the art of losing (soundtrack: the breeze whispered your name).
title: the art of losing.
author: conditionelle
pairing: Kris/Adam.
rating: PG.
summary: But Kris' mind is a blank and his world is quiet little staccato gasps, the warm palm on the small of his back with its steady reassuring pressure, the solid body beside him radiating heat through four layers of cumulative clothing between them, and a million cameras waiting to catch a stumble/fall/crash-
notes: Tonight's results show was, to say the least, inspirational. That being said, I think it's very obvious by now that I'm clinically incapable of writing anything that'd qualify for an R-rating for reasons other than language.
Slow down.
The hand on his back is electrifying and Kris jumps about three feet in the air, still breathing too quickly, quietly trying not to actually hyperventilate backstage. He's never been here. He's never done this. He's not surprised and he's not disappointed but he can't quite breathe slowly enough or deeply enough, not because he's finally facing the inevitable here but because Adam is standing beside him with a hand on his back and there's something that's already switched off in Matt's eyes and ADAM IS STANDING BESIDE HIM and what the hell, what the hell, respiration is the least of his problems right now.
Hey, Kris. Hey. Come on.
Even Matt notices, is about to lean in and say something when he thinks better of it (when he catches Adam's eye right over Kris' head, that silent infinitesimal shake of his head, I've got it - I've got him) and just smiles instead, inevitable conclusion written in his face, inevitable, inevitable, he doesn't think the word means what he thought it meant any longer and it's hard to grasp anything tangible and solid at this time. He remembers the way Allison completely froze up, mere minutes ago and yes, understands it a little bit too well.
Probability sucks. So do mind-games, and voter complacency, and shock boots - don't go there, he tells himself, forcibly pulls his mind back from wandering down paths with possibilities he does not want to face - and solid ground giving out beneath feet. And too much oxygen, that's not good either. Slow down. Trust Adam. Trust that he'll be safe, and that's what matters, and the rest will follow. Trusting him has never led you anywhere bad yet. But Kris' mind is a blank and his world is quiet little staccato gasps, the warm palm on the small of his back with its steady reassuring pressure, the solid body beside him radiating heat through four layers of cumulative clothing between them, and a million cameras waiting to catch a stumble/fall/crash-
(or maybe just waiting to catch Adam's other hand coming to rest on Kris' chest, right over his heart, and the quiet reassurance of breathe with me)
(as Matt accepts a brown paper bag from a backstage technician, folds it neatly in twos, fours, just in case, last line of defence)
(as the clock winds down and they're heading out to the stage again)
-but not today, because he's okay, and they're going to face this together one way or another. Matt claps him on the shoulder and Adam's hand moves away, the breaking contact sending shivers through Kris from head to toe. He's cold and electric and none of it goes unnoticed, so Adam leans in close and whispers: I've got you.
It keeps him going through the next five minutes. The hug that nearly lifts him off the floor as he's announced safe keeps him going to the end of the hour. Kris doesn't remember much of it, aside from the spasm of guilt at how unfair it is to Matt to be so relieved with the outcome of the whole night. Because it means Adam is safe, it means one more week, which is as much as anyone can ask for.
When Adam leans down to kiss him, palm fitting over the handprint burned onto his chest once more, Kris holds his breath without realizing it until they part. (Respiration is the least of his problems right now.) He laughs shakily and says, you're my life support.
author: conditionelle
pairing: Kris/Adam.
rating: PG.
summary: But Kris' mind is a blank and his world is quiet little staccato gasps, the warm palm on the small of his back with its steady reassuring pressure, the solid body beside him radiating heat through four layers of cumulative clothing between them, and a million cameras waiting to catch a stumble/fall/crash-
notes: Tonight's results show was, to say the least, inspirational. That being said, I think it's very obvious by now that I'm clinically incapable of writing anything that'd qualify for an R-rating for reasons other than language.
Slow down.
The hand on his back is electrifying and Kris jumps about three feet in the air, still breathing too quickly, quietly trying not to actually hyperventilate backstage. He's never been here. He's never done this. He's not surprised and he's not disappointed but he can't quite breathe slowly enough or deeply enough, not because he's finally facing the inevitable here but because Adam is standing beside him with a hand on his back and there's something that's already switched off in Matt's eyes and ADAM IS STANDING BESIDE HIM and what the hell, what the hell, respiration is the least of his problems right now.
Hey, Kris. Hey. Come on.
Even Matt notices, is about to lean in and say something when he thinks better of it (when he catches Adam's eye right over Kris' head, that silent infinitesimal shake of his head, I've got it - I've got him) and just smiles instead, inevitable conclusion written in his face, inevitable, inevitable, he doesn't think the word means what he thought it meant any longer and it's hard to grasp anything tangible and solid at this time. He remembers the way Allison completely froze up, mere minutes ago and yes, understands it a little bit too well.
Probability sucks. So do mind-games, and voter complacency, and shock boots - don't go there, he tells himself, forcibly pulls his mind back from wandering down paths with possibilities he does not want to face - and solid ground giving out beneath feet. And too much oxygen, that's not good either. Slow down. Trust Adam. Trust that he'll be safe, and that's what matters, and the rest will follow. Trusting him has never led you anywhere bad yet. But Kris' mind is a blank and his world is quiet little staccato gasps, the warm palm on the small of his back with its steady reassuring pressure, the solid body beside him radiating heat through four layers of cumulative clothing between them, and a million cameras waiting to catch a stumble/fall/crash-
(or maybe just waiting to catch Adam's other hand coming to rest on Kris' chest, right over his heart, and the quiet reassurance of breathe with me)
(as Matt accepts a brown paper bag from a backstage technician, folds it neatly in twos, fours, just in case, last line of defence)
(as the clock winds down and they're heading out to the stage again)
-but not today, because he's okay, and they're going to face this together one way or another. Matt claps him on the shoulder and Adam's hand moves away, the breaking contact sending shivers through Kris from head to toe. He's cold and electric and none of it goes unnoticed, so Adam leans in close and whispers: I've got you.
It keeps him going through the next five minutes. The hug that nearly lifts him off the floor as he's announced safe keeps him going to the end of the hour. Kris doesn't remember much of it, aside from the spasm of guilt at how unfair it is to Matt to be so relieved with the outcome of the whole night. Because it means Adam is safe, it means one more week, which is as much as anyone can ask for.
When Adam leans down to kiss him, palm fitting over the handprint burned onto his chest once more, Kris holds his breath without realizing it until they part. (Respiration is the least of his problems right now.) He laughs shakily and says, you're my life support.