FIC: Adam/Kris - Beauty In The Breakdown
Title: Beauty In The Breakdown
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Rating: Hard R - NC17
Word Count: 4456
Summary: Adam and Kris are zombies... in a domestic setting.
Disclaimer: Not real, unfortunately.
Author's Notes:
This is AU crack with real emotions, fluff and angst. Take that as you will.
The title is from the song Let Go by Frou Frou (Imogen Heap). Though not explicitly stated in the story, that was also the song I had in mind when Kris sings to Adam in the bathroom scene. It's a really pretty song, so do check it out.
I'm glad I managed to get this out in time for Halloween. Happy Halloween! :)
[ETA] Thank you so much to the incredibly talented katekat1010 for the amazing artwork and glamchemy for recommending this fic to her in the first place! *flails all over the place* <333
---
The end of the world turns out to be surprisingly messy, gory and violent. Adam thinks that if the world’s scientists had spent half as much time experimenting with worthwhile things instead, there would presently be a lot more glitter-propelled hovercrafts and less blank-eyed brain-eating zombies. Okay, so perhaps he's exaggerating - zombies are no joking matter, after all. Adam grimaces at the thought of zombies being considered brain-guzzling monsters - vodka-marinated liver is totally the new brain. Hot, fresh brains are so passé, he thinks with an internal eye roll. Metaphorical is always good; his literal body parts are so temperamental these days, the bitches.
*
One thing about having splotchy skin as pallid as, well, death (Adam can imagine Kris chuckling at that - Kris has always had an odd sense of humor, but his new-found fascination with zombie-inappropriate jokes borders on unhealthy) is that Adam no longer bothers concealing anything with foundation. After all, what are freckles and faded acne marks compared to the stained, uneven discoloration of technically-dead flesh? Kris has been exceptionally happy with this development, though.
When Adam first informs Kris of his decision, Kris’ face cracks into a delighted smile so big Adam is genuinely afraid his face is going to split. Placing a hand on each of Kris’ grey-tinged cheeks, Adam attempts to squish his face back to normalcy before his overworked facial muscles give way, but Kris just laughs all the harder.
“If I’d known that it’d take death to make you go au naturale, I’d have given more serious thought to the Glambert conspiracy theories. Me planning to kill you in your sleep while we roomed together in the Mansion and all,” Kris sniggers.
Cutting off Adam’s indignant retort about freckles being ugly and unsophisticated, Kris snuggles his face into Adam’s chest and snuffles (and not wholly due to his cranky respiratory tract).
“I’ve always loved your freckles, you stubborn shit,” Kris says, muffled in the worn fabric of Adam’s ragged grey t-shirt. He sounds just a tad shy, but the hand Kris has on the back of Adam’s shirt clenches tighter, scratching lightly against Adam’s skin. Adam brings his arms up to press Kris closer to him, and drops a soft kiss on the top of his shaggy head. Adam’s chest feels tight, and he knows by now that it isn’t due to a collapsed lung (not enough wheezing).
*
Adam definitely likes that death has somehow left him with permanently black nails (blood clots, he thinks idly). However, he isn't as sure how he feels about Kris’ now wholly-black eyes. There is no longer any white around his irises, and Kris’ eyes look like two liquid, black pools, stark against the pallor of his face. It makes him look somewhat like a small animal, the kind you want to pet and sneak corn chips to and put into your pocket. Adam settles decisively on the pygmy possum he'd seen on National Geographic once - the most adorable little thing, though he doubts Kris would appreciate the sentiment.
It has to be admitted that Kris’ eyes now hold a vaguely eerie quality though, especially when his eyelids get stuck or he forgets to blink. Soul-sucking pygmy possum then, Adam amends mentally.
Adam’s own eyes have remained unchanged, and the moment Kris realizes this difference between them, he touches a gentle finger to Adam’s eyelid, tracing along the ashy line of his eyelashes.
“I’m glad your eyes didn’t change,” Kris says, barely above a whisper, “I’d miss falling into their color”. His tone is almost reverent, but mostly thankful. The soft smile on Kris’ lips is too much for Adam to bear, and he cups a hand behind Kris’ neck, cradling, as he brings their foreheads together.
*
Adam isn't sure why zombies bruise, especially when they don't even bleed or have a beating heart. He was never one for science or anatomy, but he's convinced that whoever is up there decided that bruises were just too pretty to remove from this earth (that they found humanity worthy of removal says something entirely different, though).
Adam likes bruises, and he accepts the fact that they still hurt and ache, whilst the breaking of bones and rupturing of organs hardly feel like anything at all, as a mystery of life (or death, really, in this case). He likes touching them, especially Kris’. When they lie together, naked, tangled in the covers at night, Adam subconsciously searches out Kris’ new bruises, and flutters his fingers over them. He traces their outlines before pressing slowly inwards, like he wants to bleed them right of Kris, into something he can hold and touch and keep.
When Adam gets into one of those moods, Kris tries to keep still, but Adam can tell from the tension in his spine that he desperately wants to arch into the aching, satisfying hurt.
Kris eventually confesses that just watching Adam’s black-tipped fingers against the backdrop of his bruise-splotched skin, be it mottled blue or green or the deepest wine-red, makes Kris so hard sometimes. That it makes him want to push Adam’s mouth down onto the bloom of color and make him suck - suck so hard the color leeches out, suck it like how Adam sucks cock.
Adam doesn’t remember much more of that incident, beyond that he had slid his mouth down the length of Kris’ already-hard cock, listening to Kris’ small, needy sounds, ripped helpless from him.
*
Adam thinks that one of the biggest misconceptions about zombies is that they have no forms of entertainment apart from lurching after humans, arms outstretched, and emitting random grunting noises. True, they don't play House of the Dead anymore (Adam recalls the time a three-year-old Neil had fed their pet goldfish crumbs from his Fillet-O-Fish. Adam had swatted him away in horror, then gingerly tried to fish the crumbs out of the fishbowl, apologizing profusely under his breath as tears streamed down his face), but Kris and Adam come up with plenty of things to entertain themselves with.
Kris and Adam continue with innocuous, everyday things, like the washing of dishes (only Kris would insist on continuing with such a chore when their meals are hardly even served on dishes anymore; the fucking heartfelt smile Kris had given Adam when he first offered to dry the dishes convinces Adam to continue with the practice though) and making of beds (“we’re only going to mess it up again”, Adam says while waggling his eyebrows suggestively, but Kris just swats his arm and leaves Adam to appreciate the line of his ass as he continues tucking the corners of the bed sheets in).
Adam can almost picture Brad’s lips quirked with amusement, as he tells Adam he's gone soft and domestic, finding joy in household chores. Admittedly, Adam imagines it'd be closer to, “washing dishes, eh. Ooh, you kinky bastard… Uh, wait, you really mean washing dishes? Bitch, are you for real! Are you at least fucking wearing bedazzled rubber gloves? God, come on, I’ve some spare rhinestones here… You so owe me, Lambert.”
Sometimes, Adam really misses that fierce bitch in this post-apocalyptic world.
*
Kris still plays the piano and guitar, and it isn’t uncommon for Adam to catch drifts of Kris’ new compositions echoing through their home. What's amazing is that Kris’ body seems to have retained some sort of muscle memory of Kris’ old performance habits. Kris has infrequent, but strange muscle spasms when he plays, and his old “kicky foot” and piano-humping ways are sometimes more involuntary than not now. This has hardly detracted from Kris’ performance skills, though. One would think that Kris would look like a disjointed marionette at times, but Kris has incorporated and embraced these quirks so fully that they can't even be seen as flaws anymore.
Kris has always performed with passion, but now, it's as if his entire being is thrown into making his music a living entity in itself. It is like the universe has commanded Kris Allen to play, and he does, without any reservation or second thought.
Furthermore, when Kris finishes his private performances for Adam out of breath, with a slight sheen on perspiration on his forehead and the most joyous, open smile on his lips, it makes Adam want to kiss him breathless, fuck him hard over the nearest available surface, and make him jerk uncontrollably in a totally different manner. Adam sees absolutely nothing to be unhappy about in that.
*
Kris tries to teach Adam how to play football once.
“Ow ow ow, my legs hurt more than the time I tore my calf muscles and I think my ribcage’s collapsed.”
“It doesn’t hurt when we break stuff, remember?”
“Well, the sun’s hurting my skin.”
“The sun?! You’re not a vampire, y’know.”
“How do you know I’m not a vampire? Can’t you see me sparkling?”
“No, I’ve been immune to sparkles ever since you insisted on painting our entire living room with glitter paint. Don’t pout at me like that... Okay, okay, it’s quite pretty.”
“Yay, I knew you were a secret glitter trooper!”
“…But you still can’t be a vampire. We’re zombies. Don’t tell me you’re a zombie-vampire hybrid-”
“But with your hairy hands you could totally be a zombie-werewolf!”
“…”
“Hey hey, are you trying to say something with that limp wrist there? …Zombie-t-rex!”
“…I think it’s broken.”
“Huh, you must have broken it throwing that damn football at me all day - just shows how hard you were throwing that thing at me and see, I’m sure I’ve some serious internal injuries going on here and… Aw, don’t look at me like that. Here, let me kiss it better.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Don’t pretend you aren’t secretly smiling.”
“You suck.”
“I could totally work that in. Magical vampire abilities and all.”
“Why am I finding myself being subtly steered back in the direction of our house?”
“Zombie-mind control superhero?”
“Only ‘cause you’ve been sneakily walking us that way while distracting me.”
“Oh Kris, I know I’m awfully distracting, but you’ll just have to control yourself till we get home. Don’t want to give the neighbors a free show now, do we? But if you insist, I’m sure I could-”
“Shut up, and keep kissing.”
“Aw, you do love me!”
Kris notices with a smile that his football mysteriously disappears soon after, but he wasn’t planning on making Adam play football again anyway.
*
Also, they still dance. Adam’s legendary hip rolls are still as hypnotic as ever; perhaps, more so, now that looser ligament and joints lend him greater freedom and fluidity of motion. Adam’s hip-swiveling has become a bit of a standing joke between Kris and Adam though - Adam still cringes thinking of the time he got so enthusiastic thrusting to Whole Lotta Love playing on their home stereo that he dislocated his pelvis.
Adam loves that becoming a zombie has made Kris less self-conscious about dancing and moving his body in general. Dancing's evidently nothing to bat an eyelid at when body parts tend to sputter in and out of movement of their own volition anyway. That or occasionally fall off entirely. It's liberating how either of them can just turn up the music, pull the other off the couch and start their own impromptu dance sessions.
There is no self-consciousness, and Adam wonders as he mirrors Kris in a silly little jig involving excessive body-rolls and feet-kicking, why it paradoxically took a total breakdown of their bodies and worlds to realize that their bodies were truly and entirely their own. Kris’ dancing is now more uncoordinated than before, with his sense of balance slightly off-centre, but his side-swaying shimmy is adorable. Loose-limbed and with a carefree laugh bubbling through his chapped lips, Kris looks like freedom personified.
*
There are times when being a zombie really kind of sucks, though. The one time Adam’s salivary glands decide to act up, he spends a good two hours hunched over a large bucket. Kris sits by Adam the entire time, alternately reminding him he should be thankful that zombies don't dehydrate, and blowing spit bubbles to entertain him.
Adam can tell Kris is slightly worried from the little furrow between his brows, but Kris keeps up with his spit-huffing show of solidarity anyway, flailing proudly whenever an iridescent orb takes flight. Adam’s eyes follow the descent of each little sphere, faintly shimmering and rainbow-colored under the right light, until they pop with a twinkle, like glitter. When Adam looks back to Kris, face noticeably redder from all the puffing, he can't help but really want to kiss that stupid, spit-emitting, slightly cross-eyed face.
At other times, Kris’ infamous dino jaw freezes up, leaving Kris unable to move his mouth for extended periods of time. Usually, Kris just picks his guitar up, strumming and humming along peaceably until his jaw decides to cooperate. Once in a while, Kris and Adam take the opportunity to play charades - Kris’ usual lack of poker face is just a small indication of the faces he can pull when he actually puts his mind to it. Coupled with Kris’ occasional loss of control over certain facial muscles, the results are usually hilarious and such impromptu charade sessions tend to end with Adam and Kris rolling around in helpless laughter. Kris’ jaw remains locked throughout, of course, but it just teaches Adam that true laughter is a sight to behold. He sees it in the way Kris’ eyes crinkle all round the edges with mirth, watering just a little, and the bridge of his nose scrunches up as his lips pull tight into the brightest smile spanning the entirety of his face.
Adam has noticed that hot tea seems to help with Kris’ jaw situation, so he never fails to make a steaming cup whenever Kris’ jaw is locked in a position that will allow for the spooning of liquid into his mouth. As Adam settles himself next to Kris, gently blowing on spoonfuls of tea before ladling them carefully past Kris’ lips, he finds that they can conduct entire conversations without Kris actually saying anything at all. Adam tells him funny little stories, which Kris intersperses with permutations of “mm hmm”, “uh huh”, wrinkled noses, laughing eyes and exaggerated hand motions (Kris gives Adam the middle finger once, to which Adam presses a dramatic hand to his heart and mock-shrieks, “language, Kristopher!” Kris wags his finger at Adam before pointing at his mute mouth and giving Adam the smuggest smirk ever. Adam punches him in the arm and groans, “oh, shut up!”).
*
Once, Adam walks into the living room to find Kris attempting to play a tune on his guitar with a missing left ring finger. Kris tries valiantly to compensate with his other fingers, but they stumble across the frets and muddy the chords. Exasperated, Kris eventually tosses the guitar aside and fucking pouts at it.
Adam has never seen anything with nine fingers and seven toes (not that they are particularly relevant at the moment) look so adorable.
“Why the long face? Guitar ate the last Chick-fil-A?” Adam laughingly teases as he drops down on the couch, next to Kris.
“I really hate this body,” Kris mutters, voice low and tight.
“Hey hey, no insulting the body. I like it a whole lot,” Adam runs a teasing finger up the length of Kris’ thigh, whilst leaning close to press a smiling kiss to Kris’ neck. Adam likes seeing the way Kris still blushes ever so prettily - the usually ashen skin now tinged a charming pink.
“And no whining when we both know everything will grow back in no time,” Adam playfully admonishes when he finally sees the tension seep from Kris’ shoulders.
“I don’t know,” Kris says, a sly smirk creeping onto his face. “Remember the time you griped for a week straight over not being able to give anyone the finger, ‘cause a rabid zombie dog had snapped your middle finger off?”
“You can’t imagine how tempted I was to duct tape a substitute carrot on during the time your finger took to grow back,” Kris deadpans.
“Bitch, please,” Adam sasses, as he deliberately and unhurriedly raises his middle finger. His lips twitch as he struggles to maintain an appropriate bitchface.
Kris snorts and doesn't dignify that with a reply. Instead, he closes the gap and licks a wet trail up Adam’s finger, torturously slow. Swirling his tongue around the tip, once, twice, Kris’s eyes flutter closed as he sucks the entire length into his mouth. Adam drags his thumb against Kris’ lower lip, watching the moist, red pull of it against the pads of his thumb.
Adam has always loved Kris’ lips - when they'd been alive and luscious, and perhaps, even more so now. While Kris had occasionally used to bite his lips in the past, he tends to actively gnaw on them at times now, often when he's deep in thought or daydreaming. Kris chews on his tongue too, and Adam thinks it's the most endearing thing when Kris sometimes forgets he's doing so and tries to talk around it (if people had had trouble understanding his mumble in the past, they'd definitely need a certified Kris Allen-zombie speak translator now).
Anyway, the regular gnawing has left a crisscross of permanent semi-indentations across the surface of Kris’ lips, a perfect counterpoint to the network of deep mauve veins that now blossoms there. In life, Adam had never understood Kris’ fascination with his freckles, but now, running his thumb against the stained flesh of Kris’ lips, he thinks he understands better.
*
Presently, Adam is leaning against the bathroom sink, fingers clenched white against the hard porcelain edges. He's lost track of how long he's spent in the little, tiled room, but he can tell that it's been awhile from the way the earlier swirls of bath time mist have evaporated into this raw, clinging humidity against his skin.
Looking down into the rounded basin at his hands, Adam is reminded of the reason for his distress in the first place. Entire clumps of his black hair lie starkly against the pristine-white surface, some of the strands distanced slightly from the rest after getting caught in stray rivulets of water.
Adam’s mind doesn't go into any silly dramatics about the hair staring “mockingly” at him, or holding secrets unknown to him, for which he is glad. Instead, his thoughts just seem to have hushed in on themselves, and he can acutely hear the white noise of the bathroom ventilator - a strange, muted hum.
Considering how the malfunctioning of body parts is pretty much everyday fare by now, Adam doesn't know why the mere loss of handfuls of hair shocks him so much, apart from the fact that it has never happened before. He thinks it might be the stereotypical image, drilled into him by a society long gone, of the tragic cancer patient losing hair from chemotherapy that's awoken some long-dormant awareness in him. Yet, the stupid, overdone cliché just makes him want to scoff.
The bath towel Adam had been using to dry his hair as he stepped out of the bath lies abandoned at his feet. He remembers how it had come away from his head covered with inky strands, harsh and horrific. Adam had dropped it like it burnt.
Adam knows well enough that the hair will grow back, as do all the rest of his regenerating body parts, but in that moment he feels inexplicably vulnerable and weak. It strikes him suddenly, irrationally - he feels like he's dying. It's probably the most absurd thing a zombie could possibly come up with, but Adam doesn't feel as much like laughing as crouching in the cold toilet and curling his large, naked body up.
The thing is, Adam doesn't actually fear death, because that wouldn't just be an irrational fear, but an utterly pointless and inane one for someone in his situation. Instead, he thinks about what death has and has not brought him; how mind-blowing it is to have all your pre-conceived notions of life and death overthrown; to fucking live death. He had once believed in a higher order and karma and eternal glitter parties after death, but everything is just fucked up now.
The bathroom door opens as Adam finally convinces himself to pick the bath towel up, and he straightens to see Kris entering, unobtrusive, but not hesitant.
“Hey man, you were in here so long, so I…”Kris says with a half-shrug. His eyes are warm and gentle, but Adam knows he's taking in everything about Adam’s drawn face and the scene before him.
“Oh god, I’ve been having the ultimate bad hair day! I guess I should have listened to you when you warned me about the excessive hair products, huh,” Adam tries to pull it off with a goofy smile and dramatic hand wave, but even he can tell that it doesn't come out right. His smile is too tight and his voice too brittle in the echoing, empty space of the bathroom.
“C’mere and let me have a look,” Kris says, tugging Adam by his wrist to sit on the floor by the door with him.
“Can’t reach otherwise?” Adam asks with a wry smile. It comes out rather half-hearted, but Adam can already feel Kris’ calming presence setting him back in equilibrium.
“You really want to go there with the person who helps you with your pompadours and other crazy ass hairstyles? This hand could always slip up the next time it’s holding the flatiron over your hair…” Kris trails off ominously and squints his eyes in what he must believe to be a threatening expression. Adam thinks Kris looks more like he's about to sneeze, but he raises his free hand in mock surrender anyway, and lets Kris pull him the rest of the way down to the floor.
Adam settles himself between Kris’ legs, back to chest, and the solid, reassuring line of Kris’ body behind and around him makes the knot of anxiety at the base of his spine unfurl in a silent exhalation of tension. He should feel vulnerable being completely naked whilst Kris is fully-dressed, but he just feels safe.
Adam feels his muscles tense unwittingly though, as Kris runs soft fingers through his hair, but the edge bleeds out as Kris softly sings some song by his ear. It has a soothing, lilting melody, but the words are indiscernible, blending into each other and forming a smooth melodic cocoon around the two of them. He lets the low husk of Kris’ voice lull him into an almost boneless state, where the universe seems to narrow into a pinprick of Kris’ warmth and touch and sound.
“Have you ever thought about how this undead, zombie thing has screwed our lives up?” It slips out of Adam’s relaxed mouth before he even has the time to run it through his non-existent filter.
“Uh, undead thing. Screwing with our lives. Are you trying to be funny? ” Kris sounds quietly amused, and Adam can almost picture the lopsided quirk of his lips.
Adam gives Kris a token swat on the leg, but continues anyway, “I mean how it’s fucked with everything we ever thought our lives were going to be… Even how we thought our lives were going to end.”
Adam struggles to express himself better, but even as words fail him, Kris seems to understand. Kris wraps his free arm tighter around Adam’s waist, even as his other hand continues to absent-mindedly card through Adam’s hair.
“For everything that I’ve lost”, Kris says, voice low but steady, determined, “I’ve gained in other ways.” Adam doesn't miss the almost-imperceptible tightening of Kris’ hand at the word “lost”, but he doesn't say anything, just moves his hand to trace the ridges of Kris’ knuckles before enveloping the other hand in his own.
“And it led me to you, didn’t it,” Kris continues, in a way that makes it clear that it was never a question to begin with.
“Do you miss life from before?”
“Yes,” and it is brutal in its honesty.
Adam nods mutely, appreciating Kris’ candidness - there's no whitewashing of a situation that was beyond their control to start with, but the acceptance that there's no going back is not one of resignation but quiet dignity.
“But, don’t ever doubt our life now, Adam,” Kris says as he lets his head droop to rest his chin on Adam’s shoulder. Adam squeezes Kris’ hand in response.
“We might be living death, but each new day is one where I get to wake up to your face next to mine, and play music, and hold your hand, and kick your scrawny ass if you call me a midget,” Kris ends with a small huff of laughter.
“Napolean complex,” Adam mutters darkly, while prodding Kris in the ribs with a teasing finger. Kris laughs and squirms a little. It takes them a while to settle down again, and even then, they sit for some time in comfortable silence, listening to the house settle around them.
Kris breaks the silence first.
“Y’know what? We’re totally going to go out and get you a nice felt-trimmed fedora”, Kris says with a grin, “and don’t tell me you won’t wear it indoors when you wear that spike-studded leather jacket of yours to watch DVD’s all the time”.
Adam snorts, but turns to press a heartfelt kiss to Kris’ lips anyway.
“Thank you,” Adam says, voice surprisingly gritty, and they both know it's for more than just the fedora.
Adam pulls Kris’ hand from his head and as he slowly unfurls Kris' fingers, the inky strands of hair within his grasp float gently away, carried on a slight updraft from the crack below the door.
*
Eventually, Adam decides he still believes in a higher order and karma, and if he wants a glitter party now, he's damn well going to hold one, with or without heavenly booze and half-naked cupid boys. In fact, Adam thinks, with a positively devilish grin, it's high time to bust out the strap-on wings, soft and fluttery, he'd bought for Kris ages back.
Next to him on the bed, Kris sits serene and unsuspecting, strumming on his guitar with the thumbnail he'd lost that morning as a guitar pick. Adam leans into him, reaching an arm out to wrap around Kris’ waist and pull him even closer. Kris shuffles over a bit, fitting their bodies perfectly together, and looks up briefly from his guitar to smile at Adam, eyes crinkling happily.
Adam smiles back, and thinks that sometimes, they each might fall apart, but they aren't broken.
Fin
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Rating: Hard R - NC17
Word Count: 4456
Summary: Adam and Kris are zombies... in a domestic setting.
Disclaimer: Not real, unfortunately.
Author's Notes:
This is AU crack with real emotions, fluff and angst. Take that as you will.
The title is from the song Let Go by Frou Frou (Imogen Heap). Though not explicitly stated in the story, that was also the song I had in mind when Kris sings to Adam in the bathroom scene. It's a really pretty song, so do check it out.
I'm glad I managed to get this out in time for Halloween. Happy Halloween! :)
[ETA] Thank you so much to the incredibly talented katekat1010 for the amazing artwork and glamchemy for recommending this fic to her in the first place! *flails all over the place* <333
---
The end of the world turns out to be surprisingly messy, gory and violent. Adam thinks that if the world’s scientists had spent half as much time experimenting with worthwhile things instead, there would presently be a lot more glitter-propelled hovercrafts and less blank-eyed brain-eating zombies. Okay, so perhaps he's exaggerating - zombies are no joking matter, after all. Adam grimaces at the thought of zombies being considered brain-guzzling monsters - vodka-marinated liver is totally the new brain. Hot, fresh brains are so passé, he thinks with an internal eye roll. Metaphorical is always good; his literal body parts are so temperamental these days, the bitches.
*
One thing about having splotchy skin as pallid as, well, death (Adam can imagine Kris chuckling at that - Kris has always had an odd sense of humor, but his new-found fascination with zombie-inappropriate jokes borders on unhealthy) is that Adam no longer bothers concealing anything with foundation. After all, what are freckles and faded acne marks compared to the stained, uneven discoloration of technically-dead flesh? Kris has been exceptionally happy with this development, though.
When Adam first informs Kris of his decision, Kris’ face cracks into a delighted smile so big Adam is genuinely afraid his face is going to split. Placing a hand on each of Kris’ grey-tinged cheeks, Adam attempts to squish his face back to normalcy before his overworked facial muscles give way, but Kris just laughs all the harder.
“If I’d known that it’d take death to make you go au naturale, I’d have given more serious thought to the Glambert conspiracy theories. Me planning to kill you in your sleep while we roomed together in the Mansion and all,” Kris sniggers.
Cutting off Adam’s indignant retort about freckles being ugly and unsophisticated, Kris snuggles his face into Adam’s chest and snuffles (and not wholly due to his cranky respiratory tract).
“I’ve always loved your freckles, you stubborn shit,” Kris says, muffled in the worn fabric of Adam’s ragged grey t-shirt. He sounds just a tad shy, but the hand Kris has on the back of Adam’s shirt clenches tighter, scratching lightly against Adam’s skin. Adam brings his arms up to press Kris closer to him, and drops a soft kiss on the top of his shaggy head. Adam’s chest feels tight, and he knows by now that it isn’t due to a collapsed lung (not enough wheezing).
*
Adam definitely likes that death has somehow left him with permanently black nails (blood clots, he thinks idly). However, he isn't as sure how he feels about Kris’ now wholly-black eyes. There is no longer any white around his irises, and Kris’ eyes look like two liquid, black pools, stark against the pallor of his face. It makes him look somewhat like a small animal, the kind you want to pet and sneak corn chips to and put into your pocket. Adam settles decisively on the pygmy possum he'd seen on National Geographic once - the most adorable little thing, though he doubts Kris would appreciate the sentiment.
It has to be admitted that Kris’ eyes now hold a vaguely eerie quality though, especially when his eyelids get stuck or he forgets to blink. Soul-sucking pygmy possum then, Adam amends mentally.
Adam’s own eyes have remained unchanged, and the moment Kris realizes this difference between them, he touches a gentle finger to Adam’s eyelid, tracing along the ashy line of his eyelashes.
“I’m glad your eyes didn’t change,” Kris says, barely above a whisper, “I’d miss falling into their color”. His tone is almost reverent, but mostly thankful. The soft smile on Kris’ lips is too much for Adam to bear, and he cups a hand behind Kris’ neck, cradling, as he brings their foreheads together.
*
Adam isn't sure why zombies bruise, especially when they don't even bleed or have a beating heart. He was never one for science or anatomy, but he's convinced that whoever is up there decided that bruises were just too pretty to remove from this earth (that they found humanity worthy of removal says something entirely different, though).
Adam likes bruises, and he accepts the fact that they still hurt and ache, whilst the breaking of bones and rupturing of organs hardly feel like anything at all, as a mystery of life (or death, really, in this case). He likes touching them, especially Kris’. When they lie together, naked, tangled in the covers at night, Adam subconsciously searches out Kris’ new bruises, and flutters his fingers over them. He traces their outlines before pressing slowly inwards, like he wants to bleed them right of Kris, into something he can hold and touch and keep.
When Adam gets into one of those moods, Kris tries to keep still, but Adam can tell from the tension in his spine that he desperately wants to arch into the aching, satisfying hurt.
Kris eventually confesses that just watching Adam’s black-tipped fingers against the backdrop of his bruise-splotched skin, be it mottled blue or green or the deepest wine-red, makes Kris so hard sometimes. That it makes him want to push Adam’s mouth down onto the bloom of color and make him suck - suck so hard the color leeches out, suck it like how Adam sucks cock.
Adam doesn’t remember much more of that incident, beyond that he had slid his mouth down the length of Kris’ already-hard cock, listening to Kris’ small, needy sounds, ripped helpless from him.
*
Adam thinks that one of the biggest misconceptions about zombies is that they have no forms of entertainment apart from lurching after humans, arms outstretched, and emitting random grunting noises. True, they don't play House of the Dead anymore (Adam recalls the time a three-year-old Neil had fed their pet goldfish crumbs from his Fillet-O-Fish. Adam had swatted him away in horror, then gingerly tried to fish the crumbs out of the fishbowl, apologizing profusely under his breath as tears streamed down his face), but Kris and Adam come up with plenty of things to entertain themselves with.
Kris and Adam continue with innocuous, everyday things, like the washing of dishes (only Kris would insist on continuing with such a chore when their meals are hardly even served on dishes anymore; the fucking heartfelt smile Kris had given Adam when he first offered to dry the dishes convinces Adam to continue with the practice though) and making of beds (“we’re only going to mess it up again”, Adam says while waggling his eyebrows suggestively, but Kris just swats his arm and leaves Adam to appreciate the line of his ass as he continues tucking the corners of the bed sheets in).
Adam can almost picture Brad’s lips quirked with amusement, as he tells Adam he's gone soft and domestic, finding joy in household chores. Admittedly, Adam imagines it'd be closer to, “washing dishes, eh. Ooh, you kinky bastard… Uh, wait, you really mean washing dishes? Bitch, are you for real! Are you at least fucking wearing bedazzled rubber gloves? God, come on, I’ve some spare rhinestones here… You so owe me, Lambert.”
Sometimes, Adam really misses that fierce bitch in this post-apocalyptic world.
*
Kris still plays the piano and guitar, and it isn’t uncommon for Adam to catch drifts of Kris’ new compositions echoing through their home. What's amazing is that Kris’ body seems to have retained some sort of muscle memory of Kris’ old performance habits. Kris has infrequent, but strange muscle spasms when he plays, and his old “kicky foot” and piano-humping ways are sometimes more involuntary than not now. This has hardly detracted from Kris’ performance skills, though. One would think that Kris would look like a disjointed marionette at times, but Kris has incorporated and embraced these quirks so fully that they can't even be seen as flaws anymore.
Kris has always performed with passion, but now, it's as if his entire being is thrown into making his music a living entity in itself. It is like the universe has commanded Kris Allen to play, and he does, without any reservation or second thought.
Furthermore, when Kris finishes his private performances for Adam out of breath, with a slight sheen on perspiration on his forehead and the most joyous, open smile on his lips, it makes Adam want to kiss him breathless, fuck him hard over the nearest available surface, and make him jerk uncontrollably in a totally different manner. Adam sees absolutely nothing to be unhappy about in that.
*
Kris tries to teach Adam how to play football once.
“Ow ow ow, my legs hurt more than the time I tore my calf muscles and I think my ribcage’s collapsed.”
“It doesn’t hurt when we break stuff, remember?”
“Well, the sun’s hurting my skin.”
“The sun?! You’re not a vampire, y’know.”
“How do you know I’m not a vampire? Can’t you see me sparkling?”
“No, I’ve been immune to sparkles ever since you insisted on painting our entire living room with glitter paint. Don’t pout at me like that... Okay, okay, it’s quite pretty.”
“Yay, I knew you were a secret glitter trooper!”
“…But you still can’t be a vampire. We’re zombies. Don’t tell me you’re a zombie-vampire hybrid-”
“But with your hairy hands you could totally be a zombie-werewolf!”
“…”
“Hey hey, are you trying to say something with that limp wrist there? …Zombie-t-rex!”
“…I think it’s broken.”
“Huh, you must have broken it throwing that damn football at me all day - just shows how hard you were throwing that thing at me and see, I’m sure I’ve some serious internal injuries going on here and… Aw, don’t look at me like that. Here, let me kiss it better.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Don’t pretend you aren’t secretly smiling.”
“You suck.”
“I could totally work that in. Magical vampire abilities and all.”
“Why am I finding myself being subtly steered back in the direction of our house?”
“Zombie-mind control superhero?”
“Only ‘cause you’ve been sneakily walking us that way while distracting me.”
“Oh Kris, I know I’m awfully distracting, but you’ll just have to control yourself till we get home. Don’t want to give the neighbors a free show now, do we? But if you insist, I’m sure I could-”
“Shut up, and keep kissing.”
“Aw, you do love me!”
Kris notices with a smile that his football mysteriously disappears soon after, but he wasn’t planning on making Adam play football again anyway.
*
Also, they still dance. Adam’s legendary hip rolls are still as hypnotic as ever; perhaps, more so, now that looser ligament and joints lend him greater freedom and fluidity of motion. Adam’s hip-swiveling has become a bit of a standing joke between Kris and Adam though - Adam still cringes thinking of the time he got so enthusiastic thrusting to Whole Lotta Love playing on their home stereo that he dislocated his pelvis.
Adam loves that becoming a zombie has made Kris less self-conscious about dancing and moving his body in general. Dancing's evidently nothing to bat an eyelid at when body parts tend to sputter in and out of movement of their own volition anyway. That or occasionally fall off entirely. It's liberating how either of them can just turn up the music, pull the other off the couch and start their own impromptu dance sessions.
There is no self-consciousness, and Adam wonders as he mirrors Kris in a silly little jig involving excessive body-rolls and feet-kicking, why it paradoxically took a total breakdown of their bodies and worlds to realize that their bodies were truly and entirely their own. Kris’ dancing is now more uncoordinated than before, with his sense of balance slightly off-centre, but his side-swaying shimmy is adorable. Loose-limbed and with a carefree laugh bubbling through his chapped lips, Kris looks like freedom personified.
*
There are times when being a zombie really kind of sucks, though. The one time Adam’s salivary glands decide to act up, he spends a good two hours hunched over a large bucket. Kris sits by Adam the entire time, alternately reminding him he should be thankful that zombies don't dehydrate, and blowing spit bubbles to entertain him.
Adam can tell Kris is slightly worried from the little furrow between his brows, but Kris keeps up with his spit-huffing show of solidarity anyway, flailing proudly whenever an iridescent orb takes flight. Adam’s eyes follow the descent of each little sphere, faintly shimmering and rainbow-colored under the right light, until they pop with a twinkle, like glitter. When Adam looks back to Kris, face noticeably redder from all the puffing, he can't help but really want to kiss that stupid, spit-emitting, slightly cross-eyed face.
At other times, Kris’ infamous dino jaw freezes up, leaving Kris unable to move his mouth for extended periods of time. Usually, Kris just picks his guitar up, strumming and humming along peaceably until his jaw decides to cooperate. Once in a while, Kris and Adam take the opportunity to play charades - Kris’ usual lack of poker face is just a small indication of the faces he can pull when he actually puts his mind to it. Coupled with Kris’ occasional loss of control over certain facial muscles, the results are usually hilarious and such impromptu charade sessions tend to end with Adam and Kris rolling around in helpless laughter. Kris’ jaw remains locked throughout, of course, but it just teaches Adam that true laughter is a sight to behold. He sees it in the way Kris’ eyes crinkle all round the edges with mirth, watering just a little, and the bridge of his nose scrunches up as his lips pull tight into the brightest smile spanning the entirety of his face.
Adam has noticed that hot tea seems to help with Kris’ jaw situation, so he never fails to make a steaming cup whenever Kris’ jaw is locked in a position that will allow for the spooning of liquid into his mouth. As Adam settles himself next to Kris, gently blowing on spoonfuls of tea before ladling them carefully past Kris’ lips, he finds that they can conduct entire conversations without Kris actually saying anything at all. Adam tells him funny little stories, which Kris intersperses with permutations of “mm hmm”, “uh huh”, wrinkled noses, laughing eyes and exaggerated hand motions (Kris gives Adam the middle finger once, to which Adam presses a dramatic hand to his heart and mock-shrieks, “language, Kristopher!” Kris wags his finger at Adam before pointing at his mute mouth and giving Adam the smuggest smirk ever. Adam punches him in the arm and groans, “oh, shut up!”).
*
Once, Adam walks into the living room to find Kris attempting to play a tune on his guitar with a missing left ring finger. Kris tries valiantly to compensate with his other fingers, but they stumble across the frets and muddy the chords. Exasperated, Kris eventually tosses the guitar aside and fucking pouts at it.
Adam has never seen anything with nine fingers and seven toes (not that they are particularly relevant at the moment) look so adorable.
“Why the long face? Guitar ate the last Chick-fil-A?” Adam laughingly teases as he drops down on the couch, next to Kris.
“I really hate this body,” Kris mutters, voice low and tight.
“Hey hey, no insulting the body. I like it a whole lot,” Adam runs a teasing finger up the length of Kris’ thigh, whilst leaning close to press a smiling kiss to Kris’ neck. Adam likes seeing the way Kris still blushes ever so prettily - the usually ashen skin now tinged a charming pink.
“And no whining when we both know everything will grow back in no time,” Adam playfully admonishes when he finally sees the tension seep from Kris’ shoulders.
“I don’t know,” Kris says, a sly smirk creeping onto his face. “Remember the time you griped for a week straight over not being able to give anyone the finger, ‘cause a rabid zombie dog had snapped your middle finger off?”
“You can’t imagine how tempted I was to duct tape a substitute carrot on during the time your finger took to grow back,” Kris deadpans.
“Bitch, please,” Adam sasses, as he deliberately and unhurriedly raises his middle finger. His lips twitch as he struggles to maintain an appropriate bitchface.
Kris snorts and doesn't dignify that with a reply. Instead, he closes the gap and licks a wet trail up Adam’s finger, torturously slow. Swirling his tongue around the tip, once, twice, Kris’s eyes flutter closed as he sucks the entire length into his mouth. Adam drags his thumb against Kris’ lower lip, watching the moist, red pull of it against the pads of his thumb.
Adam has always loved Kris’ lips - when they'd been alive and luscious, and perhaps, even more so now. While Kris had occasionally used to bite his lips in the past, he tends to actively gnaw on them at times now, often when he's deep in thought or daydreaming. Kris chews on his tongue too, and Adam thinks it's the most endearing thing when Kris sometimes forgets he's doing so and tries to talk around it (if people had had trouble understanding his mumble in the past, they'd definitely need a certified Kris Allen-zombie speak translator now).
Anyway, the regular gnawing has left a crisscross of permanent semi-indentations across the surface of Kris’ lips, a perfect counterpoint to the network of deep mauve veins that now blossoms there. In life, Adam had never understood Kris’ fascination with his freckles, but now, running his thumb against the stained flesh of Kris’ lips, he thinks he understands better.
*
Presently, Adam is leaning against the bathroom sink, fingers clenched white against the hard porcelain edges. He's lost track of how long he's spent in the little, tiled room, but he can tell that it's been awhile from the way the earlier swirls of bath time mist have evaporated into this raw, clinging humidity against his skin.
Looking down into the rounded basin at his hands, Adam is reminded of the reason for his distress in the first place. Entire clumps of his black hair lie starkly against the pristine-white surface, some of the strands distanced slightly from the rest after getting caught in stray rivulets of water.
Adam’s mind doesn't go into any silly dramatics about the hair staring “mockingly” at him, or holding secrets unknown to him, for which he is glad. Instead, his thoughts just seem to have hushed in on themselves, and he can acutely hear the white noise of the bathroom ventilator - a strange, muted hum.
Considering how the malfunctioning of body parts is pretty much everyday fare by now, Adam doesn't know why the mere loss of handfuls of hair shocks him so much, apart from the fact that it has never happened before. He thinks it might be the stereotypical image, drilled into him by a society long gone, of the tragic cancer patient losing hair from chemotherapy that's awoken some long-dormant awareness in him. Yet, the stupid, overdone cliché just makes him want to scoff.
The bath towel Adam had been using to dry his hair as he stepped out of the bath lies abandoned at his feet. He remembers how it had come away from his head covered with inky strands, harsh and horrific. Adam had dropped it like it burnt.
Adam knows well enough that the hair will grow back, as do all the rest of his regenerating body parts, but in that moment he feels inexplicably vulnerable and weak. It strikes him suddenly, irrationally - he feels like he's dying. It's probably the most absurd thing a zombie could possibly come up with, but Adam doesn't feel as much like laughing as crouching in the cold toilet and curling his large, naked body up.
The thing is, Adam doesn't actually fear death, because that wouldn't just be an irrational fear, but an utterly pointless and inane one for someone in his situation. Instead, he thinks about what death has and has not brought him; how mind-blowing it is to have all your pre-conceived notions of life and death overthrown; to fucking live death. He had once believed in a higher order and karma and eternal glitter parties after death, but everything is just fucked up now.
The bathroom door opens as Adam finally convinces himself to pick the bath towel up, and he straightens to see Kris entering, unobtrusive, but not hesitant.
“Hey man, you were in here so long, so I…”Kris says with a half-shrug. His eyes are warm and gentle, but Adam knows he's taking in everything about Adam’s drawn face and the scene before him.
“Oh god, I’ve been having the ultimate bad hair day! I guess I should have listened to you when you warned me about the excessive hair products, huh,” Adam tries to pull it off with a goofy smile and dramatic hand wave, but even he can tell that it doesn't come out right. His smile is too tight and his voice too brittle in the echoing, empty space of the bathroom.
“C’mere and let me have a look,” Kris says, tugging Adam by his wrist to sit on the floor by the door with him.
“Can’t reach otherwise?” Adam asks with a wry smile. It comes out rather half-hearted, but Adam can already feel Kris’ calming presence setting him back in equilibrium.
“You really want to go there with the person who helps you with your pompadours and other crazy ass hairstyles? This hand could always slip up the next time it’s holding the flatiron over your hair…” Kris trails off ominously and squints his eyes in what he must believe to be a threatening expression. Adam thinks Kris looks more like he's about to sneeze, but he raises his free hand in mock surrender anyway, and lets Kris pull him the rest of the way down to the floor.
Adam settles himself between Kris’ legs, back to chest, and the solid, reassuring line of Kris’ body behind and around him makes the knot of anxiety at the base of his spine unfurl in a silent exhalation of tension. He should feel vulnerable being completely naked whilst Kris is fully-dressed, but he just feels safe.
Adam feels his muscles tense unwittingly though, as Kris runs soft fingers through his hair, but the edge bleeds out as Kris softly sings some song by his ear. It has a soothing, lilting melody, but the words are indiscernible, blending into each other and forming a smooth melodic cocoon around the two of them. He lets the low husk of Kris’ voice lull him into an almost boneless state, where the universe seems to narrow into a pinprick of Kris’ warmth and touch and sound.
“Have you ever thought about how this undead, zombie thing has screwed our lives up?” It slips out of Adam’s relaxed mouth before he even has the time to run it through his non-existent filter.
“Uh, undead thing. Screwing with our lives. Are you trying to be funny? ” Kris sounds quietly amused, and Adam can almost picture the lopsided quirk of his lips.
Adam gives Kris a token swat on the leg, but continues anyway, “I mean how it’s fucked with everything we ever thought our lives were going to be… Even how we thought our lives were going to end.”
Adam struggles to express himself better, but even as words fail him, Kris seems to understand. Kris wraps his free arm tighter around Adam’s waist, even as his other hand continues to absent-mindedly card through Adam’s hair.
“For everything that I’ve lost”, Kris says, voice low but steady, determined, “I’ve gained in other ways.” Adam doesn't miss the almost-imperceptible tightening of Kris’ hand at the word “lost”, but he doesn't say anything, just moves his hand to trace the ridges of Kris’ knuckles before enveloping the other hand in his own.
“And it led me to you, didn’t it,” Kris continues, in a way that makes it clear that it was never a question to begin with.
“Do you miss life from before?”
“Yes,” and it is brutal in its honesty.
Adam nods mutely, appreciating Kris’ candidness - there's no whitewashing of a situation that was beyond their control to start with, but the acceptance that there's no going back is not one of resignation but quiet dignity.
“But, don’t ever doubt our life now, Adam,” Kris says as he lets his head droop to rest his chin on Adam’s shoulder. Adam squeezes Kris’ hand in response.
“We might be living death, but each new day is one where I get to wake up to your face next to mine, and play music, and hold your hand, and kick your scrawny ass if you call me a midget,” Kris ends with a small huff of laughter.
“Napolean complex,” Adam mutters darkly, while prodding Kris in the ribs with a teasing finger. Kris laughs and squirms a little. It takes them a while to settle down again, and even then, they sit for some time in comfortable silence, listening to the house settle around them.
Kris breaks the silence first.
“Y’know what? We’re totally going to go out and get you a nice felt-trimmed fedora”, Kris says with a grin, “and don’t tell me you won’t wear it indoors when you wear that spike-studded leather jacket of yours to watch DVD’s all the time”.
Adam snorts, but turns to press a heartfelt kiss to Kris’ lips anyway.
“Thank you,” Adam says, voice surprisingly gritty, and they both know it's for more than just the fedora.
Adam pulls Kris’ hand from his head and as he slowly unfurls Kris' fingers, the inky strands of hair within his grasp float gently away, carried on a slight updraft from the crack below the door.
*
Eventually, Adam decides he still believes in a higher order and karma, and if he wants a glitter party now, he's damn well going to hold one, with or without heavenly booze and half-naked cupid boys. In fact, Adam thinks, with a positively devilish grin, it's high time to bust out the strap-on wings, soft and fluttery, he'd bought for Kris ages back.
Next to him on the bed, Kris sits serene and unsuspecting, strumming on his guitar with the thumbnail he'd lost that morning as a guitar pick. Adam leans into him, reaching an arm out to wrap around Kris’ waist and pull him even closer. Kris shuffles over a bit, fitting their bodies perfectly together, and looks up briefly from his guitar to smile at Adam, eyes crinkling happily.
Adam smiles back, and thinks that sometimes, they each might fall apart, but they aren't broken.
Fin