FIC: "Don't Let The Sun Blast Your Shadow"
Title: Don't Let The Sun Blast Your Shadow
Author: xequth
Pairing: Gen, Adam/Kris friendship
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: ~2250
Song: Rock N Roll Suicide from The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars
Summary: Adam loses himself once a year in the vast deserts of Nevada. He's beginning to run out of reasons to go back to LA.
The sun looks down on the scorching Nevada desert like lone god's eye. The heat billows and eddies as it is disturbed by the occasional car, otherwise it hangs listlessly in the air. Beyond the tiny collection of buildings that can barely be called a town the horizon stretches on forever; rocky, unforgiving and never ending.
And in this slice of desolate Americana, the international superstar, rock god and darling-of-the-paparazzi known as Adam Lambert is trying to forget himself. He slouches against the wall of the single all-purpose store, smoking and channeling Clint Eastwood's squinting gaze. The hair is long and black, falling over one brilliant blue eye. The jeans are not quite as tight as they could be and the boots are too dusty to say much about. The leather jacket still fits like a glove though, the brown-black tooled leather well worn.
The fingers that hold the cigarette have chipped black polish on the nails. The hand is exquisitely careful as it lifts the cigarette to lips cracked and dry from the sun. Each time he takes a draw he seems more interested the swirling patterns of the smoke as he exhales than in breathing deep. His other hand taps out a funereal cadence on his leg as he looks out at nothing.
Adam stays there until the cigarette is burnt right down to the filter, nearly burning his hand before he drops it and grinds it out with the heel of his shoe. He doesn't light another. One cigarette a day. He's not allowed to ruin his voice. Even if a ruined voice would make things so much simpler for him. But simple never really seem to like him anyway.
So one a day it is. And even then only for this month. This annual lost weekend where he allowed himself to fall apart and be no one. Here in desert where this tiny town is the only place worth putting on the map and none of the ten inhabitants knows who the hell he is. He spends a month smashing his mask to pieces and then the next eleven months perfecting it again.
Sometimes Adam thinks he should just suck it up and not go back to LA. Just stay out here and disappear, become a myth like Elvis or a recluse like that guy who wrote Catcher in the Rye. It seems like a better ending than his nightmares of ending up the wrong kind of legend: a Britney Spears-sob story or a much-mourned Cobain.
He knows he can't go on like this forever. All Adam ever wanted was to make good music and entertain people. He wasn't sure if that was enough anymore. In front of a crowd, screaming his lungs, out was the only time he ever feels alive. But like a junkie building up a tolerence, each time it takes louder screams and more people to ignite the same fire. Afterwards he always feels drained. No longer in the cheerful, used-up and satisfied way he used to be. Ten years ago on the Idol Tour he'd relished in the joy that he had given it his all every night . Now the ache is bone deep and the emptiness gnaws at him, like he's given away too much and not gotten enough back.
Adam never feels empty out here. Or maybe it's just that the landscape is so empty he feels complete by comparison. No one judges him here; no one expects anything here. It's easy.
He blinks and rouses himself from his reverie. Thankfully no one is around to wonder exactly why he has been staring at the crushed remains of a cigarette butt for a good five minutes. Adam takes a long stride over his object of contemplation and begins to walk down the street. He pauses outside the diner, knowing that inside he could pour an ice cold drink down his throat and Deena would mother him in that same distant way she did everyone else, reassuring and warm without ever knowing details.
Deciding he's really not in the mood to be told every thing is okay, Adam walks on. He shoves his hands into his pockets and shifts his shoulders in his leather jacket. It's really far too hot to be wearing it but they say old habits die hard.
He squints up at the sun as he crosses the road. He remembers clear as ever that same sun rising over the horizon, bright with promise and potential even through the haze of drugs. That was a long time ago. In the early evening, the sun now looks just as weary as him. Adam contemplates the poetry of just fading away in this little town under the same sun that inspired him. It would bring a lovely symmetry -
A squeal of brakes and a too-close wave of heat. Adam tears his eyes from the sun. He had stopped in the middle of the road, unaware of his surroundings. A car had swerved to avoid hitting him and now stands ten feet away, its driver shouting obscenities that Adam doesn't even bother to process. He turns and walks away, before the driver gets a good look at his face. Getting recognised would be bad.
Adam thinks that it's a sign of something that being recognised worries him more than his close call. He's sure whatever the reason it won't be comforting so he dismisses it for now. He heads towards his car for the lonely ten mile drive back to his house. It's the same Mustang he got after Idol; still his pride and joy.
Out here in the desert though it hasn't be washed in weeks, the outside and inside covered in a fine coat of reddish dust. Inside it overlays the remains of a long ago glitter explosion, catching the light in new and interesting ways. As he starts the car and pulls out, he can't help but wonder how on earth he came to prefer the dust and sun to the glitz and flashing lights.
Except it wasn't that simple. He still loved the glitter and the drama, just tempered with something else... The closest way he could find to describe it was in terms of movies, which was never a very convincing argument. It's like realising that no matter how much you love Velvet Goldmine, there came a point when you'd really much rather be in Priscilla: Queen of the Desert. Of course the whole point of Velvet Goldmine is that there is no easy way out. Adam doesn't think faking his own death is a viable option, though. Not yet at least.
He drives onwards in silence, watching the flickering mirages and running of reasons to return to civilisation. There's family and friends, but they've grown used to distance over the years. The fans, but they are a faceless mass, however much Adam loves them. The music of course, the ability to create and control, to master his voice and craft something beautiful. That will never change. The question is whether it's worth it.
And Adam doesn't know the answer to that anymore.
He pulls into the rough driveway and cuts the rumbling of the car. He grips the steering wheel tight with both hands, exhaling deeply. He lets the silence surround him for a moment, before it is shattered by his phone ringing.
Adam frowns. His phone is somewhere in the car, yes. But only his mother and his assistant have the number accompanied by strict instructions not to call unless it's a matter of life and death. He remains frozen for a few seconds, before proceeding to try and fish out his phone. He finds it in the glove compartment under three pairs of sunglasses and a roadmap of Alaska.
As he stares down at his phone, all he can really think is, Duh, who else would it be. Again he realises that means something, but he isn't really sure what.
He answers the phone. "Hey, Kris."
"Hey, Adam." The voice is cracked and tired, but still far too familiar. Adam closes his eyes and lets it wash over him like cool rain, bringing the memories of the beginning back. "How're you?"
The meaningless pleasantry annoys Adam for some reason. Like Kris should know how he is already. Like he shouldn't have to ask. Like they should have been keeping in touch. Except they didn't; fame led to them drifting apart. And every time Adam heard something that he thought would make Kris laugh, or some random fact he wanted to share or just the urge to talk about nothing, he thought about calling, but always didn't because it would be too awkward after all this time. He squashes the impulse to let all those feelings bubble out into words and replies, "Oh, good, you know. And you?"
"Oh, fine. Music's going well."
Again Adam has to censor himself. Music going well is such a huge understatement, he finds it oddly hilarious. He stops himself from launching into prolonged praise to Kris' new single.
A long pause follows. And the awkwardness shows up on schedule, Adam thinks.
He hears Kris cough through the phone and considers waiting for him to break the silence. Adam decides that it would be too long. "So how did you get this number? I'm supposed to be inaccessible."
"I had to promise your assistant's niece backstage passes for life and grovel for a good hour on top of that." Kris slides into the easy banter as if it were only yesterday.
"I will have to give her a stern talking to about being so permissive." Adam keeps his tone light and jokey. He doesn't mean a word of it. In fact, he'll probably buy her a very expensive box of chocolates for knowing her employer so well.
"I think your secrets are still safe with her, unless any paparazzi have seven-year-old fans."
Adam lets himself laugh at that. "So why exactly were you so desperate to contact me."
"Well, uh." Even down the phone line, Adam can see his scratching the back of his neck. "You see... I know you have this place where you get away from the world and stuff. And my life is just really crazy right now, and my fans have discovered my fishing cabin on Lake Tahoe, so I can't really go there without getting mobbed. And I completely understand if you wanna keep it just your private place, or whatever, but I figure it must be pretty well hidden if no one's found it by now, and I need somewhere to just be me for a few days, so..."
"You want to crash at my hideaway for a while?"
"Basically, yeah."
Adam allows himself a moment to let the enormity of it hit him. No one has been to his refuge, not his assistant, not his mother, not any of his boyfriends. But... It's Kris. Kris. His best friend, who gets him like no one else.
He opens his mouth to say, Sure, come right on over. And then pauses. It's not such a good idea. He gets weirdly introspective and semi-suicidal out here alone. Kris really doesn't need to see that side of him.
Kris seems to have noticed his pause to think. "If you don't want me to come, then it's fine. I'll find somewhere else, no problem -"
"It's not that." Adam cuts off Kris' polite rambling before it can get started. "It's just." He sighs. "I get fucking strange out here by myself."
"Um, strange?"
"My mind goes all over the place and I operate on weird schedules and forget to sleep, and end up stargazing until four in the morning and thinking about death and giving up music too much and shit like that." Adam puts it bluntly, not mincing his words. "I doubt I'm pleasant to be around."
"Adam, please, you lack the ability to be unpleasant for more than a day." Kris scoffs. "You're wonderful like that. Besides, all that other stuff? Just like me when I get some time to myself. We can mope about being famous together."
"Really?" Adam tries and fails to stop the relieved lilt to his voice. For all he was thinking of making a career of it, he really isn't good at the subtleties of acting.
"Yup." There's a laugh in Kris' voice. "So can I come?"
"Sure." Everything just felt vaguely better now, like someone had slipped a filter over a lens. Kris, who could win Mr. Well-Adjusted Famous Person of the Year, was just as weird as him. "I'll text you the address as soon as I remember it. Which may be a few hours."
Kris is openly laughing now. "Alright. See you at some point in the near future then."
"Bye." Kris hangs up. Adam is already searching his mind for what on earth his quiet little town is called and failing to come up with anything other than 'here'.
He taps a jaunty tune on the steering wheel, before levering himself out of the car and heading inside. His long shadow dances behind him as the sun looks on and the dust eddies in his wake.
Author: xequth
Pairing: Gen, Adam/Kris friendship
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: ~2250
Song: Rock N Roll Suicide from The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars
Summary: Adam loses himself once a year in the vast deserts of Nevada. He's beginning to run out of reasons to go back to LA.
The sun looks down on the scorching Nevada desert like lone god's eye. The heat billows and eddies as it is disturbed by the occasional car, otherwise it hangs listlessly in the air. Beyond the tiny collection of buildings that can barely be called a town the horizon stretches on forever; rocky, unforgiving and never ending.
And in this slice of desolate Americana, the international superstar, rock god and darling-of-the-paparazzi known as Adam Lambert is trying to forget himself. He slouches against the wall of the single all-purpose store, smoking and channeling Clint Eastwood's squinting gaze. The hair is long and black, falling over one brilliant blue eye. The jeans are not quite as tight as they could be and the boots are too dusty to say much about. The leather jacket still fits like a glove though, the brown-black tooled leather well worn.
The fingers that hold the cigarette have chipped black polish on the nails. The hand is exquisitely careful as it lifts the cigarette to lips cracked and dry from the sun. Each time he takes a draw he seems more interested the swirling patterns of the smoke as he exhales than in breathing deep. His other hand taps out a funereal cadence on his leg as he looks out at nothing.
Adam stays there until the cigarette is burnt right down to the filter, nearly burning his hand before he drops it and grinds it out with the heel of his shoe. He doesn't light another. One cigarette a day. He's not allowed to ruin his voice. Even if a ruined voice would make things so much simpler for him. But simple never really seem to like him anyway.
So one a day it is. And even then only for this month. This annual lost weekend where he allowed himself to fall apart and be no one. Here in desert where this tiny town is the only place worth putting on the map and none of the ten inhabitants knows who the hell he is. He spends a month smashing his mask to pieces and then the next eleven months perfecting it again.
Sometimes Adam thinks he should just suck it up and not go back to LA. Just stay out here and disappear, become a myth like Elvis or a recluse like that guy who wrote Catcher in the Rye. It seems like a better ending than his nightmares of ending up the wrong kind of legend: a Britney Spears-sob story or a much-mourned Cobain.
He knows he can't go on like this forever. All Adam ever wanted was to make good music and entertain people. He wasn't sure if that was enough anymore. In front of a crowd, screaming his lungs, out was the only time he ever feels alive. But like a junkie building up a tolerence, each time it takes louder screams and more people to ignite the same fire. Afterwards he always feels drained. No longer in the cheerful, used-up and satisfied way he used to be. Ten years ago on the Idol Tour he'd relished in the joy that he had given it his all every night . Now the ache is bone deep and the emptiness gnaws at him, like he's given away too much and not gotten enough back.
Adam never feels empty out here. Or maybe it's just that the landscape is so empty he feels complete by comparison. No one judges him here; no one expects anything here. It's easy.
He blinks and rouses himself from his reverie. Thankfully no one is around to wonder exactly why he has been staring at the crushed remains of a cigarette butt for a good five minutes. Adam takes a long stride over his object of contemplation and begins to walk down the street. He pauses outside the diner, knowing that inside he could pour an ice cold drink down his throat and Deena would mother him in that same distant way she did everyone else, reassuring and warm without ever knowing details.
Deciding he's really not in the mood to be told every thing is okay, Adam walks on. He shoves his hands into his pockets and shifts his shoulders in his leather jacket. It's really far too hot to be wearing it but they say old habits die hard.
He squints up at the sun as he crosses the road. He remembers clear as ever that same sun rising over the horizon, bright with promise and potential even through the haze of drugs. That was a long time ago. In the early evening, the sun now looks just as weary as him. Adam contemplates the poetry of just fading away in this little town under the same sun that inspired him. It would bring a lovely symmetry -
A squeal of brakes and a too-close wave of heat. Adam tears his eyes from the sun. He had stopped in the middle of the road, unaware of his surroundings. A car had swerved to avoid hitting him and now stands ten feet away, its driver shouting obscenities that Adam doesn't even bother to process. He turns and walks away, before the driver gets a good look at his face. Getting recognised would be bad.
Adam thinks that it's a sign of something that being recognised worries him more than his close call. He's sure whatever the reason it won't be comforting so he dismisses it for now. He heads towards his car for the lonely ten mile drive back to his house. It's the same Mustang he got after Idol; still his pride and joy.
Out here in the desert though it hasn't be washed in weeks, the outside and inside covered in a fine coat of reddish dust. Inside it overlays the remains of a long ago glitter explosion, catching the light in new and interesting ways. As he starts the car and pulls out, he can't help but wonder how on earth he came to prefer the dust and sun to the glitz and flashing lights.
Except it wasn't that simple. He still loved the glitter and the drama, just tempered with something else... The closest way he could find to describe it was in terms of movies, which was never a very convincing argument. It's like realising that no matter how much you love Velvet Goldmine, there came a point when you'd really much rather be in Priscilla: Queen of the Desert. Of course the whole point of Velvet Goldmine is that there is no easy way out. Adam doesn't think faking his own death is a viable option, though. Not yet at least.
He drives onwards in silence, watching the flickering mirages and running of reasons to return to civilisation. There's family and friends, but they've grown used to distance over the years. The fans, but they are a faceless mass, however much Adam loves them. The music of course, the ability to create and control, to master his voice and craft something beautiful. That will never change. The question is whether it's worth it.
And Adam doesn't know the answer to that anymore.
He pulls into the rough driveway and cuts the rumbling of the car. He grips the steering wheel tight with both hands, exhaling deeply. He lets the silence surround him for a moment, before it is shattered by his phone ringing.
Adam frowns. His phone is somewhere in the car, yes. But only his mother and his assistant have the number accompanied by strict instructions not to call unless it's a matter of life and death. He remains frozen for a few seconds, before proceeding to try and fish out his phone. He finds it in the glove compartment under three pairs of sunglasses and a roadmap of Alaska.
As he stares down at his phone, all he can really think is, Duh, who else would it be. Again he realises that means something, but he isn't really sure what.
He answers the phone. "Hey, Kris."
"Hey, Adam." The voice is cracked and tired, but still far too familiar. Adam closes his eyes and lets it wash over him like cool rain, bringing the memories of the beginning back. "How're you?"
The meaningless pleasantry annoys Adam for some reason. Like Kris should know how he is already. Like he shouldn't have to ask. Like they should have been keeping in touch. Except they didn't; fame led to them drifting apart. And every time Adam heard something that he thought would make Kris laugh, or some random fact he wanted to share or just the urge to talk about nothing, he thought about calling, but always didn't because it would be too awkward after all this time. He squashes the impulse to let all those feelings bubble out into words and replies, "Oh, good, you know. And you?"
"Oh, fine. Music's going well."
Again Adam has to censor himself. Music going well is such a huge understatement, he finds it oddly hilarious. He stops himself from launching into prolonged praise to Kris' new single.
A long pause follows. And the awkwardness shows up on schedule, Adam thinks.
He hears Kris cough through the phone and considers waiting for him to break the silence. Adam decides that it would be too long. "So how did you get this number? I'm supposed to be inaccessible."
"I had to promise your assistant's niece backstage passes for life and grovel for a good hour on top of that." Kris slides into the easy banter as if it were only yesterday.
"I will have to give her a stern talking to about being so permissive." Adam keeps his tone light and jokey. He doesn't mean a word of it. In fact, he'll probably buy her a very expensive box of chocolates for knowing her employer so well.
"I think your secrets are still safe with her, unless any paparazzi have seven-year-old fans."
Adam lets himself laugh at that. "So why exactly were you so desperate to contact me."
"Well, uh." Even down the phone line, Adam can see his scratching the back of his neck. "You see... I know you have this place where you get away from the world and stuff. And my life is just really crazy right now, and my fans have discovered my fishing cabin on Lake Tahoe, so I can't really go there without getting mobbed. And I completely understand if you wanna keep it just your private place, or whatever, but I figure it must be pretty well hidden if no one's found it by now, and I need somewhere to just be me for a few days, so..."
"You want to crash at my hideaway for a while?"
"Basically, yeah."
Adam allows himself a moment to let the enormity of it hit him. No one has been to his refuge, not his assistant, not his mother, not any of his boyfriends. But... It's Kris. Kris. His best friend, who gets him like no one else.
He opens his mouth to say, Sure, come right on over. And then pauses. It's not such a good idea. He gets weirdly introspective and semi-suicidal out here alone. Kris really doesn't need to see that side of him.
Kris seems to have noticed his pause to think. "If you don't want me to come, then it's fine. I'll find somewhere else, no problem -"
"It's not that." Adam cuts off Kris' polite rambling before it can get started. "It's just." He sighs. "I get fucking strange out here by myself."
"Um, strange?"
"My mind goes all over the place and I operate on weird schedules and forget to sleep, and end up stargazing until four in the morning and thinking about death and giving up music too much and shit like that." Adam puts it bluntly, not mincing his words. "I doubt I'm pleasant to be around."
"Adam, please, you lack the ability to be unpleasant for more than a day." Kris scoffs. "You're wonderful like that. Besides, all that other stuff? Just like me when I get some time to myself. We can mope about being famous together."
"Really?" Adam tries and fails to stop the relieved lilt to his voice. For all he was thinking of making a career of it, he really isn't good at the subtleties of acting.
"Yup." There's a laugh in Kris' voice. "So can I come?"
"Sure." Everything just felt vaguely better now, like someone had slipped a filter over a lens. Kris, who could win Mr. Well-Adjusted Famous Person of the Year, was just as weird as him. "I'll text you the address as soon as I remember it. Which may be a few hours."
Kris is openly laughing now. "Alright. See you at some point in the near future then."
"Bye." Kris hangs up. Adam is already searching his mind for what on earth his quiet little town is called and failing to come up with anything other than 'here'.
He taps a jaunty tune on the steering wheel, before levering himself out of the car and heading inside. His long shadow dances behind him as the sun looks on and the dust eddies in his wake.