fic: Fiends and Angels
Title: Fiends and Angels
Author:
idwyt_nome
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: R
Disclaimer: They are people, nobody owns them. I do not mean any harm or make any money.
Notes: Loosely based on e.e. cummings: one's not half two. It's AU, but it's also kind of fantasy. I don't know really where this came from. It's almost trippy, but it's also angsty. Hm.
Kris feels it along his skin like wet light as soon as he steps onto the streets. It's a typical night, he was told, but it feels like a celebration; he thinks maybe it is, somehow, a pulsing throbbing ritual of life, truer to its roots than most admit, even after. His wrists are bare, always have been. He scratches at them when the tilt of the world and the whorls of sound bring sensation to nerves not deadened but unborn. He can't look at the lights, they're hurting his eyes
(but maybe the lights are showing--)
so he blinks, looks away, stares down at the street and the litter but the lights are there too and he can't get away from them. Doesn't want to, though he knows they're not there and he's seeing
(not hallucinations, real)
his own foolishness sliding along his hands not like silk or fur or (light) but like canvas, heavy and stifling and hot, and he needs it gone, he'll never be able to live like this anymore (again) but he doesn't know how to remove something that isn't there.
This is normal, he's heard (knows, everything is alright, the light's gilding) but nobody ever says it will be so disconcerting and strange and sickening. Nobody ever says much of anything, because it's private, he knows, but he's in the middle of a city he's never seen before and in any place but a private one and he's scratching at his wrists still and he doesn't remember why he left their hotel at two in the morning the night they arrive when they have all week and he has no choice but to get lost (found).
He's still watching his feet, walking steadily and certainly and without his attention, the way you follow the hall from your bedroom to the kitchen when you've only ever lived in one house, one (life) room. The way that means you lose time, sometimes minutes or only seconds but time matters, it can make you forget that you needed a spoon so you get a fork and you're back in your room, where you're supposed to be but you don't need a fork. The right volition, direction, journey, but no attention and the purpose is lost and defunct. So he's watching his feet and he doesn't know where he is and he's only getting calmer, more complacent, as the haptic world collides in on itself and he has synesthesia, he thinks it's called, but he's seeing hearing smelling tasting nothing and everything is sensation from the bottom of his feet and his ears and the bite of his skin, protests becoming more vehement as the aesthesis settles and takes root and rends him apart from the inside out and all of it is supposed to happen.
He's approaching the metal doors of a club. He knows there's a line outside, held back by a pair of bouncers. He can see the people in the line
(empty shapes, unimportant)
and they're beautiful, dressed in color and laughter and vibrancy. He wants nothing to do with any of them.
(not them.)
He walks forward anyway, ignoring the looks and the sullen security men and the obvious discordance of his appearance in jeans and sneakers and tee shirt, they're in
(wrong, not them)
styles and personality but at this moment he doesn't think he could speak his own name.
One of the bouncers, a short blonde guy, steps in front of him. Kris blinks at his shoulder, moves to the side
(whirling and twisting and rebounds, the door's right in front of him he'll take the steps)
and a hand restrains at his arm, tugs firmly.
"Hey, you need to get in line."
And Kris looks at him, as his skin shivers
(pressure above and exposure underneath and nothing in between but him)
and when he jerks, unintentional and instinctive at the slick melding where his skin is impressing, the guy raises his eyebrows and steps away, a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
"Yeah. Go on in."
The door shuts behind him and he staggers, looks around, realizes how out of all of that, out of everything. it's. It's all stopped
(not gone, waiting)
and he's in a club, trendy and outrageous and nothing he's interested in, and he can't quite remember why he brought himself here. He knows.
But the compulsion is gone.
He runs his hands through his hair, marvels at the absence of sticky slowness on his body. He threads his way through the crowds around the dance floor and stops at the bar, orders water and gets a snide look for it.
He's twisting the cap off when there's an explosion of voices at his back. He turns, sees a door to the upper level opening. Two girls tumble out backwards -- one has a long blonde ponytail and Kris wonders why Katy's here -- but they turn and she's clutching at the other girl's hand and looks and sounds nothing like Katy, really.
He gulps a drink, keeps staring. A taller guy grabs at the blonde's shoulders, steps on her heals as she flails, gets yanked back himself. Black hair is all Kris sees first, then he's been caught staring and the man smiles.
Kris looks down at his drink, sees the top of the liquid brimming with sparks.
"I'm Adam."
He won't look up. "Kris."
"You've never been here before."
"This club?" Kris does meet his eyes with the question, thinks he's being laughed at.
"Anywhere like this." He leans towards him and Kris hears a distant glint of time.
"Not really." Small towns in Arkansas aren't generally big on--" He stops. "Why?"
Adam's eyes crinkle as he cocks his head, moves close. Kris thinks there's probably one deep breath separating them. "You look out of place."
Kris manages a laugh. When Adam asks why he's here he also reaches out to wrap long fingers around Kris' drink; Kris watches permissively while he swallows most of it down.
"I came with a friend," he tells him, "for a week. Got restless tonight and ended up here." When he's handed back the water he sees fingers shimmer and fade and Kris blows out a breath and can't draw another.
"Yeah."
And every flickering impulse, sensation, impetus, fervor of compulsion rushes back in on him all at once and his skin is trying to pull itself apart and he thinks he's stumbled, fallen, and then he registers hands on his neck and he's gripping Adam's hair and he's not worried about the
(burning, waiting, enough)
people and lights and music and his wrists aren't itching, they're against Adam's skin, warm,
(burning)
and he raises up and Adam presses down and they meet not in the middle but close enough.
His lips are dry and Kris licks them and Adam's tongue is in his mouth, sliding behind his teeth and Kris breathes through Adam until he pulls away with a gentle tug of teeth.
The glow under his skin and the world has settled into a slow awareness. It'll build again but now it's
(waiting)
bearable. Adam looks down at him, thoughtful and careful and obscure, hands sliding down his arms and gripping his wrists.
(burning.)
"Come with me tonight. I'm with my friends; we'll show you the city."
Kris nods and lets Adam tug him, complacent,
(waiting)
to the doors.
---
The find his friends outside, the girls and man from earlier, grouped around a dark SUV. Adam's arm slides over his shoulders, pulls him in close, but Kris settles into the possessive gesture.
It says something about Adam, he knows, that his companions don't look at Kris like he's an unusual occurrence. He's introduced, told their names, forgets them moments later though he thinks he'll always remember their faces as one of the multitudes of reality ripples impressing
(burning)
themselves into his memory.
Adam tells them they're going to another club, Kris thinks; somewhere with a foreign name and address and, likely, clientele. Then he tosses his keys to the blonde.
"You want me to drive?" She's looking at him as if this is an odd occurrence but Kris feels himself sway and they all look at him. "Are you alright?"
Adam grips tighter, rubs at Kris' arm. Kris focuses on her, steady and intense and wonders if he's even blinking. "I'm fine."
And something in his face shows how his vision is intense and bright but blurry and indistinct and he wants to close his eyes and fall away, because she looks at him and seems, he thinks, impressed or awed or worried or maybe just confused. He doesn't care.
(Empty shapes, unimportant.)
But she shoves her way past the guy, forces the other girl into the front seat and Kris is pressed against a door, a window with Adam leaning against him, heavy and hot and they drive past lights and sounds that Kris sees and registers and almost understands. He responds, maybe not normal but passable, when Adam speaks and ignores the others unintentionally but he doesn't even realize they've said something until Adam responds.
"Hey, no, don't stop."
Kris leans his forehead against the window, closes his eyes and listens.
"I changed my mind. Pick somewhere else."
"There's too many cameras. Let's try for anonymity."
Kris breathes deep and slow, hears himself loud in the closed air.
"Hey, you asleep?"
He laughs, but it catches in his throat and he has to gasp, panting. "Not even close."
The motion stops, winding world resolving itself into a set pattern, at least. They're out of the car, and Adam steps away, a little, no more touching and Kris is more himself again; he can hear the rest of the world, focus on the outside, now that the closeness
(waiting)
recedes.
The blonde walks in front, dodging the unknown guy's grabs for her ass. "Adam, you know this is not the best idea, right? He'll probably go nuts from this much input."
Kris looks at her narrowly, trying to remember, decipher any sense from the jumbled mass of the few things he did comprehend.
"Yes, Megan. Thanks. But at least here I know they won't play any of my own fucking songs."
"Your songs?"
They all look at him, surprised, as if they'd forgotten he was there or thought he wasn't.
The guy snorts. "Dude, what rock did you come out from under?"
Adam pushes at him. Kris blinks, remembers home, tells them, "Conway. Small town in Arkansas."
"Wow. Fucking boulder, then, huh?"
"Matt."
Kris follows them through the door, reels from an input of sound and light and god he's sick of being incapable of perception. At least he knows two of the three names, now. Matt and Megan. He wonders if they're together, has his answer when she forces her tongue down his throat.
Adam's at his back. "So, we tried to show you several places. You didn't seem interested."
Kris leans back, slow and lazy. "I don't remember."
Laughter and breath over his ear. "Yeah, I figured. Do you want to come home with me?"
Kris turns, looks at him.
(enough.)
"Yes."
---
They found a cab, somehow, but Adam had to sit away from him on the trip because Kris couldn't keep his skin from jumping every time he got near (he tried to tell him, tried to say--) but also because Adam was tense and coiled tightly wound, too, so Kris stayed quiet and swallowed down the distance.
Maybe there was something to the whole singing thing because they stop outside Adam's apartment building and it's one of those where the person at the front door actually checks you in, makes sure you live there or have a legitimate reason to visit. Kris thinks he'd be intimidated if he weren't already so fucking gone.
Adam grabs Kris' wrist, tight, nods at the woman at the desk, pushes Kris into the elevator. He doesn't even know what floor they get out on, because Adam presses him against the mirrored walls, kisses perfunctory and impatient. When the doors slide open Kris is across the hall before he can open his eyes. He sees windows and dark furniture and lights that he thinks are real shining in.
Fingers slide around his neck, Adam's lips press against his forehead, hot murmur, "Niceties, right?" Kris makes a noise, not agreement just sound, and Adam laughs breathless and heavy. "This is my apartment. Quick tour is that I have lots of rooms. One is a bedroom, which we'll start with."
Deft maneuvering and agile fingers at his clothes and Adam is bearing Kris down onto cool sheets. He pants, twists, cries out low and soft and needy because Adam's mouth is everywhere and he's floating, somewhere, waiting still, and he's pliant from the constraints of hands around his wrists forcing them still and a harsh whisper of keep them there.
He doesn't know how he'll ever exist normally again, when the
(burning, waiting)
impulse has settled into a fulfillment
(consummation)
of nothing he ever though to want. Adam around him, in him, under his skin and his beliefs, different colors and
(lights)
divulgences, but for him.
(for him.)
---
He's slow to move, with the light striking over his eyes. He mumbles, rubs his face into sheets musky with new smells, tries to wipe off irritating drips of water and he knew Adam lived in a nice place so why was his roof leaking?
"You're stubborn, huh?"
He whines, low in his throat, finally gets his head under a pillow, where it's blessedly darker and dry.
"Hangover?"
He blinks into the twilight of the pillow's weave. Deigns to answer. "No. Why would I be?"
Adam hums noncommittally and tugs at the pillow, sliding a hand over the sheets and revealing Kris' skin. "I'll sprinkle more water, if I have to. You need to get up."
Kris tugs the pillow down, sees he's bearing a cup and wet fingers. "Why were you dripping water on me?" He gets a laugh and an echo of the earlier instructions to get up.
Making a face, he struggles out of the nest of blankets, sits blearily near Adam for a moment. "What time is it?" Sees the clock, winces.
Adam laughs at him -- a habit of his, Kris thinks. "Yeah. Bit late." A teasing smile and a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. Kris turns his head, offers himself up, but Adam withdraws, stands. Puzzled, Kris grabs for his clothes, struggles into alien clothing (it doesn't quite fit, he doesn't think) and ignores the bite of sensitive skin and eyes and wrists and self. He leans to reach for a shirt, shudders and half-collapses and wants to crawl up Adam's body when he grabs his arm, fingers rubbing tight and intemperate into the imprints of his wrists, skin etched and graven with (almost) words and lines and fingerprints, all the way around and almost halfway down the back of his hand.
"You didn't have this last night."
Kris forces his eyes clear, almost shakes his head, disoriented and broken from confusion. "Um. No? I mean, isn't that how it usually goes?" He takes his free hand, rubs it over his hair, sticky and mess with sweat and sleep. Touches along Adam's arm, sees him recoil and the smooth expanse of his skin. He blinks, uncomprehending, looks at Adam. "I don't. What? I--" And he thinks he must still be more fuzzy than he thought, because he doesn't understand why his skin looks as if it's been mauled but Adam's staring at him, horrified, except --
Oh.
Oh.
And it hurts, suddenly, more than anything he's ever experienced and he's scrubbing at his skin, frantically, trying to rub it off though he knows it will never go away, not now, and Adam says Kris and he thinks he's gasping in breath when he forces out, "Don't."
But Adam grabs at his wrists and he sobs out a moan, misery and euphoria rushing through him faster than he can cope and he shakes between collapsing forward and running away and his--
mistake is just staring at him in amazement and a little bit of pity.
He's being shaken, gently, and he's never been a demonstrative person but he's surprised when he realizes he's much more composed than he feels because he doesn't think he's been screaming. Adam's saying his name, softly, over and over and over, and he's just making soft, panicked noises and clutching his hands into fists determinedly.
But he forces himself to hold one of his gasped breaths, feels his heart rate begin to calm and he stares at his knees, curled beneath him, until he doesn't think he's about to claw at himself or Adam.
"Kris. Kris." His voice is soft and apologetic and Kris hates it so he looks up and focuses and hopes he'll stop. "Kris. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were--"
Kris sobs out a laugh, feels his eyes go wide and disbelieving and he just can't -- Adam pushes away from him, paces in front of the bed, in front of Kris, severe and pained and still pitying, when Kris doesn't see how this isn't his fault, almost entirely. "Realize? What did you think?" His voice threatens to break at the end; he can't even yell. He doesn't want to, just wants to go back twenty minutes when he was twined in warm covers and hidden from his own life.
"Oh, don't you--" Adam stops, breathes in through his nose carefully. "I thought it was drugs, okay? Everyone at that club does them."
"Drugs?" Kris just. He can't. He doesn't know enough, about himself or Adam or why any of this had to happen. He can't be angry but his pulse is in his ears and behind his eyes and Adam's moving and he's being destroyed by the one person he's always been told would never hurt him.
"Yeah, I don't know. I've never--" He looks at his own wrists, stares over at Kris'. "I didn't know you were. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have, if I'd. You were just."
He moves to sit down again, looks like he's reaching for Kris and Kris
(please. Screaming only he can hear)
can't.
He remembers he's half-naked, shivering with
(fear)
cold,
(it's summer.)
it's cold. He grabs for his shirt, frantic and quick and clumsy, yanks it over his head and is shocked it doesn't tear. Adam holds his hands up, soothing and easy.
"Kris."
He looks up again, though all he wants is to scream and break down and tell him stop saying my name.
"I can't." Adam's fidgeting, looking at the ceiling and wall and his own feet. "I don't--"
Kris almost laughs. He knows. "Yeah. Yeah. I get that." He does laugh, forces himself to breathe because he's never comprehended hysteria and he's not about to start. "Better than you, actually. I even know how much better than you." He turns to the door, looks around for his shoes, hopes they're near the front door. He thinks he remembers basic directions, goes left down the hall towards the wall of windows, blindingly bright.
Adam's feet follow him, hesitant and loud. "Kris."
"What?" He's never sounded so harsh before. He finds his shoes and shoves his feet in, ignoring laces and ties and the lack of socks.
"Don't you want to. Talk, or something?"
He's so careful, too late. "Not much to do, is there." It's not a question, and he doesn't resist the urge to slam the door behind him while he ignores Adam's offer for a ride, for a cab.
---
Kris finds his hotel, somehow; though it's not too far from Adam's apartment it's a different part of the city and he can't seem to find where he is, even once he arrives, but he's there and he goes up and knocks on their door, quiet and sedate and carefully measured. He left his key and he hopes Katy's there, waiting for him, because if he has to sit in the hallway he doesn't know what he'll do. But she is, and she opens the door and smiles bright and hopeful and asks, blithely, "Well? What happened? You left, what, last night?"
She sees something in him, though, and stills, pensive and fierce and worried. "Kris? What happened?"
And he reaches for her, buries his face in her neck and doesn't cry because it won't help and he can't spare the effort beyond hiding and breathing. She pries one of his hands off of her back, pets between his shoulder blades while she rubs fingers over it and looks, intent. "Kris? I don't understand."
He exhales loudly, hot on her neck and in her hair. "Nobody ever told me it could be one-way." And she's gasping into his ear, desperate, but he just clings and forces down bitterness and his heartbeat.
---
She brings him food that afternoon and he breathes thanks for best friends and unconditional love
(no such thing)
but curls in tighter to his stomach and sleeps.
---
He'd be disgusted with himself, dwelling and moping, but he doesn't know what else to do. Everyone he's ever seen went weeks before separating
(the two, not one)
and he never had anything to separate from. So he sleeps, waits for exhaustion to pass
(not exhaustion, fear)
and swallows down self-pity as best he can. Katy asks him, once, who it was, and he tells her he doesn't know. He could find him anywhere in the world, now, but he knows only his first name and that he sings. He says this to her, forcing himself to go to the bathroom, washing Adam off and away
(never)
but restraining the urge to scratch his arms bare, and when he comes out she's got her computer open on her lap and she's looking at him half-fearfully and asks him?
It is. He nods, looks over the pages of songs and awards and shakes his head, incomprehensive; she bites at her knuckle and says god, Kris.
---
She curls around him in his bed that night but he doesn't want skin against his and he breathes deep and even until she's asleep and he can pull away and sleep between her sheets but away from her. He forces himself awake early the next morning, dresses and brings food up from the hotel lobby, wakes Katy to tell her they're going sightseeing and she needs to get pretty. She rolls her eyes, peers at him judgmentally, deems him safe enough and goes to shower. Kris watches her leave, fondly, and forces food into his mouth. He might get past this, he knows now, and the prospect more than anything is giving him hope.
They go shopping, first, and Kris doesn't consider malls sightseeing but Katy's enthusiastic and trying too hard to be cheerful so he takes her and holds (only some of) her bags and they get back to the hotel before lunch and Adam's waiting outside.
All the progress Kris has made collapses when they see Adam and he stands and smiles at them and looks over Katy appraisingly.
She drops her bags at Kris' feet and he doesn't think to stop her before she marches to Adam and screams at him. He ignores her, slides a hand across the base of Kris' neck and tugs him around her to the doors.
"Let go of him! You've done enough." She looks at Kris imploringly but the pleased lassitude is sliding over him again and he draws in a shuddering breath. Adam looks at Katy, dark and wild.
"You're going to need to find somewhere else to be for a while." And he slides a hand into Kris' pocket to grab his room card and Kris thinks he sways from pressure and proximity but he bites his tongue and swallows down a whine.
He doesn't protest as he's pushed into an elevator or through the door of their room. Doesn't protest, isn't going to. Adam pushes him against the doorframe, painfully, and Kris looks at him low and expectantly.
"It itches." Kris doesn't know what he means, waits only for the breathless hope to be answered or crushed. He shudders, sighs, grabs at Adam's shoulders when Adam presses his lips and teeth to his ear and tells him, "Burns."
He keens, low in his throat, and tugs away to walk towards to bed, pulling at Adam as best he can. He'll ruin himself, again and again, because right now makes the ache go away. Adam won't come, won't touch him. He steps close and Kris arches in but Adam steps away, puts a hand restraining on his shoulder. "This isn't going to happen the same way. Tell me." Kris backs away, yanks his shirt over his head. His wrists are grabbed, fingernails scratching in. "Say yes, Kris."
Kris tugs again, shakes his head and laughs. "Yes. Yes. It will always be yes, Adam, that's sort of the way this works. And it can't get worse, can it?"
Adam's teeth flash, wicked and playful. "Let's find out, yeah?"
And Kris slides over his body on the bed and feels heatlightcompulsion blanketing his mind again and it doesn't stop.
(Not ever.)
---
When he settles back into himself, only himself, Adam has their fingers wound together and is comparing their skin, different tones and textures and inscribed just the same. He looks over at Kris, smiles slow and shy. "So, I might be a bit slow."
Kris turns, stretches out on his side and feels sticky and used. "Yeah." Kris wants to say it's okay, because Adam's here now and it is, but it isn't and he needs him to know that too. "I--"
He doesn't know what to say, just watches Adam trace their skin and feels shivers coasting along his spine.
Adam lets go, slides a hand across his hip possessive and determined, and Kris is heavy-lidded with fatigue and happiness. "I can't make up for that, I don't think." Adam's quiet for a while. "You walked out and I just. It felt weird, watching you walk away. I'd done that to you, but you were able to leave and I felt so childish, that I didn't think you seemed to care enough that you'd reacted like that but weren't willing to stay."
Kris doesn't speak, doesn't breathe, just watches and waits.
"I was useless yesterday. Matt brought back my car and came up and I just stared at him. Didn't realize I'd been losing entire chunks of time until I tried to have an ongoing conversation and went completely blank for entire sections because he just didn't seem to matter." Adam looks at Kris, maybe for a response but Kris just watches and waits. "So, anyway, I got up this morning and wandered around and got tired and sat in front of your hotel and here I am. Kind of an unimpressive reunion, huh?"
He's peering at Kris, intent and worried, and Kris realizes. "Do you think I'm going to reject you?" He can't conceive pushing Adam away, pulling away, any distance more than this winding contact. Adam's eyes shutter at his sentence and Kris sucks in a deep breath, straddles Adam. "No." Kisses at his mouth. "No. I'm not letting you go."
Adam's eyes are still dark with self-blame and Kris presses himself flat and tugs Adam's arms across his back. "It's okay. We're here."
Author:
idwyt_nome
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: R
Disclaimer: They are people, nobody owns them. I do not mean any harm or make any money.
Notes: Loosely based on e.e. cummings: one's not half two. It's AU, but it's also kind of fantasy. I don't know really where this came from. It's almost trippy, but it's also angsty. Hm.
Kris feels it along his skin like wet light as soon as he steps onto the streets. It's a typical night, he was told, but it feels like a celebration; he thinks maybe it is, somehow, a pulsing throbbing ritual of life, truer to its roots than most admit, even after. His wrists are bare, always have been. He scratches at them when the tilt of the world and the whorls of sound bring sensation to nerves not deadened but unborn. He can't look at the lights, they're hurting his eyes
(but maybe the lights are showing--)
so he blinks, looks away, stares down at the street and the litter but the lights are there too and he can't get away from them. Doesn't want to, though he knows they're not there and he's seeing
(not hallucinations, real)
his own foolishness sliding along his hands not like silk or fur or (light) but like canvas, heavy and stifling and hot, and he needs it gone, he'll never be able to live like this anymore (again) but he doesn't know how to remove something that isn't there.
This is normal, he's heard (knows, everything is alright, the light's gilding) but nobody ever says it will be so disconcerting and strange and sickening. Nobody ever says much of anything, because it's private, he knows, but he's in the middle of a city he's never seen before and in any place but a private one and he's scratching at his wrists still and he doesn't remember why he left their hotel at two in the morning the night they arrive when they have all week and he has no choice but to get lost (found).
He's still watching his feet, walking steadily and certainly and without his attention, the way you follow the hall from your bedroom to the kitchen when you've only ever lived in one house, one (life) room. The way that means you lose time, sometimes minutes or only seconds but time matters, it can make you forget that you needed a spoon so you get a fork and you're back in your room, where you're supposed to be but you don't need a fork. The right volition, direction, journey, but no attention and the purpose is lost and defunct. So he's watching his feet and he doesn't know where he is and he's only getting calmer, more complacent, as the haptic world collides in on itself and he has synesthesia, he thinks it's called, but he's seeing hearing smelling tasting nothing and everything is sensation from the bottom of his feet and his ears and the bite of his skin, protests becoming more vehement as the aesthesis settles and takes root and rends him apart from the inside out and all of it is supposed to happen.
He's approaching the metal doors of a club. He knows there's a line outside, held back by a pair of bouncers. He can see the people in the line
(empty shapes, unimportant)
and they're beautiful, dressed in color and laughter and vibrancy. He wants nothing to do with any of them.
(not them.)
He walks forward anyway, ignoring the looks and the sullen security men and the obvious discordance of his appearance in jeans and sneakers and tee shirt, they're in
(wrong, not them)
styles and personality but at this moment he doesn't think he could speak his own name.
One of the bouncers, a short blonde guy, steps in front of him. Kris blinks at his shoulder, moves to the side
(whirling and twisting and rebounds, the door's right in front of him he'll take the steps)
and a hand restrains at his arm, tugs firmly.
"Hey, you need to get in line."
And Kris looks at him, as his skin shivers
(pressure above and exposure underneath and nothing in between but him)
and when he jerks, unintentional and instinctive at the slick melding where his skin is impressing, the guy raises his eyebrows and steps away, a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
"Yeah. Go on in."
The door shuts behind him and he staggers, looks around, realizes how out of all of that, out of everything. it's. It's all stopped
(not gone, waiting)
and he's in a club, trendy and outrageous and nothing he's interested in, and he can't quite remember why he brought himself here. He knows.
But the compulsion is gone.
He runs his hands through his hair, marvels at the absence of sticky slowness on his body. He threads his way through the crowds around the dance floor and stops at the bar, orders water and gets a snide look for it.
He's twisting the cap off when there's an explosion of voices at his back. He turns, sees a door to the upper level opening. Two girls tumble out backwards -- one has a long blonde ponytail and Kris wonders why Katy's here -- but they turn and she's clutching at the other girl's hand and looks and sounds nothing like Katy, really.
He gulps a drink, keeps staring. A taller guy grabs at the blonde's shoulders, steps on her heals as she flails, gets yanked back himself. Black hair is all Kris sees first, then he's been caught staring and the man smiles.
Kris looks down at his drink, sees the top of the liquid brimming with sparks.
"I'm Adam."
He won't look up. "Kris."
"You've never been here before."
"This club?" Kris does meet his eyes with the question, thinks he's being laughed at.
"Anywhere like this." He leans towards him and Kris hears a distant glint of time.
"Not really." Small towns in Arkansas aren't generally big on--" He stops. "Why?"
Adam's eyes crinkle as he cocks his head, moves close. Kris thinks there's probably one deep breath separating them. "You look out of place."
Kris manages a laugh. When Adam asks why he's here he also reaches out to wrap long fingers around Kris' drink; Kris watches permissively while he swallows most of it down.
"I came with a friend," he tells him, "for a week. Got restless tonight and ended up here." When he's handed back the water he sees fingers shimmer and fade and Kris blows out a breath and can't draw another.
"Yeah."
And every flickering impulse, sensation, impetus, fervor of compulsion rushes back in on him all at once and his skin is trying to pull itself apart and he thinks he's stumbled, fallen, and then he registers hands on his neck and he's gripping Adam's hair and he's not worried about the
(burning, waiting, enough)
people and lights and music and his wrists aren't itching, they're against Adam's skin, warm,
(burning)
and he raises up and Adam presses down and they meet not in the middle but close enough.
His lips are dry and Kris licks them and Adam's tongue is in his mouth, sliding behind his teeth and Kris breathes through Adam until he pulls away with a gentle tug of teeth.
The glow under his skin and the world has settled into a slow awareness. It'll build again but now it's
(waiting)
bearable. Adam looks down at him, thoughtful and careful and obscure, hands sliding down his arms and gripping his wrists.
(burning.)
"Come with me tonight. I'm with my friends; we'll show you the city."
Kris nods and lets Adam tug him, complacent,
(waiting)
to the doors.
---
The find his friends outside, the girls and man from earlier, grouped around a dark SUV. Adam's arm slides over his shoulders, pulls him in close, but Kris settles into the possessive gesture.
It says something about Adam, he knows, that his companions don't look at Kris like he's an unusual occurrence. He's introduced, told their names, forgets them moments later though he thinks he'll always remember their faces as one of the multitudes of reality ripples impressing
(burning)
themselves into his memory.
Adam tells them they're going to another club, Kris thinks; somewhere with a foreign name and address and, likely, clientele. Then he tosses his keys to the blonde.
"You want me to drive?" She's looking at him as if this is an odd occurrence but Kris feels himself sway and they all look at him. "Are you alright?"
Adam grips tighter, rubs at Kris' arm. Kris focuses on her, steady and intense and wonders if he's even blinking. "I'm fine."
And something in his face shows how his vision is intense and bright but blurry and indistinct and he wants to close his eyes and fall away, because she looks at him and seems, he thinks, impressed or awed or worried or maybe just confused. He doesn't care.
(Empty shapes, unimportant.)
But she shoves her way past the guy, forces the other girl into the front seat and Kris is pressed against a door, a window with Adam leaning against him, heavy and hot and they drive past lights and sounds that Kris sees and registers and almost understands. He responds, maybe not normal but passable, when Adam speaks and ignores the others unintentionally but he doesn't even realize they've said something until Adam responds.
"Hey, no, don't stop."
Kris leans his forehead against the window, closes his eyes and listens.
"I changed my mind. Pick somewhere else."
"There's too many cameras. Let's try for anonymity."
Kris breathes deep and slow, hears himself loud in the closed air.
"Hey, you asleep?"
He laughs, but it catches in his throat and he has to gasp, panting. "Not even close."
The motion stops, winding world resolving itself into a set pattern, at least. They're out of the car, and Adam steps away, a little, no more touching and Kris is more himself again; he can hear the rest of the world, focus on the outside, now that the closeness
(waiting)
recedes.
The blonde walks in front, dodging the unknown guy's grabs for her ass. "Adam, you know this is not the best idea, right? He'll probably go nuts from this much input."
Kris looks at her narrowly, trying to remember, decipher any sense from the jumbled mass of the few things he did comprehend.
"Yes, Megan. Thanks. But at least here I know they won't play any of my own fucking songs."
"Your songs?"
They all look at him, surprised, as if they'd forgotten he was there or thought he wasn't.
The guy snorts. "Dude, what rock did you come out from under?"
Adam pushes at him. Kris blinks, remembers home, tells them, "Conway. Small town in Arkansas."
"Wow. Fucking boulder, then, huh?"
"Matt."
Kris follows them through the door, reels from an input of sound and light and god he's sick of being incapable of perception. At least he knows two of the three names, now. Matt and Megan. He wonders if they're together, has his answer when she forces her tongue down his throat.
Adam's at his back. "So, we tried to show you several places. You didn't seem interested."
Kris leans back, slow and lazy. "I don't remember."
Laughter and breath over his ear. "Yeah, I figured. Do you want to come home with me?"
Kris turns, looks at him.
(enough.)
"Yes."
---
They found a cab, somehow, but Adam had to sit away from him on the trip because Kris couldn't keep his skin from jumping every time he got near (he tried to tell him, tried to say--) but also because Adam was tense and coiled tightly wound, too, so Kris stayed quiet and swallowed down the distance.
Maybe there was something to the whole singing thing because they stop outside Adam's apartment building and it's one of those where the person at the front door actually checks you in, makes sure you live there or have a legitimate reason to visit. Kris thinks he'd be intimidated if he weren't already so fucking gone.
Adam grabs Kris' wrist, tight, nods at the woman at the desk, pushes Kris into the elevator. He doesn't even know what floor they get out on, because Adam presses him against the mirrored walls, kisses perfunctory and impatient. When the doors slide open Kris is across the hall before he can open his eyes. He sees windows and dark furniture and lights that he thinks are real shining in.
Fingers slide around his neck, Adam's lips press against his forehead, hot murmur, "Niceties, right?" Kris makes a noise, not agreement just sound, and Adam laughs breathless and heavy. "This is my apartment. Quick tour is that I have lots of rooms. One is a bedroom, which we'll start with."
Deft maneuvering and agile fingers at his clothes and Adam is bearing Kris down onto cool sheets. He pants, twists, cries out low and soft and needy because Adam's mouth is everywhere and he's floating, somewhere, waiting still, and he's pliant from the constraints of hands around his wrists forcing them still and a harsh whisper of keep them there.
He doesn't know how he'll ever exist normally again, when the
(burning, waiting)
impulse has settled into a fulfillment
(consummation)
of nothing he ever though to want. Adam around him, in him, under his skin and his beliefs, different colors and
(lights)
divulgences, but for him.
(for him.)
---
He's slow to move, with the light striking over his eyes. He mumbles, rubs his face into sheets musky with new smells, tries to wipe off irritating drips of water and he knew Adam lived in a nice place so why was his roof leaking?
"You're stubborn, huh?"
He whines, low in his throat, finally gets his head under a pillow, where it's blessedly darker and dry.
"Hangover?"
He blinks into the twilight of the pillow's weave. Deigns to answer. "No. Why would I be?"
Adam hums noncommittally and tugs at the pillow, sliding a hand over the sheets and revealing Kris' skin. "I'll sprinkle more water, if I have to. You need to get up."
Kris tugs the pillow down, sees he's bearing a cup and wet fingers. "Why were you dripping water on me?" He gets a laugh and an echo of the earlier instructions to get up.
Making a face, he struggles out of the nest of blankets, sits blearily near Adam for a moment. "What time is it?" Sees the clock, winces.
Adam laughs at him -- a habit of his, Kris thinks. "Yeah. Bit late." A teasing smile and a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. Kris turns his head, offers himself up, but Adam withdraws, stands. Puzzled, Kris grabs for his clothes, struggles into alien clothing (it doesn't quite fit, he doesn't think) and ignores the bite of sensitive skin and eyes and wrists and self. He leans to reach for a shirt, shudders and half-collapses and wants to crawl up Adam's body when he grabs his arm, fingers rubbing tight and intemperate into the imprints of his wrists, skin etched and graven with (almost) words and lines and fingerprints, all the way around and almost halfway down the back of his hand.
"You didn't have this last night."
Kris forces his eyes clear, almost shakes his head, disoriented and broken from confusion. "Um. No? I mean, isn't that how it usually goes?" He takes his free hand, rubs it over his hair, sticky and mess with sweat and sleep. Touches along Adam's arm, sees him recoil and the smooth expanse of his skin. He blinks, uncomprehending, looks at Adam. "I don't. What? I--" And he thinks he must still be more fuzzy than he thought, because he doesn't understand why his skin looks as if it's been mauled but Adam's staring at him, horrified, except --
Oh.
Oh.
And it hurts, suddenly, more than anything he's ever experienced and he's scrubbing at his skin, frantically, trying to rub it off though he knows it will never go away, not now, and Adam says Kris and he thinks he's gasping in breath when he forces out, "Don't."
But Adam grabs at his wrists and he sobs out a moan, misery and euphoria rushing through him faster than he can cope and he shakes between collapsing forward and running away and his--
mistake is just staring at him in amazement and a little bit of pity.
He's being shaken, gently, and he's never been a demonstrative person but he's surprised when he realizes he's much more composed than he feels because he doesn't think he's been screaming. Adam's saying his name, softly, over and over and over, and he's just making soft, panicked noises and clutching his hands into fists determinedly.
But he forces himself to hold one of his gasped breaths, feels his heart rate begin to calm and he stares at his knees, curled beneath him, until he doesn't think he's about to claw at himself or Adam.
"Kris. Kris." His voice is soft and apologetic and Kris hates it so he looks up and focuses and hopes he'll stop. "Kris. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were--"
Kris sobs out a laugh, feels his eyes go wide and disbelieving and he just can't -- Adam pushes away from him, paces in front of the bed, in front of Kris, severe and pained and still pitying, when Kris doesn't see how this isn't his fault, almost entirely. "Realize? What did you think?" His voice threatens to break at the end; he can't even yell. He doesn't want to, just wants to go back twenty minutes when he was twined in warm covers and hidden from his own life.
"Oh, don't you--" Adam stops, breathes in through his nose carefully. "I thought it was drugs, okay? Everyone at that club does them."
"Drugs?" Kris just. He can't. He doesn't know enough, about himself or Adam or why any of this had to happen. He can't be angry but his pulse is in his ears and behind his eyes and Adam's moving and he's being destroyed by the one person he's always been told would never hurt him.
"Yeah, I don't know. I've never--" He looks at his own wrists, stares over at Kris'. "I didn't know you were. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have, if I'd. You were just."
He moves to sit down again, looks like he's reaching for Kris and Kris
(please. Screaming only he can hear)
can't.
He remembers he's half-naked, shivering with
(fear)
cold,
(it's summer.)
it's cold. He grabs for his shirt, frantic and quick and clumsy, yanks it over his head and is shocked it doesn't tear. Adam holds his hands up, soothing and easy.
"Kris."
He looks up again, though all he wants is to scream and break down and tell him stop saying my name.
"I can't." Adam's fidgeting, looking at the ceiling and wall and his own feet. "I don't--"
Kris almost laughs. He knows. "Yeah. Yeah. I get that." He does laugh, forces himself to breathe because he's never comprehended hysteria and he's not about to start. "Better than you, actually. I even know how much better than you." He turns to the door, looks around for his shoes, hopes they're near the front door. He thinks he remembers basic directions, goes left down the hall towards the wall of windows, blindingly bright.
Adam's feet follow him, hesitant and loud. "Kris."
"What?" He's never sounded so harsh before. He finds his shoes and shoves his feet in, ignoring laces and ties and the lack of socks.
"Don't you want to. Talk, or something?"
He's so careful, too late. "Not much to do, is there." It's not a question, and he doesn't resist the urge to slam the door behind him while he ignores Adam's offer for a ride, for a cab.
---
Kris finds his hotel, somehow; though it's not too far from Adam's apartment it's a different part of the city and he can't seem to find where he is, even once he arrives, but he's there and he goes up and knocks on their door, quiet and sedate and carefully measured. He left his key and he hopes Katy's there, waiting for him, because if he has to sit in the hallway he doesn't know what he'll do. But she is, and she opens the door and smiles bright and hopeful and asks, blithely, "Well? What happened? You left, what, last night?"
She sees something in him, though, and stills, pensive and fierce and worried. "Kris? What happened?"
And he reaches for her, buries his face in her neck and doesn't cry because it won't help and he can't spare the effort beyond hiding and breathing. She pries one of his hands off of her back, pets between his shoulder blades while she rubs fingers over it and looks, intent. "Kris? I don't understand."
He exhales loudly, hot on her neck and in her hair. "Nobody ever told me it could be one-way." And she's gasping into his ear, desperate, but he just clings and forces down bitterness and his heartbeat.
---
She brings him food that afternoon and he breathes thanks for best friends and unconditional love
(no such thing)
but curls in tighter to his stomach and sleeps.
---
He'd be disgusted with himself, dwelling and moping, but he doesn't know what else to do. Everyone he's ever seen went weeks before separating
(the two, not one)
and he never had anything to separate from. So he sleeps, waits for exhaustion to pass
(not exhaustion, fear)
and swallows down self-pity as best he can. Katy asks him, once, who it was, and he tells her he doesn't know. He could find him anywhere in the world, now, but he knows only his first name and that he sings. He says this to her, forcing himself to go to the bathroom, washing Adam off and away
(never)
but restraining the urge to scratch his arms bare, and when he comes out she's got her computer open on her lap and she's looking at him half-fearfully and asks him?
It is. He nods, looks over the pages of songs and awards and shakes his head, incomprehensive; she bites at her knuckle and says god, Kris.
---
She curls around him in his bed that night but he doesn't want skin against his and he breathes deep and even until she's asleep and he can pull away and sleep between her sheets but away from her. He forces himself awake early the next morning, dresses and brings food up from the hotel lobby, wakes Katy to tell her they're going sightseeing and she needs to get pretty. She rolls her eyes, peers at him judgmentally, deems him safe enough and goes to shower. Kris watches her leave, fondly, and forces food into his mouth. He might get past this, he knows now, and the prospect more than anything is giving him hope.
They go shopping, first, and Kris doesn't consider malls sightseeing but Katy's enthusiastic and trying too hard to be cheerful so he takes her and holds (only some of) her bags and they get back to the hotel before lunch and Adam's waiting outside.
All the progress Kris has made collapses when they see Adam and he stands and smiles at them and looks over Katy appraisingly.
She drops her bags at Kris' feet and he doesn't think to stop her before she marches to Adam and screams at him. He ignores her, slides a hand across the base of Kris' neck and tugs him around her to the doors.
"Let go of him! You've done enough." She looks at Kris imploringly but the pleased lassitude is sliding over him again and he draws in a shuddering breath. Adam looks at Katy, dark and wild.
"You're going to need to find somewhere else to be for a while." And he slides a hand into Kris' pocket to grab his room card and Kris thinks he sways from pressure and proximity but he bites his tongue and swallows down a whine.
He doesn't protest as he's pushed into an elevator or through the door of their room. Doesn't protest, isn't going to. Adam pushes him against the doorframe, painfully, and Kris looks at him low and expectantly.
"It itches." Kris doesn't know what he means, waits only for the breathless hope to be answered or crushed. He shudders, sighs, grabs at Adam's shoulders when Adam presses his lips and teeth to his ear and tells him, "Burns."
He keens, low in his throat, and tugs away to walk towards to bed, pulling at Adam as best he can. He'll ruin himself, again and again, because right now makes the ache go away. Adam won't come, won't touch him. He steps close and Kris arches in but Adam steps away, puts a hand restraining on his shoulder. "This isn't going to happen the same way. Tell me." Kris backs away, yanks his shirt over his head. His wrists are grabbed, fingernails scratching in. "Say yes, Kris."
Kris tugs again, shakes his head and laughs. "Yes. Yes. It will always be yes, Adam, that's sort of the way this works. And it can't get worse, can it?"
Adam's teeth flash, wicked and playful. "Let's find out, yeah?"
And Kris slides over his body on the bed and feels heatlightcompulsion blanketing his mind again and it doesn't stop.
(Not ever.)
---
When he settles back into himself, only himself, Adam has their fingers wound together and is comparing their skin, different tones and textures and inscribed just the same. He looks over at Kris, smiles slow and shy. "So, I might be a bit slow."
Kris turns, stretches out on his side and feels sticky and used. "Yeah." Kris wants to say it's okay, because Adam's here now and it is, but it isn't and he needs him to know that too. "I--"
He doesn't know what to say, just watches Adam trace their skin and feels shivers coasting along his spine.
Adam lets go, slides a hand across his hip possessive and determined, and Kris is heavy-lidded with fatigue and happiness. "I can't make up for that, I don't think." Adam's quiet for a while. "You walked out and I just. It felt weird, watching you walk away. I'd done that to you, but you were able to leave and I felt so childish, that I didn't think you seemed to care enough that you'd reacted like that but weren't willing to stay."
Kris doesn't speak, doesn't breathe, just watches and waits.
"I was useless yesterday. Matt brought back my car and came up and I just stared at him. Didn't realize I'd been losing entire chunks of time until I tried to have an ongoing conversation and went completely blank for entire sections because he just didn't seem to matter." Adam looks at Kris, maybe for a response but Kris just watches and waits. "So, anyway, I got up this morning and wandered around and got tired and sat in front of your hotel and here I am. Kind of an unimpressive reunion, huh?"
He's peering at Kris, intent and worried, and Kris realizes. "Do you think I'm going to reject you?" He can't conceive pushing Adam away, pulling away, any distance more than this winding contact. Adam's eyes shutter at his sentence and Kris sucks in a deep breath, straddles Adam. "No." Kisses at his mouth. "No. I'm not letting you go."
Adam's eyes are still dark with self-blame and Kris presses himself flat and tugs Adam's arms across his back. "It's okay. We're here."