FIC: "Libertine"
Title: Libertine
Author: sharpest_rose
Pairing(s): All are only implied, alas, but if you squint there's mentions of Adam/Drake, Anoop/Megan, Adam/Brian Molko, Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Lindsey Ballato/Gerard Way, Frank Iero/Adam
Rating: Non-explicit
Word Count: ~1,600
Song: "Without You, I'm Nothing" by Placebo feat. David Bowie
Summary: "Speaking of your reputation, is it true there's a portrait in your attic that changes as time passes, while you stay the same?" Frank asks with a smirk.
The Projekt Revolution carnival has been on the move for years, now. Adam's lost track of how many times the ragged collection of carts and trucks has come through California. He remembers that, in earlier days, the paint on the sides of the caravans was fresh and bright, not dusty and peeling, and that there were more locals with money to spend on the sideshows and rides.
The Depression hasn't touched him in his own comfortable life, not really, but he's not unaware of it. It's there in the details and changes in the world around him. Time passes on, for better or for worse. He doesn't find that especially comforting.
The old acts are still there: Katie and Dusty, the bellydancers with their ghostly fluttering skirts as they writhe like snakes. Anoop, whose poster proclaims that he's a long-lost Indian prince, who sings silky, smoky love songs. He shares a caravan with Megan, the fortune-teller with vivid colours inked on her arms and a small, bright eyed child who darts across the carnival grounds bare-footed while the few patrons wander from stall to stall.
Brian is still here, as fey and lovely as ever -- he scarcely changes more than Adam from year to year, it sometimes seems -- and still selling his colourful tinted sugar-water, infused with lemon and honey.
"It's not as if I claim they're anything but what they are," he'd drawled in his dry voice to Adam, once, and that much is true. The sign at his tabletop store proclaims "Feel Better In Minutes! Proven To Lift The Spirit And Aid In The Fighting Of Aches, Pains, Indigestion, Headache, Chills, And Fever! Doctor Brian Molko's World Famous Placebo Tonics!"
"You're not a doctor," Adam had pointed out, and Brian had shrugged.
"All right, one little white lie. I doubt that'll be the sin that damns me."
For his own part, Adam doesn't believe in damnation. Or, if he does, he believes it in the same abstract way he believes in the stars. It's nothing much to do with his own extistence, so he doesn't bother to ponder it very deeply.
The only devout, direct faith Adam has the displeasure to regularly witness in his life is the raving, slightly rat-faced street preacher named Danny who frequents a sidewalk corner near Adam's townhouse. Belief doesn't seem to do Danny any good, and Adam can't imagine any reason to cultivate such a trait within himself.
The Mindless Self Indulgence tent is as wild and lively as ever, with its lurid acrobats and fire eaters. They always tolerate Adam with the same easy, sharp cheerfullness they seem to extend to anyone they recognise as being as strange as they are. When he enters their tent on this particular visit, he's greeted with the site of Jimmy, the spiky-haired man dressed all in pink, collecting dollars in exchange for kisses, and Lindsey breathing out a bloom of fire before bending backwards until her body is almost double, her legs pale and long and bare. They wave a greeting to Adam, but he doesn't stop and interrupt them.
The next tent is new this year. Striped in faded blacks and reds, the sounds breaking through under the ragged edges along the dusty ground and the flapping, half-open entrance are driving and discordant. So many of the acts in the Projekt Revolution carnival are musical, and yet their divergent sounds somehow manage to never clash and battle. Each exists in its own small space, divorced from the wider reality around it.
Adam's almost inclined to draw a metaphoric comparison between that fact and his own changeless existence, but he doesn't. Music is still alive, always, in a way that he hasn't truly been in a long time.
The new tent announces its name in rough, uneven letters. MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE. The image beneath, done in angular brush-strokes and a cartoonish style which reminds Adam of the pulpy comic-books full of heroes and monsters. The figures in the image seem to be dressed in an exaggerated form of military regalia, and Adam's interest is piqued enough for him to step inside. One thing he has never lost his appreciation for is those who display an exaggerated sense of the theatrical, and that seems to be what the poster and snatches of music promise.
He is not disappointed. The crowd inside is young, the disillusioned girls and boys who might have been debutantes and reckless youths, had they lived in a time when such frivolity was still possible. The boys and girls stare up at the stage with unhappy faces and shining eyes, something almost like a saint's dying religious ecstasy. Adam follows their communal gaze, and sets his eyes on the band.
Their passion is evident, as is the energy and pain they summon up, drawing it out of the crowd and then throwing it back, with some alchemy in the process changing the suffering from dull unhappiness into a rallying cry of survival. Adam is impressed -- the static nature of his own existence has taught him just how valuable true alchemy of experience can be.
As one song ends and another begins, one of the guitarists -- there are two; this is the shorter and darker of the pair, his arms riddled with dozens of inked designs of varying quality -- leans in close to the singer, saying something to him in the lull between noises.
Rather than paying attention to his musician's words, however, the singer grabs the guitarist by a handful of his black hair and pulls his head up, claiming a rough and dirty kiss from the other man's mouth. The crowd hoots and hollers in equal parts derision and delight.
Adam smirks, leaning back against one of the tent's support beams to watch the rest of the show.
After My Chemical Romance have finished their show, and collected donations from their appreciative crowd, Adam approaches the stage to say hello.
"Adam Lambert," he introduces himself. The singer gives him a surprisingly unguarded, lopsided grin.
"Oh, hi! Lindsey said you'd probably come to see us while you were in town. I'm Gerard."
"Actually," the guitarist corrects. "She warned him not to get seduced by you. I'm Frank, by the way."
"It's always a shame when my reputation precedes me," Adam says with mock-dismay. In truth, he's rather intrigued by the thought of wicked little Lindsey and this strange contradiction of a performer in a carnival romance. It will either end very well, he suspects, or very badly.
"Speaking of your reputation, is it true there's a portrait in your attic that changes as time passes, while you stay the same?" Frank asks with a smirk.
That particular piece of wild gossip has been doing the rounds for years. Adam allows it to continue its existence, because it is lurid and ridiculous enough that repeating it aloud makes it seem ever-more unlikely.
"Yes," Adam answers simply, surprising even himself a little. "Do you want to see it?"
Frank smooths one of his palms over the tattoos on his opposite forearm, as if to reassure himself that the small scars from the thick inks are still all there. "That's crazy fucked-up. I can't even imagine what it'd be like to live without your body showing what life you've had."
"I want to see it," Gerard says. "Was it painted in some special way or something? Like, with blood or magic potions or something? I'd love to ask the guy who painted it what he did to make that happen."
"There was nothing special about the paint," Adam answers. "Or the manner of the painting." His voice goes colder. "The artist is dead." Even if Adam's fate was not really Drake's fault, Adam has yet to find it in himself to forgive the other man.
"I'm glad you don't have that kind of power," Frank is saying to Gerard. "I'd wake up with tentacles or some shit if you could make things happen with your drawings."
There's no disbelief or sarcasm in their voices. Despite the outlandishness of Adam's claim, they've accepted it as the simple truth of the matter. The acceptance is strangely charming, though not wholly surprising -- their band is part of the Projekt Revolution carnival, after all. They have likely seen far stranger things than a portrait which lives out the life its owner has been cut off from.
"Shall we go, then?" Adam asks the pair. Gerard makes an uncertain face, his uneven mouth twisting into a thoughtful pout. "I'll show you the portrait, and then perhaps we might have some dinner at my house?"
"Lindsey wouldn't like it, I don't think," he says regretfully.
"We can stop in and invite her too, on our way," Adam promises. It's been a long time since he's had the chance to spend time with a couple who share any kind of intimacy other than that of the flesh. He thinks the variation might prove to be exotic and exciting, insofar as anything seems exotic and exciting to his languid spirit these days.
"Lead the way," Frank agrees, wicked promise in his tone. Adam smiles. He always enjoys it when the carnival visits.
Author: sharpest_rose
Pairing(s): All are only implied, alas, but if you squint there's mentions of Adam/Drake, Anoop/Megan, Adam/Brian Molko, Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Lindsey Ballato/Gerard Way, Frank Iero/Adam
Rating: Non-explicit
Word Count: ~1,600
Song: "Without You, I'm Nothing" by Placebo feat. David Bowie
Summary: "Speaking of your reputation, is it true there's a portrait in your attic that changes as time passes, while you stay the same?" Frank asks with a smirk.
The Projekt Revolution carnival has been on the move for years, now. Adam's lost track of how many times the ragged collection of carts and trucks has come through California. He remembers that, in earlier days, the paint on the sides of the caravans was fresh and bright, not dusty and peeling, and that there were more locals with money to spend on the sideshows and rides.
The Depression hasn't touched him in his own comfortable life, not really, but he's not unaware of it. It's there in the details and changes in the world around him. Time passes on, for better or for worse. He doesn't find that especially comforting.
The old acts are still there: Katie and Dusty, the bellydancers with their ghostly fluttering skirts as they writhe like snakes. Anoop, whose poster proclaims that he's a long-lost Indian prince, who sings silky, smoky love songs. He shares a caravan with Megan, the fortune-teller with vivid colours inked on her arms and a small, bright eyed child who darts across the carnival grounds bare-footed while the few patrons wander from stall to stall.
Brian is still here, as fey and lovely as ever -- he scarcely changes more than Adam from year to year, it sometimes seems -- and still selling his colourful tinted sugar-water, infused with lemon and honey.
"It's not as if I claim they're anything but what they are," he'd drawled in his dry voice to Adam, once, and that much is true. The sign at his tabletop store proclaims "Feel Better In Minutes! Proven To Lift The Spirit And Aid In The Fighting Of Aches, Pains, Indigestion, Headache, Chills, And Fever! Doctor Brian Molko's World Famous Placebo Tonics!"
"You're not a doctor," Adam had pointed out, and Brian had shrugged.
"All right, one little white lie. I doubt that'll be the sin that damns me."
For his own part, Adam doesn't believe in damnation. Or, if he does, he believes it in the same abstract way he believes in the stars. It's nothing much to do with his own extistence, so he doesn't bother to ponder it very deeply.
The only devout, direct faith Adam has the displeasure to regularly witness in his life is the raving, slightly rat-faced street preacher named Danny who frequents a sidewalk corner near Adam's townhouse. Belief doesn't seem to do Danny any good, and Adam can't imagine any reason to cultivate such a trait within himself.
The Mindless Self Indulgence tent is as wild and lively as ever, with its lurid acrobats and fire eaters. They always tolerate Adam with the same easy, sharp cheerfullness they seem to extend to anyone they recognise as being as strange as they are. When he enters their tent on this particular visit, he's greeted with the site of Jimmy, the spiky-haired man dressed all in pink, collecting dollars in exchange for kisses, and Lindsey breathing out a bloom of fire before bending backwards until her body is almost double, her legs pale and long and bare. They wave a greeting to Adam, but he doesn't stop and interrupt them.
The next tent is new this year. Striped in faded blacks and reds, the sounds breaking through under the ragged edges along the dusty ground and the flapping, half-open entrance are driving and discordant. So many of the acts in the Projekt Revolution carnival are musical, and yet their divergent sounds somehow manage to never clash and battle. Each exists in its own small space, divorced from the wider reality around it.
Adam's almost inclined to draw a metaphoric comparison between that fact and his own changeless existence, but he doesn't. Music is still alive, always, in a way that he hasn't truly been in a long time.
The new tent announces its name in rough, uneven letters. MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE. The image beneath, done in angular brush-strokes and a cartoonish style which reminds Adam of the pulpy comic-books full of heroes and monsters. The figures in the image seem to be dressed in an exaggerated form of military regalia, and Adam's interest is piqued enough for him to step inside. One thing he has never lost his appreciation for is those who display an exaggerated sense of the theatrical, and that seems to be what the poster and snatches of music promise.
He is not disappointed. The crowd inside is young, the disillusioned girls and boys who might have been debutantes and reckless youths, had they lived in a time when such frivolity was still possible. The boys and girls stare up at the stage with unhappy faces and shining eyes, something almost like a saint's dying religious ecstasy. Adam follows their communal gaze, and sets his eyes on the band.
Their passion is evident, as is the energy and pain they summon up, drawing it out of the crowd and then throwing it back, with some alchemy in the process changing the suffering from dull unhappiness into a rallying cry of survival. Adam is impressed -- the static nature of his own existence has taught him just how valuable true alchemy of experience can be.
As one song ends and another begins, one of the guitarists -- there are two; this is the shorter and darker of the pair, his arms riddled with dozens of inked designs of varying quality -- leans in close to the singer, saying something to him in the lull between noises.
Rather than paying attention to his musician's words, however, the singer grabs the guitarist by a handful of his black hair and pulls his head up, claiming a rough and dirty kiss from the other man's mouth. The crowd hoots and hollers in equal parts derision and delight.
Adam smirks, leaning back against one of the tent's support beams to watch the rest of the show.
After My Chemical Romance have finished their show, and collected donations from their appreciative crowd, Adam approaches the stage to say hello.
"Adam Lambert," he introduces himself. The singer gives him a surprisingly unguarded, lopsided grin.
"Oh, hi! Lindsey said you'd probably come to see us while you were in town. I'm Gerard."
"Actually," the guitarist corrects. "She warned him not to get seduced by you. I'm Frank, by the way."
"It's always a shame when my reputation precedes me," Adam says with mock-dismay. In truth, he's rather intrigued by the thought of wicked little Lindsey and this strange contradiction of a performer in a carnival romance. It will either end very well, he suspects, or very badly.
"Speaking of your reputation, is it true there's a portrait in your attic that changes as time passes, while you stay the same?" Frank asks with a smirk.
That particular piece of wild gossip has been doing the rounds for years. Adam allows it to continue its existence, because it is lurid and ridiculous enough that repeating it aloud makes it seem ever-more unlikely.
"Yes," Adam answers simply, surprising even himself a little. "Do you want to see it?"
Frank smooths one of his palms over the tattoos on his opposite forearm, as if to reassure himself that the small scars from the thick inks are still all there. "That's crazy fucked-up. I can't even imagine what it'd be like to live without your body showing what life you've had."
"I want to see it," Gerard says. "Was it painted in some special way or something? Like, with blood or magic potions or something? I'd love to ask the guy who painted it what he did to make that happen."
"There was nothing special about the paint," Adam answers. "Or the manner of the painting." His voice goes colder. "The artist is dead." Even if Adam's fate was not really Drake's fault, Adam has yet to find it in himself to forgive the other man.
"I'm glad you don't have that kind of power," Frank is saying to Gerard. "I'd wake up with tentacles or some shit if you could make things happen with your drawings."
There's no disbelief or sarcasm in their voices. Despite the outlandishness of Adam's claim, they've accepted it as the simple truth of the matter. The acceptance is strangely charming, though not wholly surprising -- their band is part of the Projekt Revolution carnival, after all. They have likely seen far stranger things than a portrait which lives out the life its owner has been cut off from.
"Shall we go, then?" Adam asks the pair. Gerard makes an uncertain face, his uneven mouth twisting into a thoughtful pout. "I'll show you the portrait, and then perhaps we might have some dinner at my house?"
"Lindsey wouldn't like it, I don't think," he says regretfully.
"We can stop in and invite her too, on our way," Adam promises. It's been a long time since he's had the chance to spend time with a couple who share any kind of intimacy other than that of the flesh. He thinks the variation might prove to be exotic and exciting, insofar as anything seems exotic and exciting to his languid spirit these days.
"Lead the way," Frank agrees, wicked promise in his tone. Adam smiles. He always enjoys it when the carnival visits.