Amnesty
Title: Amnesty
Pairing: Kris/Katy, Kris/Adam
Word count: 5000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Major angst, infidelity
Summary: What Kris had to lose.
Author's note: Much gratitude to condancer for feedback and kindness.
Diclaimer: Pure imagination. No disrespect intended.
Amnesty
Kris lies on his back and dreams of the sky. Clouds gather, then dissolve on a field of blue shading to gray. The changeable colors pull at him until he’s inside, floating. His subconscious skeptic points out the violation of gravity’s law, but he lingers in suspended animation, uncaring.
When he drifts too close to the surface, flashes of reality intrude. Bright light prying at his closed lids, the murmur of Katy’s voice. The image of her, half turned away, speaking urgently into her phone. He must be the cause of her agitation; he usually is.
His head throbs insistently. He wills himself heavy enough to sink deeper.
He wakes for good to find a tall, bearded man at his bedside. Cale? No, he’s got a white coat and a clipboard and a whiff of rubbing alcohol. Kris is in a hospital, obviously. “Hi,” he says inanely. “My head hurts--what happened? Did I fall? Car accident?” Crap, the Fusion. Katy was going to kill him.
“Hi, Kris. Can you tell me today's date?” Dr. Mark Anders, as his nametag identifies him, even has Cale’s serious dark eyes. Kris’s rising anxiety subsides a little.
“October fifth. Um, 2009. Tuesday.”
“And what’s the last thing you remember?”
It comes clearly through the static of pain. “Talking with Mike. My producer. There was this piano part I couldn’t get quite right, and we--anyway, I was in the studio until early evening.” His eyes are drawn to the window, where a stripe of sunlight fills the gap between the curtains. “I guess that doesn’t add up.”
“You’re missing less than 24 hours,” Cale’s double reassures him. “It’s Wednesday the sixth, a little after three p.m.”
“But I’m not supposed to be missing anything. What happened to me?”
“You had an adverse reaction to a cognitive modifier. Does this ring a bell?” The doctor indicates the flimsy plastic band on Kris’s left wrist, the sort of thing issued to concertgoers. This one is printed with Amnest 3 mg, 10/6/09, Patricia M. Hayes, M.D.
So it was over and done. “Yeah. I mean, I remember Dr. Hayes, and making the appointment, and all that. I don’t remember getting the injection. I was supposed to be at her office at ten-thirty this morning.”
Dr. Anders glances down at his clipboard. “Your wife says you started complaining of a headache and dizziness on the way home. She called Dr. Hayes, who told her to bring you here. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a few hours. We’ll want to keep an eye on you for a while longer, but you’re not in any danger.”
“But why did I have the reaction?”
“It's uncommon, but it does happen. I‘m sure Dr. Hayes went over the risks when you chose no regrets.” At Kris’s uncomprehending stare, he explains, “Slang for CMs like Amnest. No Regrets.” His smile is kind. “Doesn’t seem very appropriate right now, does it? But what you’re feeling is temporary.”
“What about the missing time?”
“That might be transient too. But altering patterns in the brain can lead to unexpected results."
The doctor’s parting words are an instruction to rest. Kris doesn’t try to sleep; the comfort of Adam’s blue-gray eyes is out of reach now.
--
Contrary to popular belief, there was no such thing as a selective amnesia drug. Kris and Katy had learned as much during their consultation with Dr. Hayes. “Beneficial as it would be to trauma survivors, medical science isn't quite there yet. It wouldn't be indicated in your case anyway, I understand.”
Kris eyed the file on her desk that held his secrets. “No, I wouldn’t say I‘ve been through a trauma.”
“What we can do is help patients like you by targeting unwanted responses to stimuli.” Katy was nodding eagerly as the psychiatrist continued, “A smoker, for example, would retain all his memories associated with smoking. But the sight or smell of a cigarette would no longer trigger a craving. In cases of emotional attachment, the patient doesn’t forget the object of his fixation. He or she still recognizes that person, still remembers the details of their relationship. Only the fixation is gone.”
Kris spoke involuntarily. “Fixation?” He was lapsing again, defending the thing he had no right to claim. And now Katy was giving him the forbearing look he’d grown accustomed to seeing on her face. “That sounds so . . . unhealthy.”
“The bond, if you prefer.”
Dr. Hayes was probably a nice enough person, just dry in her delivery as Kris's college economics professor. But Kris didn’t want to be here in her book-lined office, holding hands with Katy to present a united front. Her words evoked bright pathways disappearing off the map of his brain, neural connections coming unplugged, a city grid blinking out.
“And it definitely works? Kris will be-- ” Katy stuck on an a tactful substitute for cured.
“The application to family therapy is recent, but I've seen some extremely positive results. There’s no guarantee, of course, but as long as both of you are committed, cognitive modification may be the answer you’re looking for.”
It was their last resort. They’d done the “exercises for intimacy” recommended by the marriage counselor, with an emphasis on open communication. “It hurt my feelings when you seemed bored by my audition story,” Katy would say. “When you take those shots at my music, I feel like you don’t respect me,” Kris would offer in turn. They’d scheduled date nights--polite conversation over meals that cost more than their weekly grocery budget back in Cabot, followed by a return to an apartment full of unpacked boxes and no sex.
They’d even spent a weekend in Arkansas, revisiting the scenes of their courtship. Kris hadn’t quite showed up for this parody of a second honeymoon, or for any of the rest. His passion was intact--closed up in the notebook where he wrote songs for someone else.
“I’ll think about it. We’ll think about it,” Kris amended. The tone of the discussion was reasonable, absent any threat, yet he felt himself without an advocate. It would’ve been useless to burst out, Tell me why I shouldn’t do this.
--
“I promised you I would never act on it,” he tried in his own defense. They were having dinner at The Ivy, a paparazzi stakeout spot and Kris’s last choice for a private conversation. “And he would never . . . cross any lines, you know that.”
Katy laid down her fork across her untouched plate of pasta. “What does it matter if you haven't actually cheated, when your thoughts are all tied up with him?”
Kris couldn’t argue with a truth he’d already admitted to himself. It washed over him in a wave of nausea, the sick knowledge that he’d wronged her, had broken his pledge to honor and cherish. But the familiar remorse didn’t drown the instinct to guard . . . he was reluctant to call it his soul, a concept he held too much in awe to use as freely as most songwriters did. His core.
Aloud, he persisted, “I'm trying. Can’t we give it time?”
Katy dropped the non-accusatory language of their counseling sessions. “You’re about to release a whole album about him, Kristopher! About how you forgot what love is and he showed you again!” No heads turned as her voice rose. Small-town marital drama was beneath Hollywood’s notice. “Do you really expect to sing those lyrics every night without reliving them? Without reinforcing the feelings you can’t seem to get rid of on your own?”
This was their old war of words, with Kris groping for the right ones while Katy wore him down with her endless supply. He toyed with his roast chicken until she spoke again, calmer. “Pastor Rick wouldn’t have suggested it if it wasn’t a good idea. It’s helped so many people in the church find their way to God’s forgiveness. Drinking problems, addictions--healed, just like that.”
“I can see how it would work for something like quitting smoking. It’d be like you never had that first cigarette and got hooked. But for my-- ” He gestured awkwardly.
“Erica Porter was talking about filing for divorce over Kevin’s infidelity, and now they’re committed in a full spirit. They’re having a baby in-- Good grief, Kris, don’t look so freaked out! We agreed we’d wait to start a family. I’m not pressuring you.”
A happy ending and a blameless conscience, in a syringe. It had been years since Kris’s high school struggles with Paradise Lost, but he remembered the line about untested virtue. Wouldn’t vaccinating yourself against temptation be breaking the rules? Then again, maybe it was better to avoid sin by any means necessary than to fall from grace. Another memory: Cale sobbing hoarsely as he confessed to an unbreakable porn habit. For the first time, Kris wondered if Cale really owed his fresh start to answered prayers.
He backtracked. “I’m still going to be me, afterwards, and he’s still going to be him. Doesn’t one plus one always equal two?”
“Well, you won’t be seeing him enough to be doing any adding.” Katy stabbed at penne. “And you won’t be living together as contestants on a TV show, cut off from family and normal life. It was that unreal situation that heightened everything. If you’d met him anywhere else, you probably wouldn't even have become friends.”
This time, Kris stifled the reflexive defense. It was the least he owed his wife, to not say, The first time I saw him, I wanted to know his name, I wanted him to turn those eyes on me, I wanted. She deserved nothing less than his undivided heart. And maybe he deserved a reprieve. It would be a relief, he acknowledged at last, to shed the burden of longing for the not-to-be.
--
They can’t give him anything stronger than Tylenol for the pain. “Interaction risk,” the nurse explains, as she inserts the needle for the blood draw. Higher up his arm is a small bandage from his first needle of the day, the one he may never remember. Misplacing a day isn’t such a big inconvenience, he supposes--more like losing your sunglasses than losing your wallet. People lose entire weekends in Vegas and call it a job well done.
Katy pulls a chair close to the bed and bows her head over her phone. When the headache subsides, Kris has her open the curtains. The aftereffect of the drug is a groggy sort of zen, like being stoned and sedated at the same time. He’s content to measure the progress of the afternoon in shadows and listen to the tapping of Katy’s fingers, punctuated by her occasional soft laughter. At this time yesterday, he would’ve been wrapping things up in the studio, getting into his car, heading--home? Probably. He can’t summon the curiosity to ask Katy.
Another nurse shows up to check his pulse and blood pressure. “Kris Allen!” she exclaims warmly. “I voted for you. ‘Heartless’ is still my jam.”
“That’s always great to hear,” he responds out of ingrained good manners. He’s accepting the compliment on someone else’s behalf. Whoever he is now, he’s not the Kris Allen who took the Idol stage, buoyed more each week by his ongoing transformation. Happy, purposeful, closing in on something important.
When the orange streaks in the sky start to fade into dusk, Katy slips out and returns with a cup of coffee. “They have Starbucks in the café! Sorry, the nurse said no caffeine for you.” She takes a sip. “Mmm. I called Adam,” she adds, almost an afterthought. “He’ll be here in about half an hour.”
Shock comes first, the sudden whiteout of flashbulbs in his face. Understanding follows. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says dully. Of course she’d want to put his resistance to the test at the earliest opportunity.
She waves a hand. “I knew he’d want to be told.” The magnanimity is at odds with the cool appraisal in her expression. “How do you feel about it?”
“Katy, I just feel weird, OK? I feel like I’m jetlagging after a trip I don’t even remember. Give me-- We’ll know soon enough.”
Kris is used to stage fright. This is so much worse; not anticipation edged with nerves, but a building dread of the familiar-turned-unknown. Time jolts into double speed. His fingers are cold and his mouth is dry, too dry to sing or speak. And then Adam's there, filling the room with energy, and Kris is reaching for the water pitcher with shaking hands.
The first hurdle is a semblance of a normal greeting. He manages, “You’re all dressed up. Halfway there, anyway.” It’s obvious from Adam’s mismatch of shiny black pants and laundry-day t-shirt that Katy’s call caught him in the middle of red carpet prep. Kris pictures him dropping a designer button-down and heading straight out the door.
“And you’re in a hospital gown. Kris . . . ” Adam’s anxious gaze sweeps from Kris’s face to his feet under the white sheet, then back up again. His body language is writ large, fingers curling with suppressed need to pat Kris down, make sure he’s intact. In the doorway, Katy hovers, watchful.
“I’m fine,” Kris says on autopilot. “Really. They’re just keeping me for observation.”
“You look good. I mean, you’re not-- You’re a bit pale, that’s all. I was imagining all sorts of horrible things on the way here. I kind of ran a red light without meaning to.” Adam bites his lip. Kris can almost see the tension in him, protective instinct warring with respectful distance.
“If that’s a hint that I owe you for a ticket, forget it.” Kris’s attempt at banter comes out flat as a scripted line. He has no words of his own, no conviction, nothing. In his absolute focus on Kris, Adam is poignantly beautiful--beautiful like a painting displayed in the window of a darkened gallery. Staring up at him, Kris tries the locked door, over and over; he pounds on it. In his mind, he’s yelling at the top of his lungs. Closed.
“No, I got lucky. What happened, Kris? Katy said you had a bad reaction to some medication. I didn’t know you were taking anything. Are you sick?”
A small miracle--the friendly nurse appears at Katy’s shoulder, and Katy turns to talk to her. “I’m not sick,” Kris says rapidly. “I’ll explain tomorrow, OK? They’re releasing me in the morning. I’ll come over and tell you about it.”
“Sure.” Forcing a smile, Adam dares to squeeze Kris’s hand gently. “In the meantime, call me if you need anything.”
Kris knows he means it literally. This is what chance offered Kris: love without reservation. And Kris said, as though the world were laid at his feet every day, No thanks.
He can hear Adam thanking Katy in the hallway, his tone a humble apology for the emotion that brought him here in a panicked rush. Katy responding with impeccable Southern politeness. “Drive safely, now.”
Returning to his bedside, she goes straight to the point. “Did it work?”
“Yes,” he says shortly.
For once, she doesn’t press. Instead she climbs into the narrow bed with him and rests her head on his shoulder. As teenagers, they used to cuddle like this in his room at his parents’ place, talking about band and school and the future. “I know you’ve got a lot to process. But I’ll help you, Kris.” She holds him tight, full of belief. “Things are going to be so much better from now on. We’ve been given a second chance. I think we should pray on it.”
Kris closes his eyes and says a prayer for his soul. “Heavenly Father,” Katy begins, and he strokes a hand over her hair. The gesture is for the 15-year-old girl who played the violin. His marriage is over.
--
Back at the apartment, the first thing Kris does is to shower until the hot water runs out. He washes his hair twice. The bandage on his upper arm loosens in the steam, and he peeels it off. Underneath, the evidence of violation is nearly invisible, just a faint redness to mar the skin.
He rips off the plastic wristband, even though Dr. Anders advised him to keep wearing it “in case of another event.” Event is hospital-speak for passing out after deleting part of his brain with drugs.
Dressed, he glances around the bedroom and sees nothing worth taking but his car keys.
Katy is rinsing a pan in the kitchen sink. “You’re not leaving yet, are you? You should eat. I made you a sandwich.” With a winning smile, she gestures to a plate on the counter. She likes to cultivate an endearing helplessness in the kitchen; the grilled cheese cut into triangles is his cue to appreciate her efforts.
“Thanks. I’m not hungry.”
Her face falls a little at the curt response, but she rallies. “Maybe we can go out to eat later. Are you doing OK?”
“I didn’t dream about him, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t wake up with him in my head, for the first time in six months. I didn’t jerk off in the shower thinking about him.”
Katy slowly sets the clean pan in the drainer. Nothing in their seven years together has equipped her to grasp his cruelty. It isn’t deliberate; he just doesn’t care enough to cushion the truth. Yesterday--what he remembers as yesterday--he was full of turmoil, guilt and longing and ambivalence churning nonstop. Today, he’s empty.
“You’re not yourself,” she says at last. He recognizes the lessons of their counseling sessions: Defuse conflict. Target the problem, not the person. Katy’s always been the better student. “Are you sure you’re well enough to go to the studio?”
Dr. Anders also cautioned him not to drive. “I’ll be fine,” he says meaninglessly, stepping around a clutter of boxes to grab his guitar. He doesn’t tell her where he’s really going, or that he won’t be back. You should’ve let me go. No, I should’ve just gone.
--
It’s Kris’s day to be fussed over in kitchens. Parked at the table like an invalid, he watches Adam poke through cabinets for the makings of his all-purpose remedy. “Peppermint or chamomile? Chamomile,” Adam decides. “It’s soothing. Although you’re already the most relaxed person ever, so it might put you to sleep. With a little bit of honey, for your throat.”
“I’m really not sick, I promise. But that sounds nice.” Physically, Kris feels fine. He hadn’t gotten dizzy behind the wheel. Mind clear, he’d seen the metaphorical road ahead of him, leading nowhere. How naive he’d been, once upon a time, to believe that choice was the greatest anguish he could face. If he could go back, he’d suffer and be grateful for the proof of his humanity. He’d follow instinct and accept the consequences.
The microwave pings. It’s all so ordinary--stoneware mugs and morning sunlight and Adam spooning honey with a generous hand because Kris likes things sweet. Caretaker Adam, who pets the wounded and listens to their tales of woe. He knows Kris is bleeding. Kris half expected him to intuit why. He will, if Kris delays his confession too long.
Adam carries the mugs to the table, and Kris’s eyes drop involuntarily below his belt buckle. Kris hasn’t been immunized to attraction, at least. With the vital connection severed, there’s an impersonal element, more What would it be like with a guy? than What would it be like with him?
“You should eat something, too,” Adam says as Kris takes his first sip of tea. “Protein. Maybe a banana? Potassium is good for-- ”
“I got an Amnest injection,” Kris breaks in.
Adam’s brows draw together in confusion. “Amnest? I see those ads on TV all the time. Isn’t that for quitting smoking?”
“Yeah, that’s one of the things it’s used for. But also substance abuse, compulsive behavior, and,” Kris takes a deep breath, “urges that can’t be worked through in therapy.”
Adam’s quick mind leaps ahead. “Kris, you didn’t-- ” He stares across the table, his shock plain. “You decided to pray away the gay--with drugs?”
“It doesn’t work like that. It’s more . . . specific.”
“So it’s just me--your urge for me--that you decided to get rid of like a bad habit?”
“It seemed like the right thing to do.” Except it hadn’t, not really. “I was committed to my marriage, but I couldn’t seem to make it work, the counseling didn’t help, and I wasn’t living up to my promises-- ”
“And that didn’t give you a clue about what your commitment was worth? Fuck!” Adam pushes back from the table with a violence that topples his chair. “So what am I to you now--an acquaintance? A former colleague?”
Kris’s voice dwindles on the inadequate offering. “You’re my friend.”
Adam walks out. Kris follows him into the living room, where Adam turns on him with the coiled tension of a man looking for a wall to punch. “So that’s why you came over the night before last.”
“I did? I don’t remember. One of the side effects,” Kris says, dazed. He braces himself for another blow.
The bitter curve of Adam’s mouth is the last thing from a smile. “You showed up around six. I’d just gotten home myself. We had drinks on the patio because you wanted to watch the sunset, like you always do. You took a picture with your phone. I could tell you were distracted, but I didn’t want to overstep. So much has been off-limits since we agreed to be just friends. You hugged me at the door like you were going away for months, and-- ” He falters suddenly. “And said you loved me. And then you left forever, without giving me a chance to say it back when it would’ve meant something.” The anger returns in full force. “How could you, Kris!”
“I want it back!” Kris shouts. “It’s like--it's like I took the best song I ever wrote, or could ever hope to write, and tore it up. Worse, because I would still have that song in my head. It would always be mine. But now-- ” Wrapping his arms around his chest, he doubles over with the phantom pain.
“I didn’t care,” Adam says, so brittle he can't be far from shattering, “when the entire country thought I had a one-sided thing for you. We knew the truth, and that was all that mattered. I cared when you chose to stay in your marriage instead of being with me, but I understood how seriously you took your vows. I don’t fucking understand this, Kris.”
“It’s killing me,” Kris says numbly. “If that helps.”
Silence, then, “It probably will, at some point.” Even in anger, Adam is honest. “But all I can think is--what am I supposed to do with all this? All this wanting that you’ve left me holding by myself? The only thing that made it bearable was that I wasn't in it alone. But you tried to take the easy way out. You owe me, Kris.”
Adam is built to loom convincingly when he wants to. He stands straighter, and his height becomes intimidating, his shoulders more broad. The effect hits Kris, inappropriately and hard, right where his desire lives. It rekindles the fevered thoughts of a hundred restless nights: Adam backing him up, holding him down. But Adam isn’t moving now. “Take it, then!” Kris demands, and they come together with a crash.
The relief is immediate, warmth flooding in to fill the hollowness inside him. His body can still have what it craves. Adam’s mouth, intent on making him pay; Adam’s hands, drawing him up, pulling off his shirt, gripping his ass. “Kris,” he says, and it’s an entire sentence Kris can’t finish. He’s truly unlearned their language.
Some things are universal. He bites his way down Adam’s neck, inhaling the spicy vanilla of his cologne, so subtle and clean, sweet enough to banish the ghost of hospital antiseptic. He licks at Adam’s nipples, roughly, the way he thinks Adam will like it. “Does that feel good?”
“Yes, it feels good for men too. Didn’t you and-- Fuck, never mind.”
Appeasing, Kris rubs his cheek against the crisp hair on Adam’s chest. “I liked it when you stopped shaving this off. You had that shirt that you wore buttoned really low-- ”
“Shut up, Kris. Wasn’t it enough to break my heart twice? How small do you need the pieces to be?”
They kiss again, straining together. If Kris had done this the other night, he never would’ve left. It would’ve been different, it would’ve been them, not devoid of affection and joy. “So this is the consolation prize,” Adam says, speaking for both of them. “I get to fuck you like some stranger I met at a club.”
Kris is so hard he’s aching. “Not like that. Not to pay a debt. I want it more than you do."
“Suck me, then.” A dare. Kris is yanking at Adam’s belt even as Adam shoves him to his knees.
After years of pornographic speculation and months of highly specific lust, Kris finally has a cock in his mouth. He counts that as personal growth. The texture is like nothing else, delicately smooth. His tongue traces the ridges under the head, glides over the tip to taste where it's salty and earthy and right. Here's proof that sex isn't overrated after all. Careful of his teeth, he takes more. Adam’s thickness stretches his lips, and that's good too.
“Not bad for a nonpracticing bisexual,” Adam says above him. He cups the back of Kris’s head and rocks forward without warning, and that’s an education, but Kris relaxes his throat and learns. The repeated slide of Adam’s cock is a preview of getting fucked. Judging by the sounds Adam makes, he’s impatient for the main event. “We’ll have to go upstairs. All my stuff is in the bedroom.”
Adam tears open a condom right away. Kris watches in fascination until the meaning sinks in: Adam is going to put that in him with no preliminaries.
Adam glances up and meets his rounded eyes. “So we don’t have to stop later,” he explains, reaching for the bottle of lube and slicking his fingers. “Your face.” The hint of amusement vanishes as he parts Kris’s legs. Kris has time to think, I bet this will hurt. And then, I choose this.
It doesn’t hurt. “All right, Kris?” Conscientious Adam. There’s none of the usual inflection, the ownership that turns Kris’s name into an endearment: my Kris. Kris knows he could break Adam with a single brush of fingertips along his cheekbones, under those devastated blue eyes. In the only act of kindness remaining to him, he leaves Adam to break in his own time.
“Is it supposed to feel like this?” he asks instead.
A purring note enters Adam's voice, stage swagger where sweetness should be. “How does it feel?”
“Like-- ” Kris arches helplessly off the bed. Like a heavy drag along newly discovered nerve endings. Sparks of pleasure flying everywhere. This isn’t lovemaking, but it’s a fantasy, the hottest guy at the party taking him home and spreading him open and fucking him with expert fingers, raw and dirty. “That’s two, right?”
“Is your brain broken already? How flattering.”
Three fingers, and ragged cries pour from Kris’s throat. He doesn’t want to come yet. “Adam-- ” And Adam is there, covering him, pushing inside him.
This time it hurts, a little. That doesn’t discourage his hips from bucking up to speed Adam’s gradual entry. The sensation of being filled is complex, blunt pressure plus direct stimulation. When Adam hits that incredibly receptive spot, it’s as intense as a squeeze on his cock.
“You’re noisier than I thought you’d be,” Adam says dispassionately.
“Well, you’re more of a dick than I thought you’d be,” Kris pants, and Adam approves the show of spirit with a bite on his collarbone. “This is normal, right?” he asks, like Adam's a doctor of gay sex.
“Everyone’s different. Some guys are more sensitive than others.” Abruptly, Adam withdraws and rolls onto his back with a brusque order. “Ride.”
Kneeling, Kris hesitates, and Adam says more gently, “You can do it.”
“Do we need the condom? I’d rather have you come in me.”
Adam’s lips part for a defenseless moment. “I’m clean," he answers finally, low. "I haven’t even had sex in-- Wait.” He finds the lube and covers himself, cock red and glistening in his stroking hand.
Even with the help of Astroglide, Kris’s descent is slow. “God, is it bigger?” Once he’s on, he finds a rhythm soon enough. He’s able to control the angle, even with Adam’s hands clamped on his hips, jerking him down.
There’s a sheen of sweat on Adam’s forehead now. “Never thought--you’d give it up to me. Not like this.” He twists his head on the pillow, neck taut. “Kris,” he breathes, with the sound of his whole heart in it, and groans as if caught beneath the weight of their history. Kris’s clinging last embrace in Dearborn, nights on the tour bus, a shared victory in front of millions, Hi, I’m your new roommate.
“You first,” Kris tells him, leaning down to lick the freckles on his lower lip. He concentrates on what's his in this moment: the grace of Adam’s profile, the pleasure of his body. Adam stiffens and falls back, but he keeps thrusting up, once, twice; and Kris comes blindingly, all over Adam’s chest.
And now, after the scenic detour, the end of the road. Kris shuts his eyes tight, a man without a home, even inside himself. "You don't have to," he chokes, as Adam draws him onto the circle of his arms, heedless of the messy aftermath of sex. He’s lost the right to seek comfort here.
“You’re still you, and I’m still me,” Adam says simply, and Kris starts at the echo of his own words. Adam's voice is steady with the hope of the hopeless romantic, the determination of the optimist who believes he can make anything happen.
With all the regret in the world, Kris tells him, “I don’t love you.”
Adam doesn't stop pressing kisses to the corners of Kris's eyelids, where his loss overflows. A balm of tenderness, freely given. "You will."
--End--
Pairing: Kris/Katy, Kris/Adam
Word count: 5000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Major angst, infidelity
Summary: What Kris had to lose.
Author's note: Much gratitude to condancer for feedback and kindness.
Diclaimer: Pure imagination. No disrespect intended.
Amnesty
Kris lies on his back and dreams of the sky. Clouds gather, then dissolve on a field of blue shading to gray. The changeable colors pull at him until he’s inside, floating. His subconscious skeptic points out the violation of gravity’s law, but he lingers in suspended animation, uncaring.
When he drifts too close to the surface, flashes of reality intrude. Bright light prying at his closed lids, the murmur of Katy’s voice. The image of her, half turned away, speaking urgently into her phone. He must be the cause of her agitation; he usually is.
His head throbs insistently. He wills himself heavy enough to sink deeper.
He wakes for good to find a tall, bearded man at his bedside. Cale? No, he’s got a white coat and a clipboard and a whiff of rubbing alcohol. Kris is in a hospital, obviously. “Hi,” he says inanely. “My head hurts--what happened? Did I fall? Car accident?” Crap, the Fusion. Katy was going to kill him.
“Hi, Kris. Can you tell me today's date?” Dr. Mark Anders, as his nametag identifies him, even has Cale’s serious dark eyes. Kris’s rising anxiety subsides a little.
“October fifth. Um, 2009. Tuesday.”
“And what’s the last thing you remember?”
It comes clearly through the static of pain. “Talking with Mike. My producer. There was this piano part I couldn’t get quite right, and we--anyway, I was in the studio until early evening.” His eyes are drawn to the window, where a stripe of sunlight fills the gap between the curtains. “I guess that doesn’t add up.”
“You’re missing less than 24 hours,” Cale’s double reassures him. “It’s Wednesday the sixth, a little after three p.m.”
“But I’m not supposed to be missing anything. What happened to me?”
“You had an adverse reaction to a cognitive modifier. Does this ring a bell?” The doctor indicates the flimsy plastic band on Kris’s left wrist, the sort of thing issued to concertgoers. This one is printed with Amnest 3 mg, 10/6/09, Patricia M. Hayes, M.D.
So it was over and done. “Yeah. I mean, I remember Dr. Hayes, and making the appointment, and all that. I don’t remember getting the injection. I was supposed to be at her office at ten-thirty this morning.”
Dr. Anders glances down at his clipboard. “Your wife says you started complaining of a headache and dizziness on the way home. She called Dr. Hayes, who told her to bring you here. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a few hours. We’ll want to keep an eye on you for a while longer, but you’re not in any danger.”
“But why did I have the reaction?”
“It's uncommon, but it does happen. I‘m sure Dr. Hayes went over the risks when you chose no regrets.” At Kris’s uncomprehending stare, he explains, “Slang for CMs like Amnest. No Regrets.” His smile is kind. “Doesn’t seem very appropriate right now, does it? But what you’re feeling is temporary.”
“What about the missing time?”
“That might be transient too. But altering patterns in the brain can lead to unexpected results."
The doctor’s parting words are an instruction to rest. Kris doesn’t try to sleep; the comfort of Adam’s blue-gray eyes is out of reach now.
--
Contrary to popular belief, there was no such thing as a selective amnesia drug. Kris and Katy had learned as much during their consultation with Dr. Hayes. “Beneficial as it would be to trauma survivors, medical science isn't quite there yet. It wouldn't be indicated in your case anyway, I understand.”
Kris eyed the file on her desk that held his secrets. “No, I wouldn’t say I‘ve been through a trauma.”
“What we can do is help patients like you by targeting unwanted responses to stimuli.” Katy was nodding eagerly as the psychiatrist continued, “A smoker, for example, would retain all his memories associated with smoking. But the sight or smell of a cigarette would no longer trigger a craving. In cases of emotional attachment, the patient doesn’t forget the object of his fixation. He or she still recognizes that person, still remembers the details of their relationship. Only the fixation is gone.”
Kris spoke involuntarily. “Fixation?” He was lapsing again, defending the thing he had no right to claim. And now Katy was giving him the forbearing look he’d grown accustomed to seeing on her face. “That sounds so . . . unhealthy.”
“The bond, if you prefer.”
Dr. Hayes was probably a nice enough person, just dry in her delivery as Kris's college economics professor. But Kris didn’t want to be here in her book-lined office, holding hands with Katy to present a united front. Her words evoked bright pathways disappearing off the map of his brain, neural connections coming unplugged, a city grid blinking out.
“And it definitely works? Kris will be-- ” Katy stuck on an a tactful substitute for cured.
“The application to family therapy is recent, but I've seen some extremely positive results. There’s no guarantee, of course, but as long as both of you are committed, cognitive modification may be the answer you’re looking for.”
It was their last resort. They’d done the “exercises for intimacy” recommended by the marriage counselor, with an emphasis on open communication. “It hurt my feelings when you seemed bored by my audition story,” Katy would say. “When you take those shots at my music, I feel like you don’t respect me,” Kris would offer in turn. They’d scheduled date nights--polite conversation over meals that cost more than their weekly grocery budget back in Cabot, followed by a return to an apartment full of unpacked boxes and no sex.
They’d even spent a weekend in Arkansas, revisiting the scenes of their courtship. Kris hadn’t quite showed up for this parody of a second honeymoon, or for any of the rest. His passion was intact--closed up in the notebook where he wrote songs for someone else.
“I’ll think about it. We’ll think about it,” Kris amended. The tone of the discussion was reasonable, absent any threat, yet he felt himself without an advocate. It would’ve been useless to burst out, Tell me why I shouldn’t do this.
--
“I promised you I would never act on it,” he tried in his own defense. They were having dinner at The Ivy, a paparazzi stakeout spot and Kris’s last choice for a private conversation. “And he would never . . . cross any lines, you know that.”
Katy laid down her fork across her untouched plate of pasta. “What does it matter if you haven't actually cheated, when your thoughts are all tied up with him?”
Kris couldn’t argue with a truth he’d already admitted to himself. It washed over him in a wave of nausea, the sick knowledge that he’d wronged her, had broken his pledge to honor and cherish. But the familiar remorse didn’t drown the instinct to guard . . . he was reluctant to call it his soul, a concept he held too much in awe to use as freely as most songwriters did. His core.
Aloud, he persisted, “I'm trying. Can’t we give it time?”
Katy dropped the non-accusatory language of their counseling sessions. “You’re about to release a whole album about him, Kristopher! About how you forgot what love is and he showed you again!” No heads turned as her voice rose. Small-town marital drama was beneath Hollywood’s notice. “Do you really expect to sing those lyrics every night without reliving them? Without reinforcing the feelings you can’t seem to get rid of on your own?”
This was their old war of words, with Kris groping for the right ones while Katy wore him down with her endless supply. He toyed with his roast chicken until she spoke again, calmer. “Pastor Rick wouldn’t have suggested it if it wasn’t a good idea. It’s helped so many people in the church find their way to God’s forgiveness. Drinking problems, addictions--healed, just like that.”
“I can see how it would work for something like quitting smoking. It’d be like you never had that first cigarette and got hooked. But for my-- ” He gestured awkwardly.
“Erica Porter was talking about filing for divorce over Kevin’s infidelity, and now they’re committed in a full spirit. They’re having a baby in-- Good grief, Kris, don’t look so freaked out! We agreed we’d wait to start a family. I’m not pressuring you.”
A happy ending and a blameless conscience, in a syringe. It had been years since Kris’s high school struggles with Paradise Lost, but he remembered the line about untested virtue. Wouldn’t vaccinating yourself against temptation be breaking the rules? Then again, maybe it was better to avoid sin by any means necessary than to fall from grace. Another memory: Cale sobbing hoarsely as he confessed to an unbreakable porn habit. For the first time, Kris wondered if Cale really owed his fresh start to answered prayers.
He backtracked. “I’m still going to be me, afterwards, and he’s still going to be him. Doesn’t one plus one always equal two?”
“Well, you won’t be seeing him enough to be doing any adding.” Katy stabbed at penne. “And you won’t be living together as contestants on a TV show, cut off from family and normal life. It was that unreal situation that heightened everything. If you’d met him anywhere else, you probably wouldn't even have become friends.”
This time, Kris stifled the reflexive defense. It was the least he owed his wife, to not say, The first time I saw him, I wanted to know his name, I wanted him to turn those eyes on me, I wanted. She deserved nothing less than his undivided heart. And maybe he deserved a reprieve. It would be a relief, he acknowledged at last, to shed the burden of longing for the not-to-be.
--
They can’t give him anything stronger than Tylenol for the pain. “Interaction risk,” the nurse explains, as she inserts the needle for the blood draw. Higher up his arm is a small bandage from his first needle of the day, the one he may never remember. Misplacing a day isn’t such a big inconvenience, he supposes--more like losing your sunglasses than losing your wallet. People lose entire weekends in Vegas and call it a job well done.
Katy pulls a chair close to the bed and bows her head over her phone. When the headache subsides, Kris has her open the curtains. The aftereffect of the drug is a groggy sort of zen, like being stoned and sedated at the same time. He’s content to measure the progress of the afternoon in shadows and listen to the tapping of Katy’s fingers, punctuated by her occasional soft laughter. At this time yesterday, he would’ve been wrapping things up in the studio, getting into his car, heading--home? Probably. He can’t summon the curiosity to ask Katy.
Another nurse shows up to check his pulse and blood pressure. “Kris Allen!” she exclaims warmly. “I voted for you. ‘Heartless’ is still my jam.”
“That’s always great to hear,” he responds out of ingrained good manners. He’s accepting the compliment on someone else’s behalf. Whoever he is now, he’s not the Kris Allen who took the Idol stage, buoyed more each week by his ongoing transformation. Happy, purposeful, closing in on something important.
When the orange streaks in the sky start to fade into dusk, Katy slips out and returns with a cup of coffee. “They have Starbucks in the café! Sorry, the nurse said no caffeine for you.” She takes a sip. “Mmm. I called Adam,” she adds, almost an afterthought. “He’ll be here in about half an hour.”
Shock comes first, the sudden whiteout of flashbulbs in his face. Understanding follows. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says dully. Of course she’d want to put his resistance to the test at the earliest opportunity.
She waves a hand. “I knew he’d want to be told.” The magnanimity is at odds with the cool appraisal in her expression. “How do you feel about it?”
“Katy, I just feel weird, OK? I feel like I’m jetlagging after a trip I don’t even remember. Give me-- We’ll know soon enough.”
Kris is used to stage fright. This is so much worse; not anticipation edged with nerves, but a building dread of the familiar-turned-unknown. Time jolts into double speed. His fingers are cold and his mouth is dry, too dry to sing or speak. And then Adam's there, filling the room with energy, and Kris is reaching for the water pitcher with shaking hands.
The first hurdle is a semblance of a normal greeting. He manages, “You’re all dressed up. Halfway there, anyway.” It’s obvious from Adam’s mismatch of shiny black pants and laundry-day t-shirt that Katy’s call caught him in the middle of red carpet prep. Kris pictures him dropping a designer button-down and heading straight out the door.
“And you’re in a hospital gown. Kris . . . ” Adam’s anxious gaze sweeps from Kris’s face to his feet under the white sheet, then back up again. His body language is writ large, fingers curling with suppressed need to pat Kris down, make sure he’s intact. In the doorway, Katy hovers, watchful.
“I’m fine,” Kris says on autopilot. “Really. They’re just keeping me for observation.”
“You look good. I mean, you’re not-- You’re a bit pale, that’s all. I was imagining all sorts of horrible things on the way here. I kind of ran a red light without meaning to.” Adam bites his lip. Kris can almost see the tension in him, protective instinct warring with respectful distance.
“If that’s a hint that I owe you for a ticket, forget it.” Kris’s attempt at banter comes out flat as a scripted line. He has no words of his own, no conviction, nothing. In his absolute focus on Kris, Adam is poignantly beautiful--beautiful like a painting displayed in the window of a darkened gallery. Staring up at him, Kris tries the locked door, over and over; he pounds on it. In his mind, he’s yelling at the top of his lungs. Closed.
“No, I got lucky. What happened, Kris? Katy said you had a bad reaction to some medication. I didn’t know you were taking anything. Are you sick?”
A small miracle--the friendly nurse appears at Katy’s shoulder, and Katy turns to talk to her. “I’m not sick,” Kris says rapidly. “I’ll explain tomorrow, OK? They’re releasing me in the morning. I’ll come over and tell you about it.”
“Sure.” Forcing a smile, Adam dares to squeeze Kris’s hand gently. “In the meantime, call me if you need anything.”
Kris knows he means it literally. This is what chance offered Kris: love without reservation. And Kris said, as though the world were laid at his feet every day, No thanks.
He can hear Adam thanking Katy in the hallway, his tone a humble apology for the emotion that brought him here in a panicked rush. Katy responding with impeccable Southern politeness. “Drive safely, now.”
Returning to his bedside, she goes straight to the point. “Did it work?”
“Yes,” he says shortly.
For once, she doesn’t press. Instead she climbs into the narrow bed with him and rests her head on his shoulder. As teenagers, they used to cuddle like this in his room at his parents’ place, talking about band and school and the future. “I know you’ve got a lot to process. But I’ll help you, Kris.” She holds him tight, full of belief. “Things are going to be so much better from now on. We’ve been given a second chance. I think we should pray on it.”
Kris closes his eyes and says a prayer for his soul. “Heavenly Father,” Katy begins, and he strokes a hand over her hair. The gesture is for the 15-year-old girl who played the violin. His marriage is over.
--
Back at the apartment, the first thing Kris does is to shower until the hot water runs out. He washes his hair twice. The bandage on his upper arm loosens in the steam, and he peeels it off. Underneath, the evidence of violation is nearly invisible, just a faint redness to mar the skin.
He rips off the plastic wristband, even though Dr. Anders advised him to keep wearing it “in case of another event.” Event is hospital-speak for passing out after deleting part of his brain with drugs.
Dressed, he glances around the bedroom and sees nothing worth taking but his car keys.
Katy is rinsing a pan in the kitchen sink. “You’re not leaving yet, are you? You should eat. I made you a sandwich.” With a winning smile, she gestures to a plate on the counter. She likes to cultivate an endearing helplessness in the kitchen; the grilled cheese cut into triangles is his cue to appreciate her efforts.
“Thanks. I’m not hungry.”
Her face falls a little at the curt response, but she rallies. “Maybe we can go out to eat later. Are you doing OK?”
“I didn’t dream about him, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t wake up with him in my head, for the first time in six months. I didn’t jerk off in the shower thinking about him.”
Katy slowly sets the clean pan in the drainer. Nothing in their seven years together has equipped her to grasp his cruelty. It isn’t deliberate; he just doesn’t care enough to cushion the truth. Yesterday--what he remembers as yesterday--he was full of turmoil, guilt and longing and ambivalence churning nonstop. Today, he’s empty.
“You’re not yourself,” she says at last. He recognizes the lessons of their counseling sessions: Defuse conflict. Target the problem, not the person. Katy’s always been the better student. “Are you sure you’re well enough to go to the studio?”
Dr. Anders also cautioned him not to drive. “I’ll be fine,” he says meaninglessly, stepping around a clutter of boxes to grab his guitar. He doesn’t tell her where he’s really going, or that he won’t be back. You should’ve let me go. No, I should’ve just gone.
--
It’s Kris’s day to be fussed over in kitchens. Parked at the table like an invalid, he watches Adam poke through cabinets for the makings of his all-purpose remedy. “Peppermint or chamomile? Chamomile,” Adam decides. “It’s soothing. Although you’re already the most relaxed person ever, so it might put you to sleep. With a little bit of honey, for your throat.”
“I’m really not sick, I promise. But that sounds nice.” Physically, Kris feels fine. He hadn’t gotten dizzy behind the wheel. Mind clear, he’d seen the metaphorical road ahead of him, leading nowhere. How naive he’d been, once upon a time, to believe that choice was the greatest anguish he could face. If he could go back, he’d suffer and be grateful for the proof of his humanity. He’d follow instinct and accept the consequences.
The microwave pings. It’s all so ordinary--stoneware mugs and morning sunlight and Adam spooning honey with a generous hand because Kris likes things sweet. Caretaker Adam, who pets the wounded and listens to their tales of woe. He knows Kris is bleeding. Kris half expected him to intuit why. He will, if Kris delays his confession too long.
Adam carries the mugs to the table, and Kris’s eyes drop involuntarily below his belt buckle. Kris hasn’t been immunized to attraction, at least. With the vital connection severed, there’s an impersonal element, more What would it be like with a guy? than What would it be like with him?
“You should eat something, too,” Adam says as Kris takes his first sip of tea. “Protein. Maybe a banana? Potassium is good for-- ”
“I got an Amnest injection,” Kris breaks in.
Adam’s brows draw together in confusion. “Amnest? I see those ads on TV all the time. Isn’t that for quitting smoking?”
“Yeah, that’s one of the things it’s used for. But also substance abuse, compulsive behavior, and,” Kris takes a deep breath, “urges that can’t be worked through in therapy.”
Adam’s quick mind leaps ahead. “Kris, you didn’t-- ” He stares across the table, his shock plain. “You decided to pray away the gay--with drugs?”
“It doesn’t work like that. It’s more . . . specific.”
“So it’s just me--your urge for me--that you decided to get rid of like a bad habit?”
“It seemed like the right thing to do.” Except it hadn’t, not really. “I was committed to my marriage, but I couldn’t seem to make it work, the counseling didn’t help, and I wasn’t living up to my promises-- ”
“And that didn’t give you a clue about what your commitment was worth? Fuck!” Adam pushes back from the table with a violence that topples his chair. “So what am I to you now--an acquaintance? A former colleague?”
Kris’s voice dwindles on the inadequate offering. “You’re my friend.”
Adam walks out. Kris follows him into the living room, where Adam turns on him with the coiled tension of a man looking for a wall to punch. “So that’s why you came over the night before last.”
“I did? I don’t remember. One of the side effects,” Kris says, dazed. He braces himself for another blow.
The bitter curve of Adam’s mouth is the last thing from a smile. “You showed up around six. I’d just gotten home myself. We had drinks on the patio because you wanted to watch the sunset, like you always do. You took a picture with your phone. I could tell you were distracted, but I didn’t want to overstep. So much has been off-limits since we agreed to be just friends. You hugged me at the door like you were going away for months, and-- ” He falters suddenly. “And said you loved me. And then you left forever, without giving me a chance to say it back when it would’ve meant something.” The anger returns in full force. “How could you, Kris!”
“I want it back!” Kris shouts. “It’s like--it's like I took the best song I ever wrote, or could ever hope to write, and tore it up. Worse, because I would still have that song in my head. It would always be mine. But now-- ” Wrapping his arms around his chest, he doubles over with the phantom pain.
“I didn’t care,” Adam says, so brittle he can't be far from shattering, “when the entire country thought I had a one-sided thing for you. We knew the truth, and that was all that mattered. I cared when you chose to stay in your marriage instead of being with me, but I understood how seriously you took your vows. I don’t fucking understand this, Kris.”
“It’s killing me,” Kris says numbly. “If that helps.”
Silence, then, “It probably will, at some point.” Even in anger, Adam is honest. “But all I can think is--what am I supposed to do with all this? All this wanting that you’ve left me holding by myself? The only thing that made it bearable was that I wasn't in it alone. But you tried to take the easy way out. You owe me, Kris.”
Adam is built to loom convincingly when he wants to. He stands straighter, and his height becomes intimidating, his shoulders more broad. The effect hits Kris, inappropriately and hard, right where his desire lives. It rekindles the fevered thoughts of a hundred restless nights: Adam backing him up, holding him down. But Adam isn’t moving now. “Take it, then!” Kris demands, and they come together with a crash.
The relief is immediate, warmth flooding in to fill the hollowness inside him. His body can still have what it craves. Adam’s mouth, intent on making him pay; Adam’s hands, drawing him up, pulling off his shirt, gripping his ass. “Kris,” he says, and it’s an entire sentence Kris can’t finish. He’s truly unlearned their language.
Some things are universal. He bites his way down Adam’s neck, inhaling the spicy vanilla of his cologne, so subtle and clean, sweet enough to banish the ghost of hospital antiseptic. He licks at Adam’s nipples, roughly, the way he thinks Adam will like it. “Does that feel good?”
“Yes, it feels good for men too. Didn’t you and-- Fuck, never mind.”
Appeasing, Kris rubs his cheek against the crisp hair on Adam’s chest. “I liked it when you stopped shaving this off. You had that shirt that you wore buttoned really low-- ”
“Shut up, Kris. Wasn’t it enough to break my heart twice? How small do you need the pieces to be?”
They kiss again, straining together. If Kris had done this the other night, he never would’ve left. It would’ve been different, it would’ve been them, not devoid of affection and joy. “So this is the consolation prize,” Adam says, speaking for both of them. “I get to fuck you like some stranger I met at a club.”
Kris is so hard he’s aching. “Not like that. Not to pay a debt. I want it more than you do."
“Suck me, then.” A dare. Kris is yanking at Adam’s belt even as Adam shoves him to his knees.
After years of pornographic speculation and months of highly specific lust, Kris finally has a cock in his mouth. He counts that as personal growth. The texture is like nothing else, delicately smooth. His tongue traces the ridges under the head, glides over the tip to taste where it's salty and earthy and right. Here's proof that sex isn't overrated after all. Careful of his teeth, he takes more. Adam’s thickness stretches his lips, and that's good too.
“Not bad for a nonpracticing bisexual,” Adam says above him. He cups the back of Kris’s head and rocks forward without warning, and that’s an education, but Kris relaxes his throat and learns. The repeated slide of Adam’s cock is a preview of getting fucked. Judging by the sounds Adam makes, he’s impatient for the main event. “We’ll have to go upstairs. All my stuff is in the bedroom.”
Adam tears open a condom right away. Kris watches in fascination until the meaning sinks in: Adam is going to put that in him with no preliminaries.
Adam glances up and meets his rounded eyes. “So we don’t have to stop later,” he explains, reaching for the bottle of lube and slicking his fingers. “Your face.” The hint of amusement vanishes as he parts Kris’s legs. Kris has time to think, I bet this will hurt. And then, I choose this.
It doesn’t hurt. “All right, Kris?” Conscientious Adam. There’s none of the usual inflection, the ownership that turns Kris’s name into an endearment: my Kris. Kris knows he could break Adam with a single brush of fingertips along his cheekbones, under those devastated blue eyes. In the only act of kindness remaining to him, he leaves Adam to break in his own time.
“Is it supposed to feel like this?” he asks instead.
A purring note enters Adam's voice, stage swagger where sweetness should be. “How does it feel?”
“Like-- ” Kris arches helplessly off the bed. Like a heavy drag along newly discovered nerve endings. Sparks of pleasure flying everywhere. This isn’t lovemaking, but it’s a fantasy, the hottest guy at the party taking him home and spreading him open and fucking him with expert fingers, raw and dirty. “That’s two, right?”
“Is your brain broken already? How flattering.”
Three fingers, and ragged cries pour from Kris’s throat. He doesn’t want to come yet. “Adam-- ” And Adam is there, covering him, pushing inside him.
This time it hurts, a little. That doesn’t discourage his hips from bucking up to speed Adam’s gradual entry. The sensation of being filled is complex, blunt pressure plus direct stimulation. When Adam hits that incredibly receptive spot, it’s as intense as a squeeze on his cock.
“You’re noisier than I thought you’d be,” Adam says dispassionately.
“Well, you’re more of a dick than I thought you’d be,” Kris pants, and Adam approves the show of spirit with a bite on his collarbone. “This is normal, right?” he asks, like Adam's a doctor of gay sex.
“Everyone’s different. Some guys are more sensitive than others.” Abruptly, Adam withdraws and rolls onto his back with a brusque order. “Ride.”
Kneeling, Kris hesitates, and Adam says more gently, “You can do it.”
“Do we need the condom? I’d rather have you come in me.”
Adam’s lips part for a defenseless moment. “I’m clean," he answers finally, low. "I haven’t even had sex in-- Wait.” He finds the lube and covers himself, cock red and glistening in his stroking hand.
Even with the help of Astroglide, Kris’s descent is slow. “God, is it bigger?” Once he’s on, he finds a rhythm soon enough. He’s able to control the angle, even with Adam’s hands clamped on his hips, jerking him down.
There’s a sheen of sweat on Adam’s forehead now. “Never thought--you’d give it up to me. Not like this.” He twists his head on the pillow, neck taut. “Kris,” he breathes, with the sound of his whole heart in it, and groans as if caught beneath the weight of their history. Kris’s clinging last embrace in Dearborn, nights on the tour bus, a shared victory in front of millions, Hi, I’m your new roommate.
“You first,” Kris tells him, leaning down to lick the freckles on his lower lip. He concentrates on what's his in this moment: the grace of Adam’s profile, the pleasure of his body. Adam stiffens and falls back, but he keeps thrusting up, once, twice; and Kris comes blindingly, all over Adam’s chest.
And now, after the scenic detour, the end of the road. Kris shuts his eyes tight, a man without a home, even inside himself. "You don't have to," he chokes, as Adam draws him onto the circle of his arms, heedless of the messy aftermath of sex. He’s lost the right to seek comfort here.
“You’re still you, and I’m still me,” Adam says simply, and Kris starts at the echo of his own words. Adam's voice is steady with the hope of the hopeless romantic, the determination of the optimist who believes he can make anything happen.
With all the regret in the world, Kris tells him, “I don’t love you.”
Adam doesn't stop pressing kisses to the corners of Kris's eyelids, where his loss overflows. A balm of tenderness, freely given. "You will."
--End--