[fic] silly love songs
The sound of the key in the lock is like the most beautiful music Kris has ever heard. It’s been three weeks, and it’s familiar and welcoming and it almost feels like he never left.
It’s pitch black and still inside the house as he tip-toes in, somehow avoiding the mess of shoes and hair accessories littering the floor as he finds his way up the stairs. He almost trips twice, and he finds himself thinking that it’s good that he came home when he did; one more week and the house would have been uninhabitable, overtaken by nail polish and jewelry and trinkets.
He peeks into the tiny pink bedroom down the hall from his own, grinning stupidly and nodding at the dog, Simon, who looks up and blinks at him in greeting.
He continues down the hallway, into his own bedroom where he finds Adam asleep on his side, hugging Kris’s pillow to his chest.
He snickers; Adam Lambert is a cuddler. The fans would love that tidbit.
When he moves to pull the pillow out from his grasp, Adam groans in protest, still asleep, and Kris fills the empty space with his own body.
He stares at him for a moment, making a mental checklist of the features that have changed since he left for his media blitz (Skype doesn’t show him the mosquito bite scratched to a scab on Adam’s arm, nor does it show the new freckle that’s developed on his ear). He breathes him in, and the scent is so exclusively Adam, so much like home and comfort, that he’s almost lulled to sleep
Almost. Other needs are beating out exhaustion at the moment.
He pushes himself up, kissing down Adam’s throat, and he can feel the change in Adam’s breathing as he slowly comes into consciousness.
“The fuck?” Adam’s voice asks groggily, “Kris?”
Kris pulls back to look Adam in the eye, a blissful grin spread across his face.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing home? I thought I was coming to get you in the morning!”
“Thought I’d surprise you. Did it work?”
Adam leans down and captures Kris’s lips in his own, aggressive and needy, and Kris responds in kind, the passion borne of three weeks apart mingling with the comfortable familiarity of years spent together.
Kris positions himself to hover over Adam, a welcome dance that they both know well. Their shirts are both off within the moment, soft hands fluttering over taut skin, rememorizing muscles and ridges and scars. Tongues lick, suck, stroke every available inch of flesh, and neither of them worry about where the markings will be visible in the morning.
Neither man is capable of paying much attention to anything but one another, and Adam’s hand is stroking Kris through his jeans when they hear the tiny voice.
“Daddy?”
They pull apart instantly, panting and horrified, to find a tiny brunette head barely peeking over the foot of their bed.
“Hi baby!” Kris says, breathless. He rolls off of Adam reluctantly but instantly.
The three-year-old’s eyes are suddenly saucers, gleaming excitement.
“Daddy!” she shouts again, this time jumping up and bounding across the bed, “You’re home! Dada told me you wouldn’t be home until the morning and that when I woke up it would be time to go get you but he was wrong!” she turns her head towards Adam, “Dada, look! Daddy’s home!”
Adam chuckles, a little strained,
“I see, Liv.”
He shifts slightly, eyes screwed shut, and Kris stifles a laugh. The sidelong glance Adam then gives him reminds him that he’s no better off.
“How was your trip, daddy? How was your concerts? Did they like your songs?”
Kris grins and tucks the little girl between himself and Adam, shushing her and singing the song he’d written the day she was born.
The next morning, they wake up just like that, all three of them a tangled mess of limbs and hair. It’s not the first time it’s happened. It won’t be the last.
Kris smiles to himself, and simply thinks Home.
.
It’s pitch black and still inside the house as he tip-toes in, somehow avoiding the mess of shoes and hair accessories littering the floor as he finds his way up the stairs. He almost trips twice, and he finds himself thinking that it’s good that he came home when he did; one more week and the house would have been uninhabitable, overtaken by nail polish and jewelry and trinkets.
He peeks into the tiny pink bedroom down the hall from his own, grinning stupidly and nodding at the dog, Simon, who looks up and blinks at him in greeting.
He continues down the hallway, into his own bedroom where he finds Adam asleep on his side, hugging Kris’s pillow to his chest.
He snickers; Adam Lambert is a cuddler. The fans would love that tidbit.
When he moves to pull the pillow out from his grasp, Adam groans in protest, still asleep, and Kris fills the empty space with his own body.
He stares at him for a moment, making a mental checklist of the features that have changed since he left for his media blitz (Skype doesn’t show him the mosquito bite scratched to a scab on Adam’s arm, nor does it show the new freckle that’s developed on his ear). He breathes him in, and the scent is so exclusively Adam, so much like home and comfort, that he’s almost lulled to sleep
Almost. Other needs are beating out exhaustion at the moment.
He pushes himself up, kissing down Adam’s throat, and he can feel the change in Adam’s breathing as he slowly comes into consciousness.
“The fuck?” Adam’s voice asks groggily, “Kris?”
Kris pulls back to look Adam in the eye, a blissful grin spread across his face.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing home? I thought I was coming to get you in the morning!”
“Thought I’d surprise you. Did it work?”
Adam leans down and captures Kris’s lips in his own, aggressive and needy, and Kris responds in kind, the passion borne of three weeks apart mingling with the comfortable familiarity of years spent together.
Kris positions himself to hover over Adam, a welcome dance that they both know well. Their shirts are both off within the moment, soft hands fluttering over taut skin, rememorizing muscles and ridges and scars. Tongues lick, suck, stroke every available inch of flesh, and neither of them worry about where the markings will be visible in the morning.
Neither man is capable of paying much attention to anything but one another, and Adam’s hand is stroking Kris through his jeans when they hear the tiny voice.
“Daddy?”
They pull apart instantly, panting and horrified, to find a tiny brunette head barely peeking over the foot of their bed.
“Hi baby!” Kris says, breathless. He rolls off of Adam reluctantly but instantly.
The three-year-old’s eyes are suddenly saucers, gleaming excitement.
“Daddy!” she shouts again, this time jumping up and bounding across the bed, “You’re home! Dada told me you wouldn’t be home until the morning and that when I woke up it would be time to go get you but he was wrong!” she turns her head towards Adam, “Dada, look! Daddy’s home!”
Adam chuckles, a little strained,
“I see, Liv.”
He shifts slightly, eyes screwed shut, and Kris stifles a laugh. The sidelong glance Adam then gives him reminds him that he’s no better off.
“How was your trip, daddy? How was your concerts? Did they like your songs?”
Kris grins and tucks the little girl between himself and Adam, shushing her and singing the song he’d written the day she was born.
The next morning, they wake up just like that, all three of them a tangled mess of limbs and hair. It’s not the first time it’s happened. It won’t be the last.
Kris smiles to himself, and simply thinks Home.
.