...and my spirit is crying for leaving
Title: ...and my spirit is crying for leaving
Fandom: American Idol RPS (I know, okay?)
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: PG
Warnings: Post-apocalyptic wasteland. Pointlessness. Real Person Slash.
Summary: Some things are still the same.
A/N: I'm choosing to blame this on the fact that SPN fandom is like a gateway drug. Anyway. I haven't written RPS in years, I've only watched clips from American Idol, and I don't know any of the people mentioned in this fic. And yes, I'm aware that I have an unhealthy addiction to Stairway to Heaven :P.
They don't sing all that often anymore. That's mostly on Adam; for Kris, music is something small and familiar and comfortable, and when he has his feet propped up by the campfire and a guitar in his lap, he can close his eyes and pretend that nothing has changed at all. For Adam, music was the stage and the show and the screaming crowds. He never says anything, but Kris thinks that for him, singing just twists the knife of everything that's never going to be the same.
Sometimes, though, he does it anyway.
It's a good night tonight. Clear skies, mostly, electric-green streaks across the horizon that haven't gone away since the bombs dropped six months ago. There are venison strips drying slowly over the campfire and Allison made it back from the supply run with a couple of jugs of liquor--Johnny Walker Blue. It burns sweet going down. Kris wants to laugh, because he's been wearing the same pair of threadbare jeans for three days and he can't remember the last time he got a real shower, but here he is, sitting around a campfire in what used to be the Dodger Stadium and drinking the finest whiskey money could buy. It's the kind of irony he's gotten used to recently.
He doesn't notice that his eyes are closed until a foot nudges his knee. Kris blinks, squints, but of course it's Adam. "Hey," he says quietly, smiling small and mellow. His own glass is almost empty, but he shakes his head when Kris tips the bottle at him inquiringly. "You should get your guitar."
"Really?"
Adam's smile turns lopsided, like he knows what Kris is thinking. He probably does. They always got each other better than two people so different really should, and living like they have for the past months, it's developed into something that's pretty close to telepathy. "Yeah, really."
Kris grins and knocks back what's left of his whiskey. "Okay."
His guitar is one of the few completely non-essential things he still has from Before. It's tucked in its case on his side of the tent he shares with Adam, thin wood gleaming golden in the dim light from the campfire. He passes Allison on his way back, and she gives him a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. She's only nineteen, but she looks so much older these days. They all do.
"No country," Adam says firmly when Kris sits back down. "That isn't real music."
"I'm not sure I can pull off techno on an acoustic guitar," Kris says, tightening the strings. Adam's snort pulls a smile onto his face, and he rests his fingers on the strings for a moment, thinking.
"If anybody could, it would be you."
Kris chuckles and starts playing. It takes five notes for Adam to start grinning, but he lets Kris take the opening verses by himself, just humming and swaying gently to the notes of Led Zeppelin. It isn't until the fifth verse that he starts singing, soft and fragile like he isn't sure he wants to be heard:
"There's a feeling I get when I look to the west--"
"--and my spirit is crying for leaving," Kris finishes. The harmony is effortless, like these things always are with Adam. His voice gets stronger as the song builds, and Kris closes his eyes again and lets himself get lost in the music, the thrum of the guitar in his hands and Adam's voice climbing effortlessly through the climax.
"And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul, there walks a lady we all know..."
It's beautiful and wild and it feels so close to being right. The last notes drop from his fingers and there's a long moment of silence before Kris can bring himself to open his eyes and banish the illusion.
Beside him, Adam is sitting with his legs stretched out, bare feet resting on the packed dirt. He's too thin, still recovering from a fever they weren't sure he'd survive. His hair is cropped short, curly and strawberry blond; the last of the roots grew out a while ago. His jeans are loose and as threadbare as the ones Kris is wearing, his face is sunburned, and there's a long scar healing up his arm from the last skirmish they had with a band of crazies.
The only sign of the glittery peacock of a man that Kris met in a hotel lobby three years ago is the Queen shirt he's wearing. It's too big on him, but there are sequins sewn into the curves of the logo, and they gleam quietly in the firelight. It makes Kris' throat go tight for some reason he can't fully explain to himself.
"What?" Adam says. "Do I have something on my face?"
No makeup. No time for it these days, no mirrors, and their raids on the places that used to be populated are too dangerous to risk for things like eyeliner. Adam looks so different without it, somehow both younger and older, and Kris still isn't always used to it. "Nah. Another one?"
"One of yours," Adam says decisively.
"Oh, come on--" Kris says, and Adam leans into him, drops his cheek onto Kris' shoulder. He smells like sweat and woodsmoke.
"Please? For me?"
Kris leans back, wraps an arm around Adam's back, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt, the small shifts of his muscles, all so familiar. "Anything for you." The tone's teasing, but he means it.
He can feel the shape of Adam's smile against his neck. "That's my Kris," he murmurs, but he doesn't move away and Kris doesn't try to pull back to start playing again.
They sit like that for a long time.
Fandom: American Idol RPS (I know, okay?)
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: PG
Warnings: Post-apocalyptic wasteland. Pointlessness. Real Person Slash.
Summary: Some things are still the same.
A/N: I'm choosing to blame this on the fact that SPN fandom is like a gateway drug. Anyway. I haven't written RPS in years, I've only watched clips from American Idol, and I don't know any of the people mentioned in this fic. And yes, I'm aware that I have an unhealthy addiction to Stairway to Heaven :P.
They don't sing all that often anymore. That's mostly on Adam; for Kris, music is something small and familiar and comfortable, and when he has his feet propped up by the campfire and a guitar in his lap, he can close his eyes and pretend that nothing has changed at all. For Adam, music was the stage and the show and the screaming crowds. He never says anything, but Kris thinks that for him, singing just twists the knife of everything that's never going to be the same.
Sometimes, though, he does it anyway.
It's a good night tonight. Clear skies, mostly, electric-green streaks across the horizon that haven't gone away since the bombs dropped six months ago. There are venison strips drying slowly over the campfire and Allison made it back from the supply run with a couple of jugs of liquor--Johnny Walker Blue. It burns sweet going down. Kris wants to laugh, because he's been wearing the same pair of threadbare jeans for three days and he can't remember the last time he got a real shower, but here he is, sitting around a campfire in what used to be the Dodger Stadium and drinking the finest whiskey money could buy. It's the kind of irony he's gotten used to recently.
He doesn't notice that his eyes are closed until a foot nudges his knee. Kris blinks, squints, but of course it's Adam. "Hey," he says quietly, smiling small and mellow. His own glass is almost empty, but he shakes his head when Kris tips the bottle at him inquiringly. "You should get your guitar."
"Really?"
Adam's smile turns lopsided, like he knows what Kris is thinking. He probably does. They always got each other better than two people so different really should, and living like they have for the past months, it's developed into something that's pretty close to telepathy. "Yeah, really."
Kris grins and knocks back what's left of his whiskey. "Okay."
His guitar is one of the few completely non-essential things he still has from Before. It's tucked in its case on his side of the tent he shares with Adam, thin wood gleaming golden in the dim light from the campfire. He passes Allison on his way back, and she gives him a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. She's only nineteen, but she looks so much older these days. They all do.
"No country," Adam says firmly when Kris sits back down. "That isn't real music."
"I'm not sure I can pull off techno on an acoustic guitar," Kris says, tightening the strings. Adam's snort pulls a smile onto his face, and he rests his fingers on the strings for a moment, thinking.
"If anybody could, it would be you."
Kris chuckles and starts playing. It takes five notes for Adam to start grinning, but he lets Kris take the opening verses by himself, just humming and swaying gently to the notes of Led Zeppelin. It isn't until the fifth verse that he starts singing, soft and fragile like he isn't sure he wants to be heard:
"There's a feeling I get when I look to the west--"
"--and my spirit is crying for leaving," Kris finishes. The harmony is effortless, like these things always are with Adam. His voice gets stronger as the song builds, and Kris closes his eyes again and lets himself get lost in the music, the thrum of the guitar in his hands and Adam's voice climbing effortlessly through the climax.
"And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul, there walks a lady we all know..."
It's beautiful and wild and it feels so close to being right. The last notes drop from his fingers and there's a long moment of silence before Kris can bring himself to open his eyes and banish the illusion.
Beside him, Adam is sitting with his legs stretched out, bare feet resting on the packed dirt. He's too thin, still recovering from a fever they weren't sure he'd survive. His hair is cropped short, curly and strawberry blond; the last of the roots grew out a while ago. His jeans are loose and as threadbare as the ones Kris is wearing, his face is sunburned, and there's a long scar healing up his arm from the last skirmish they had with a band of crazies.
The only sign of the glittery peacock of a man that Kris met in a hotel lobby three years ago is the Queen shirt he's wearing. It's too big on him, but there are sequins sewn into the curves of the logo, and they gleam quietly in the firelight. It makes Kris' throat go tight for some reason he can't fully explain to himself.
"What?" Adam says. "Do I have something on my face?"
No makeup. No time for it these days, no mirrors, and their raids on the places that used to be populated are too dangerous to risk for things like eyeliner. Adam looks so different without it, somehow both younger and older, and Kris still isn't always used to it. "Nah. Another one?"
"One of yours," Adam says decisively.
"Oh, come on--" Kris says, and Adam leans into him, drops his cheek onto Kris' shoulder. He smells like sweat and woodsmoke.
"Please? For me?"
Kris leans back, wraps an arm around Adam's back, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt, the small shifts of his muscles, all so familiar. "Anything for you." The tone's teasing, but he means it.
He can feel the shape of Adam's smile against his neck. "That's my Kris," he murmurs, but he doesn't move away and Kris doesn't try to pull back to start playing again.
They sit like that for a long time.