansion. Adam's already there when Kris swipes the key card, feeling five minutes or a thousand years away from Conway and before. 'All the same but the door man,' Kris thinks with a half-smile; he wouldn't let the door hop take his bags up for him.
Adam, when he sees him in person for the first time in three weeks, is stretched sideways across the bed farthest from the door, feet and head dangling off either end. He shoots up so fast it makes even Kris dizzy. "Kris!!" The 'come here' is implicit, and Kris sets down his guitar case and leaves his bag cart in the doorway long enough to slide past the first bed and let Adam drag him down onto the second. His face ends up mashed into Adam's v-neck and he's breathing in nothing but cologne and detergent and concealer.
"Oof." It comes out mumbled and mashed against Adam's shirt. "Hey, man. How's Hollywood?"
Adam laughs. "I live here! I should be asking you that question."
"Well, given that I've been here for like, two hours..." Kris doesn't worry too much about pulling away from Adam, just readjusts himself so his cheek is pressed into his chest rather than his face. He can't hide his smile when he says, "pretty awesome."
"I saw you in People! Was that amazing?" Adam pulls away enough to shake Kris' shoulders, excited like this is all still shiny-new and thrilling. Not that it isn't, of course -- but Adam's the one that's been in the maelstrom, not Kris, who's had time to start doing phone-calls with co-writers, think about sound and market and take walks in a town where people still know him as 'the Allens' older boy.'
Still, Kris laughs. "It was... pretty weird." He remembers being at a coffee shop at home when his cover came out, seeing a woman in one of the booths across the way reading an article with his face on the other side. "Hey, Rolling Stone though!" And Us!, and Enquirer, but those things were out of Adam's control. At some point he wants to talk about that, but he doesn't want to start, knows everyone else will focus on it alone.
"Oh, yeah, that. How silly was that, really?" Adam lets him go, flopping down on the bed and tugging so Kris lays down too. They're on their backs now, shoulders almost touching, both staring at the ceiling like kids at a sleep over. "I really wanted the cover to just say, 'duh!' but that's not very rock and roll. Everybody around here thought it was so funny. 'Oh my God, you came out, all these years we thought you were completely heterosexual!'" Adam's voice lapses into a high breathy and improbable parody and Kris snickers, glancing over to watch the expressions that accompany it. "But my mom got to see me on the cover of Rolling Stone. That was really great."
It's a little silly. To anyone who was eavesdropping right now, they'd sound like they hadn't talked to each other since the press crush in May. It's untrue, of course. Adam loves the phone. Kris finds his phone buzzing at five AM because Adam forgets about time zones or 'decent' hours for 'normal' people, or in the middle of the afternoon, because by the time Adam's finally woken back up in San Diego it's close to supper, in Arkansas. During rehearsals they'd go days not seeing each other but for sidelong glances across a stage, but Kris started eating dinner with his cell phone on the counter, texting Adam one-handed and laughing at his own typos. But the thing is, for some reason, they haven't talked about this: Adam tells him about his favorite clubs, or soundtracks he's in love with, or the burlesque show he wants to stage or about meeting Gerard Way. And Kris, in turn, teaches Adam what life on the other side is like, tries explaining why nothing at Burger King is barbecue and the idea of a "crick" because they don't have those in California. There's a whole wide chasm of things they don't know about each other; each conversation is throwing a rock into the middle, building up a pile until Kris starts to see the bottom.
They don't talk about Idol, because it's what they have in common. But Adam's version of fame is a different fractal than Kris', and he's curious, sharply so.
"You gotta be so tired and we haven't even gotten on the bus yet," teases Kris, and Adam groans and flops sideways on the huge hotel bed, staring up at Kris through his (blue, now) bangs. It looks like he's taken a shower recently -- with the product gone his hair drapes strangely, enough of a mohawk style now that it doesn't make much sense unstyled. Kris reaches out and ruffles it, rubbing his fingers over the short part and remembering all the time he spent in high school and college with that really unflattering crew cut, largely because he never had to give it more attention than a bar of soap over it in the mornings.
Underneath his fingers, Adam practically purrs. "I'm going to have to keep you if you do that much more." Kris chuckles and keeps up the motion, running his hand gently across the side of Adam's skull the way his mom used to, when Kris was a kid. "Don't think I won't -- I'm pretty sure I can smuggle you out in my jacket, Pocket Idol."
"Yeah, you really shouldn't google yourself."
"I just google you, sweetie," Adam simpers, batting his eyelashes. Kris swats his head.
*
Danny's assigned to the bus that Kris and Adam share, but within two days you wouldn't know it. Kris asks Danny about it when he comes in for his shampoo, on a stop on the way to Vancouver.
"I'm just playing it by ear, you know." It's said with the same innocuous earnestness that always unnerves Kris, with Danny, and he's starting to wonder if Danny even realizes why he's avoiding their bus.
"Because of Adam?" Kris feels shocked at himself as soon as he says it -- shocked and proud, maybe, because Kris has never been the kind of guy to rock the boat. Danny puts his hands out to his sides in surprise.
"No! No--hey, I know we all stick to the rules here." He grabs up a couple of T-shirts, too. "Come on. Adam's, you know. I like the guy a lot, he really brings something to the show. But you know I don't make the rules." Danny points to the ceiling with a half-smile and helpless shrug. It turns into a wave, and then a, "See you at sound-check!" and Kris is left clenching one of his fists against his jeans and hating in a way his parents would have never taught him to do.
It's okay though, it's alright. When Adam comes back before the buses start again it's with Allison, and one of Allison's suitcases, in tow. "We'll be the cool bus tonight," says Allison before she launches herself at Kris in a hug that's all teenage-girl enthusiasm. Kris buries his face in her hair and grins because somehow he'd forgotten how much he missed her, until now. They make popcorn and dye the front sweep of Adam's hair the same red as Allison's.
"Have you seen it?" Allison crawls into Kris' bunk the next morning, too early for Adam to be awake.
"It?" Kris is confused until he remembers, "oh, 'It.'"
Allison nods, eyes wide. "I shouldn't have watched it and I did but don't tell Adam."
"I haven't seen it," says Kris, because it's true.
(They'd come off the stage in Sacramento last night to awkward laughs and shuffled feet because Adam had used Kris like a human stripper poll during "Smooth," and Kris had slid up next to Adam on the way back and said, I hope they don't make us make 'From Adam to Kris' now.
"Oh, honey, I hope they do," Adam had whispered, leering, and Kris had laughed and knocked against him and said, I know what kind of movies youmake.)
"Do you think it's real?" Allison is wide-eyed and Kris thinks, 'Oh my God you're so young.' Her expression says it doesn't matter except where she's curious, except where she's maybe got a crush on Adam or is maybe just at that age where talking about sex is still taboo and thrilling and new.
"I think you should ask Adam. And I think you're way too young to think about it."
"I'm seventeen," she says, and Kris thinks, 'Oh my God,' again and laughs.
"And you're too young to be in my bunk." Kris pushes at her shoulders playfully, and Allison giggles and falls backwards, rocking on her heels at the foot of the narrow cot. They're both awake now, though, and when she tumbles back out into the walkway Kris follows her, too-long pajama bottoms scuffing on the gripped rubber floor as he shows her where Adam keeps his stash of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
"You should watch it," Allison says, conversationally, over big cooking bowls the size of their heads while they flip through Direct TV channels neither of them has even seen before.
Kris chokes on his cereal. "That's not really my thing. And it shouldn't be yours, Alli, what."
Allison laughs. "No, really! It's very Adam. I don't think he'd be embarrassed."
"You want me to tell him you watched it?" Kris gestures with his thumbs back to the sleeping area. "Because I can totally--"
Allison tackles him, clapping her hand over his mouth. "Oh God, don't you dare." Kris laughs, muffled behind her palm. "Seriously. I will kill you."
"You're not really all that scary, baby girl," says Kris, when released, adopting Adam's pet name without thinking. Allison chuckles and tosses a piece of cereal at him, and when he looks over at her, all wide-eyed 'what?!' she rolls her eyes.
"You're like, little Adam." Grins. "Really little."
"Aw, can it." He reaches over and swats at the back of her head. "Now shh, you're missin' all the good TV." It's morning-shows, mainly, but none Kris gets on his dinky television at home, and none of them are guest-starring on anything, so it's the best entertainment he's had all week.
Allison stays with them through Vancouver, until a handler comes and shoos her back to the girls' bus. They didn't want us trafficking in children, quips Adam when Allison packs up her stuff; Kris gets it, but it's still sort of funny to think about. "We sure as heck aren't a threat to anybody's virtue," he tells Adam, flopping down into his bunk.
"Speak for yourself. I have compromised plenty of virtue." In his own bunk across the narrow hall, Adam rolls sideways, looking over at Kris lazily. With his head propped on his arm and his lids heavy and weighted he definitely looks the part, and Kris finds himself ducking his head, chuckling nervously as he feels himself color.
He blames this, maybe, for his decision to watch the tape.
It seems rude, inexcusably, at first: Adam's his friend, not a spectacle. But everyone's talking about it. In Washington Adam gets cat-calls and actual protests outside the Dome -- it's ten people, maybe, but it still shows up on Yahoo's front page. FOX news and E! are both talking about it constantly, and none of the other contestants seem to share Kris' issues, because Lil and Megan appear to have watched it play-by-play, and even Michael's discomfort and the way he won't touch Adam are, Kris is guessing, not the result of just having heard stories.
He breaks down in Sacramento. It's their first day off between tour dates; Adam's out shopping with Megan and Matt when Kris pulls up his laptop and googles until he finds it. It doesn't take long. It really is everywhere.
To be perfectly honest, Kris isn't sure what he was expecting: he's seen porn, and Adam's pictures, and he kind of expected this to just split the difference between the two. Low-light footage of leather straps and glitter, maybe. There's plenty of glitter, but it's also fairly college-artsy: the footage is shot in high-contrast, over-exposure lending a strange, slow, drug-like quality to the images. On the tiny laptop screen, it's hard to see details, but though the other man isn't familiar, he recognizes Adam immediately. Slicked black hair and dark lines around his eyes and along his mouth like burlesque makeup -- the costuming is intricate, even skewed by the grainy style. As he watches Adam suck a line down the other man's neck he thinks, inanely, what a waste of work it is: there's probably so much color in their clothing, and it's all lost to the black and white.
And then Adam hits his knees, and suddenly Kris isn't thinking about the work involved. The camera pans in close as Adam pulls out the other man's already-hard dick: it's obviously not "staged" -- Kris is pretty sure you can't stage what Adam is doing, the way his makeup-dark lips close around the head, the way his cheeks hollow with effort when he applies pressure with his mouth. Watching without sound, there's something surreal about it, liquid-smooth and timed, like a dance. It's even more pronounced when the on-screen Adam goes down all the way, fluid movement as his throat works, sucking cock like it's theater. When he comes back up, it's with black-polished fingers wrapped firmly around the shaft, and the camera pulls out enough to show Adam's other hand, sliding into the tight lamé pants of the other man, down and around and -- oh, jeez. Kris' heart jumps at the same time Adam's on-screen partner jerks, the moment Kris realizes oh, he's doing--
Kris shuts the laptop with more force than necessary, taking huge gulps of air and staring at the wall of his bunk. There's blood pounding in his ears and he knows his face is probably flaming red; he's hard in his jeans and he feels vaguely ashamed, nervous like he's gotten caught doing something wrong. Porn, he thinks dumbly, trying to reign in his breathing. It's porn. It's totally normal to get turned on by it. You're lonely and this is stupid.
It doesn't make his dick softer, though, and it sure as heck doesn't wipe the image of Adam from his mind, lips wrapped around another man's cock. Kris shoves the laptop away and balls his hands at his sides; he is not going to jerk off to Adam's not-sex tape. He already feels guilty for having watched it at all.
"I've been on this bus too long," Kris says, out loud, to the emptiness of the cabin -- even though it's stupid, really, and he knows he's only been on it a week. Small spaces, though, and the whole cabin smells like Adam: like all of the product and goop Adam's got lying around, the same chemical-and-perfume smells Kris remembers from the mansion, from performing, from the sweat of the lights every night this week. It's familiar, most of the time, a kind of strange homey comfort coming from sterile venue showers and carefully-kept green rooms; visceral familiarity, the sense that they're still both in this together.
Usually, anyway.
Kris spends the rest of the day keyed-up, wired, jittery like he needs to get off and irritated because he can't. It makes him snappish and terse during rehearsals, snarking at Matt when he screws up on "Smooth" and stiffening when Adam brushes his shoulder on his way up to the stage to practice "Slow Ride" with Allison. It's like he can feel Adam's skin through his shirt, and it just makes him feel guilty, even as he remembers what Adam looks like without it.
"I really don't think I've ever seen you like this," says Adam with concern. "Are you feeling okay?"
"What? I'm fine!" It comes out with no conviction at all.
"Stress is a killer," offers Anoop. "So is homicide, if you keep going off at everybody."
"Babe's just not used to being alone for this long." Lil looks at him appraisingly, and Kris is ready to go yes, that's it! before she continues, breezily, "You know, just 'cause your wife isn't here doesn't mean you can't wine and dine," waggling her fingers at him. Kris feels himself turn red and Megan tsks in agreement.
"Your bus is practically empty anyway." She says it with no small amount of envy, and Lil mutters something about settings and fucking loud that has Danny reaching over to try to cover Allison's ears.
"I'm pretty sure I can handle myself," says Kris, and then flushes all over again when he realizes what he's said. Slouching against the door frame, Adam is bent double with laughter. It's embarrassing as hell, but even worse when Adam waves him over on the bus later on, Kris coming back from brushing his teeth and Adam curled up in his bunk with the curtain open, watching what looks like Labyrinth on his tiny iPod Touch.
"I'm sorry for ragging on you before," Adam says, too earnest for the hour and how jittery Kris still is. "It's okay though, you know? I don't mind."
There's a glorious, blissful second where Kris doesn't know what Adam's talking about -- and then he does, and he covers his face with his hands, muttering oh man because really. The entire tour knows he's horny and he's going to throw himself under the bus before they get to... wherever city it is they're going right now.
Kris peeks out from between his fingers; Adam is still looking at him expectantly. Like he honestly expects Kris to go, 'Oh, okay!' and jump into his bunk to... whatever.
"I can't... we're never, I mean, there's no--" He moves a hand away from his face to wave it between them helplessly. "With someone else here, y'know?"
"No, I don't." Adam blinks at him, smiling in that way that says 'you're kind of a dumbass.' It's affectionate though -- it always is, and right now that's more of a problem than a comfort. "Really, don't let me stop you," Adam says with a sleepy half-smile, waving an earbud in Kris' direction. "I know I won't."
"You don't--I mean..."
"Oh, I can be quiet." And Kris knows he looks mortified, because Adam's hand comes out to tap his cheek. "Don't look at me like that. Think about it like dorm life. I'm going to sleep, Skip. Goodnight."
Adam rolls over, and Kris can hear the tinny sounds of some band he doesn't recognize when Adam turns his iPod on. It's his cue to leave, and he shuts the curtain behind him, sliding across the small aisle and into his own bunk still completely, absolutely mortified. He doesn't think he could get less turned-on if he tried, and he curls up on his side facing the wall away from Adam.
He falls asleep trying very, very hard not to think about Adam being "quiet."
*
The day of the actual Sacramento concert, Adam and Kris have a satellite appearance to tape for The View. Or rather, Adam has a satellite appearance to tape for The View; Kris is along for the ride, he suspects, and given that no one will be performing he's content to ride shotgun. They're put in a sound-stage with a big screen and some cameras and Kris fidgets with his wedding ring, watches Adam examine the lighting.
"You ready for this?"
"Bring it."
It isn't the most awkward interview Kris has experienced. That still belongs to the press junket after, the immediate shock and the questions that started with, "Why do you think you won over Adam," like all of Kris' work would only ever add up to one fluke that put him over the top of the one who should have been there. He's asked about his wife and his religion and his church; he gives some answer about singing gospel that makes Adam glance over, a weighted look like there's something in him Adam still can't figure out. It makes no sense, Kris thinks: he's so very transparent.
"I can never imagine you being that theatrical," Adam says admiringly when Kris stares back at him, expectant.
"It's really not."
"But it is -- I went with Br-with a friend, in Texas once, and it's very..." Adam waves his hands, executes a strange motion that manages to be both flippant and a little graceful. Their long-distance hosts laugh, and Kris feels his mouth turn upwards. "And I didn't burst into flames when I walked in the door!"
Kris coughs to hide his laugh; Adam knocks their shoulders together. "Sorry, oh, sorry." He turns back towards the camera.
"Speaking of performance, Adam," and Kris' eyes go wide because he realizes, a second before it happens, that oh my gosh Barbara Walters is going to ask Adam about his sex tape. Followed immediately by does that mean Barbara Walters has seen Adam's sex tape? Adam's got to be thinking the same thing, but all he says is hmm when the question continues, "You've made quite a splash on the internet recently."
"It's very big," explains Adam, helpfully. Kris chokes a little.
It doesn't go unnoticed, and someone asks, "So have your tour mates... have they seen it? Have you gotten critical reviews?"
Adam shrugs, smiling. "Well they ain't sharing. You'd have to ask them, I think."
"Well what about you, Kris? What did you think?"
Kris freezes for a beat too long, feeling himself color. "Uhh." Laughs, awkwardly, because holy crap. Doesn't look at Adam at all when he says, "I haven't watched it, so I probably can't comment." He can feel Adam's eyes on him though. 'He knows that's not true,' Kris thinks, idly.
It's the first thing out of Adam's mouth when the taping's over. "You lied," Adam tells him, one hand between Kris' shoulder blades steering him out the door to where their van is waiting. They stop in front of the side door, Adam turning to face him with a bright expression. "You've seen it!"
He isn't sure what reaction he was expecting from Adam, but amusement was certainly not it -- and yet Adam really does look like he finds it all hilarious, rocking back on his heels and clasping his hands in front of him with enough enthusiasm that it almost counts as clapping.
Kris sputters uncomfortably, searching for words. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic his family says they can spot a mile off. "Yeah, I mean...it's kinda hard not to, man." He looks up with what he hopes is amusement, playing off a joke. "It's kind of exploded."
"Sweetie, they all say that." Adam giggles at his own joke and Kris feels himself flush; he laughs, but he can tell it sounds uncomfortable, because Adam apologies immediately and reaches out to squeeze his arm. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be making jokes about it. Do you want to talk about it?"
Kris blinks at him. "You wanna talk about your sex tape with me?"
"I just thought maybe if you wanted to." Adam shrugs. His mouth twists in a little curved line and Kris finds himself wondering what the smile would feel like against his thumbs. It makes Kris feel guilty, because it's an unfair thought: Adam's been amazing this entire time, almost too eager to make sure Kris is completely okay. Comfortable, Kris figures, ever since the Rolling Stone interview, and given how honest Adam's always been, Kris hates when all he says is, "S'just weird to see somebody ya' know going at it like that." It feels hard in his mouth and he knows it's the wrong thing to say: the words like that fall heavy between them and Kris immediately wants to take them back.
The corners of Adam's mouth turn down, a little, just for a second. "Wouldn't it be?"
Kris wants to say, No, because he knows what Adam is thinking and that's not it at all. He doesn't say anything though, just shrugs and reaches out to pat Adam's shoulder before he climbs into the waiting van.
It's got individual seats, no benches to clamber close on. Kris tells himself he's relieved when Adam sits in the row behind him, anyway.
*
It's not Kris' best show.
It's not bad, per se -- because it's hard to completely fail when you're performing glorified karaoke -- but Kris feels like all his energy's been sapped, wonders briefly, absurdly, if it's because of Adam. Like all of Kris' luck and talent are just sapped off of the crazy energy Adam radiates, like theatrical osmosis. Tonight Adam gives him a wide berth, touching him with diplomatic precision, like Adam's physical presence is something he has to cordon off, like if he got too close he might have something to apologize for. It would be enough to make Kris angry but for the fact that Adam's off his game too, and when he comes off the stage stiff and quiet from Bowie Kris starts rethinking his opinions on parasitic karma.
When Kris checks his phone, there's a message from Katy on it. Always is, of course: once he reassured her that yeah, he actually does leave his phone back-stage when he's singing, she started calling every night about the time he was on, Just for good luck, her recorded voice cheers. The message is usually his favorite part of the night, but it just makes something in his stomach drop, now, even as he leaves his own message in response, murmuring, "You're totally asleep but I love you anyway," into the voicemail in not much more than a whisper, like anything louder would somehow wake her up. It's a lonely delayed kind of call-and-response; when he shuts down his phone it's with a hollow, heavy feeling, like all the miles between here and a year ago have taken up residence inside of his ribcage.
And now I've gotta go have Adam keep not talkin', Kris thinks, and then takes it back in his head. More distance, and it bothers him even more than the missed phone calls. He shrugs it off, though; Adam's just closer, his absence more obvious.
Kris looks down at his silent phone. Please, God, let Adam still be awake.
To be fair, it's barely midnight when Kris hits the pass code, but he still murmurs, Thank you, silently, when he finds Adam awake: in the lounge, no less, curled up on the couch reading "The Bloody Chamber." He brings a hand up in greeting but doesn't move otherwise; Kris kicks the couch, demanding attention.
"Hey, can I try that again?"
Adam glances up. "Hmm?"
"What I said yesterday." Kris sits down on the couch tentatively, like he thinks Adam is going to tell him to go away. Not likely, Kris figures, but he'd be within his rights to do so. "I didn't mean that, about the tape being weird."
"Oh, that." Adam waves his hand dismissively. "You worry too much."
Jeez. "Are you gonna let me talk or not?"
"Alright, alright." Adam sets his book on his knees, still open. "Dish." It's not exactly full attention, but Kris takes it anyway.
"It wasn't weird because it was you and a guy. It was just..." Kris stares at his hands. "Look, you've been really honest with me, so don't laugh, okay?" 'Holy crap, say it,' he thinks. "I liked it." Wow. Kris takes a deep breath. "That was really weird to say," he adds, huffing.
"You 'liked' it." Now Adam's book is on the floor, and he's staring at Kris like he's a butterfly under glass. "As in, 'Oh hey, I like hot dogs!'?"
"Wow, I hope not."
Adam's eyes narrow. "So... ohhhh. Oh, I see." Now Adam's smile is back, genuine and without the hurt Kris remembers from the van. It almost makes it worth it, how humiliating this is. "You kinda thought it was hot, liked it."
Kris scrubs his face; Adam tilts his head.
"There's nothing to be embarrassed about. It was meant to get you off."
Kris' head snaps up. "Huh?"
"Well not you specifically. But you don't make porn just to look at, and oh, it's porn." Adam's smile is sharp and wicked, and Kris' face must register his surprise. "Oh, don't tell me you're surprised."
"You lied?"
"I didn't lie. But I can't tell Barbara Walters everything. It's family hour, Kris."
"Oh." Kris swallows. He finds, suddenly, he can't look at Adam directly -- his eyes are dark and Kris keeps noticing things, like the way his eyeliner is smudged and how long his eyelashes are. He glances down, focusing on Adam's neck. It's not really an improvement, Kris decides almost immediately. Adam swallows and Kris thinks about the stupid video again, about the line of his throat and the way he'd leaned into it.
Kris doesn't make a conscious decision to lean in, himself; he's only really aware he's doing it when he feels Adam's breathing, sharp and surprised against his lips.
Adam pulls back before Kris has time to do more than glance the corner of his mouth, clumsy. "What are you doing," murmurs Adam, close enough to Kris' skin that Kris shudders. His voice is affectionate and soft and Kris feels suddenly, sharply stupid.
"I-I'm sorry," Kris stutters out, hand flapping uselessly in explanation. "I don't know, I wasn't thinking, I just, I meant--"
He has just enough time to register Adam rolling his eyes, a muttered at least do it right, would you and then his head is being tilted back by firm fingers, and Adam's mouth is back on his.
It's weird, Kris thinks, how different it is. Not that he questioned that the mechanics were different -- but kissing Adam is different than with any girl Kris has known. Not pushy, maybe assertive, and Kris finds himself falling into it, letting himself be led. When Adam's tongue traces the seam of Kris' mouth it opens willingly, curiously. Adam deepens the kiss and Kris sighs with something like surprise, at the feel or maybe just how much he likes this: Adam's big hand on his jaw, the warm feeling of his knees barely touching Kris' thighs. Kris finds himself moving, trying to get closer; he gets up on his knees until he's straddling Adam's thighs, and Adam groans and bites at Kris' lip.
"Oh, fuck," mutters Adam, and Kris wraps his fingers in Adam's hair, pulling him in again.
Adam leans backward, one of his legs going up to rub hard against Kris' crotch, and Kris gasps and rocks into it like a stupid horny teenager. Adam laughs and murmurs something that sounds like baby and Kris thinks oh and breaks the kiss, tilting his head back and letting Adam lick his jawline. It's such a bad idea, but it sure as heck doesn't keep it from feeling good: Adam is biting a line along his neck and Kris is grinding against him frantically, reminding himself of make-out sessions that never went anywhere and truth or dare games in middle school, back when somebody's friend's dad's warm pack of Bud Lite was reason enough for a field party. Of course, kissing a girl for the first time and kissing Adam right now are worlds apart, in every sense, and when Adam licks into his mouth Kris actually moans. It's mildly embarrassing, and Kris mumbles, "Screw you, it's not like I'm gettin' practice," when Adam chuckles. The chuckle drags out into a gasp when Kris' knee brushes against Adam's own hard-on, and Kris moves in for another kiss, shivers. Trails his hand down Adam's chest slowly and tries not to worry that he doesn't know what he's doing.
Adam covers Kris' hand with his own, stopping it without pulling it away.
"This isn't a good idea." Which is true, and Kris nods slowly, keeping his face pressed into Adam's neck. "It'd be cheating," Adam continues, and Kris squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Hearing it out loud makes it worse, and Kris thinks, 'I don't want to mess up with Katy,' because it's also true, and if he holds onto it hard enough, it might... fix it. Somehow.
He pulls away from Adam and runs a hand through his hair. Nervous habit; he's probably got a tic in his jaw, too.
"I'm sorry," says Adam, so sincerely it kind of makes Kris want to shake him. "You should probably..." Adam gestures, and Kris looks down at his jeans. Right. Crap. He feels himself go red, enough blood having apparently made its way back up north to demonstrate exactly how embarrassed he is. Adam's hand comes up to cover his own mouth, probably hiding a smile. Kris shifts uncomfortably, sliding back off of Adam's lap and onto the cushions.
"I feel like a teenager, jeez."
Adam shakes his head, swinging his legs so he's sitting forward on the couch, and Kris can't help but notice the careful way it puts more distance between them. Can't decide if he's relieved or hurt, and his own arms come up to wrap around himself.
"I'm gonna go to bed," says Adam, softly. "You can shower, I don't mind. I... we can talk about it, if you want--"
Kris shakes his head. God, no. "I think sleep, yeah." He pushes himself up off the sofa, wincing at the way his dick presses against his zipper. "G'night," he mumbles, pushing himself past the curtain separating the lounge from the bunks. He's still hard, so turned on it actually hurts, and screw dorm life, or guilt or whatever: he's barely rolled into his own bed before he's fumbling at his pants, gets them down just low enough to wrap his palm around his dick. A few awkward tugs and he's coming, hot and sticky over his fingers and the mattress, and jeez, he can smell it in the air, sex and the shame that doesn't even have the decency to grant him an afterglow.
Kris has never been one for repression, but he still feels a sharp tug of shock when he rolls onto his back, semen cooling on his thighs and stomach and ceiling too-low and foreign above him. 'I have a thing for Adam,' he thinks into the darkness, blinking at how stupidly obvious it seems. 'What if it's more than that?'
Kris rolls out of his bunk late the next morning, bleary-eyed and foggy, and momentarily has no idea where he is. The mattress feels foreign, the low ceiling and thick curtain claustrophobic and weird. It's a good minute and a half before the night before clicks back into place. "Oh... gah." There are a few moments in his life where Kris wishes he were more comfortable swearing; this is definitely one of those moments.
Adam, for his part, is not in the bus anymore. They're parked, Kris is guessing at the venue, and he figures Adam's probably in sound-check, working on his solo stuff or his song with Allison. It's not really abnormal to wake up and find Adam gone -- it's just the fact he didn't leave a note, or draw something dirty on the bathroom mirror, and the more Kris thinks about just how he and Adam treat each other, the more he realizes this has probably been out of hand for a little longer than he thinks.
Kris scrubs at his face, putting his toothbrush back in the mirrored cabinet. 'I'm glad he's not here right now,' he thinks, resolutely, staring at his reflection for signs that he's lying.
Kris whistles, impressed. "Wow, man, obvious." It's said to no one, and no one responds. Kris sighs and goes to find his pants.
Rehearsals are a sleep-walk. He's only here because today of all days, he's scheduled with Adam: they're trading out Kris' Keith Urban cover for a duet on "Walk this Way," and Kris would be excited as heck if he wasn't scared to face Adam on a stage. It's nervousness that has him sitting here now, fumbling his way through Matchbox Twenty and rearranging "No Boundaries" another three times. At this point he thinks he's going to just show up and perform it salsa one day, hope maybe the shock alone will make the song less terrible. He's ready to do that now, except he realizes halfway through the last chorus that he's being watched. Somewhere during his warm-up, Adam's come out onto the edge of the stage, where he's currently sitting -- on one of the amp cases, long legs knocking in rhythm against the side and bopping his head along like he's enjoying himself.
Warmth slides up Kris' spine, and he ducks his head, concentrating on the way his fingers move as he finishes the song.
"You're great," says Adam, quietly, when the song is over. "I mean, you've always been good, but you're just amazing now. I could watch you forever."
"Thanks. Um." Kris ducks his head, pulling his guitar-strap off so he can put it back in its case. "Were you there the whole time?"
Adam shrugs. "Heard you singing. Came over to make big heart eyes." The joke's no different than it usually is, but Adam says it carefully, and Kris knows it's a test. This is up to Kris: he can ignore it, he can brush it off. Or he can... push Adam away, he supposes. It surprises even him, how violently the thought makes his stomach clench. His hand comes out before he has the time to think about it, squeezes Adam's forearm tight enough that it has to hurt.
"Yeah right, you just came to hear how completely awkward I'm gonna sound singin' Aerosmith with you."
Adam laughs, sounding surprised. "You aren't giving yourself enough credit, Allen. I know you can rock it." He bites his lip, staring for a second before asking, "We can do this still, can't we?"
Adam looks so wide-eyed about it that Kris can't help but think he means more than the song -- but it's the song he asked about, and it's all the same answer besides.
"Of course, yeah," says Kris with a smile he hopes is reassuring. 'I know you're just tryin' to get your big solo moment. Not gonna work, you're stuck with me." It doesn't ease the tension in Adam's shoulders, though.
"I just worried..." Adam shakes his head, blowing out a puff of air in annoyance. "I'm gonna say it. Is this going to be weird?"
Kris swallows. Oh. "I hope not. We're adults. I mean, we don't always get--" Kris is not going to say what we want, here. "Stuff happens, you keep going."
Adam rocks back on his heels. "Okay." And then again, "Okay," like it's the end of a conversation. "You will. We will. And this tour is going to be so fierce."
That makes Kris laugh, a gunshot-sound of surprise because, "Wow. That's pretty bad."
"Oh, yeah." Adam chuckles. "I'm going all-out tonight. I bought snakeskin pants, you have no idea." Adam shimmies his hips, and it's almost a relief to not have to hide it when his gaze drops, just for a second before he's looking back up.
"You've got a whole slew of twelve year old girls you're gonna give unrealistic expectations."
"In men, or in clothes?" Adam spins again, just for good measure. "I was thinking I'd put on a show. And hey, my boy Sarvey could use some dreams he'll repress in the morning." And just like that he's Adam, the eye at the center of this last year's hurricane and Kris' roommate and something like a best friend. It's strange, Kris thinks, how easy it is to slip into that; there's still that slow burn in the back of his head, occasionally, a reminder that that's what lust for another guy feels like, but it's honest, and they both know it, and Adam's right: they'll be okay.
The show goes off without a hitch -- Adam's pants are skin-tight and he's managed to dig up a shimmering shirt Kris is pretty certain is not FOX network-friendly, and out on stage performing Bowie no one could say Adam doesn't look every bit a rock star. Even Gokey's whistling when Adam comes off the stage, clapping his back and saying something about 'girl clothes' that makes Adam scowl, briefly. This close, Kris can see where Adam's painted glitter around his eyelids, dusted his chest with something like Katy's fourteen year old cousin would buy at Claire's in the mall.
"You look awesome," mutters Kris on the way back to the green room, rubbing a towel over his sweat-damp hair because it keeps him from having to look at Adam.
"Thank you," says Adam, and then, "look but don't touch, right?" more ruefully.
"Pretty much." Kris shrugs, tossing the towel at Adam. "No use lyin' though."
"Mmm." Adam doesn't say anything else. When they pile into the buses, one hour and a cold (for Kris) shower later, Adam grabs his blanket and a pen and paper pad and settles himself on the lounge couch. "Just working out some ideas," he says with a smile, making a dismissive motion with his hand. "You're up past your bed-time. Shoo."
"You sure--"
"Shoo."
Kris admits, there's a part of him that doesn't want to, like a kid getting sent to bed. But he's not a kid, and he's pretty sure hanging around like this when they're both revved up from the show and worn and tired around the edges is just asking for problems. Just setting boundaries doesn't make them stone -- heck, Kris is fairly certain Adam's boundaries are set in velour at best. He shrugs and rocks on the balls of his feet, wishing Adam a hurried g'night before he slides back behind the curtain into the sectioned off bunk portion of the bus.
Generally, Kris doesn't have much trouble with sleep; God knows Adam's harassed him about it enough. Tonight, though, Kris finds himself wired, listening to the soft noises of Adam turning and shifting on the pleather lounge sofa, to the way the wheels grind and buzz as they pass over old-paved highway. He drags out his beat-up Zune, texts Katy for a while, until she finally stops responding -- asleep, most likely, it's so much later in Arkansas. It occurs to Kris, idly, that he doesn't know where he is.
The thought bothers him a little, makes him feel off-balance and decentered. He makes a mental note to ask Adam for their itinerary, tomorrow.
He stares at the black-out curtains until he finally falls asleep.
continued in part two
