fic: ready for those flashing lights (1/5)
Title: Ready for those Flashing Lights (1/5)
Author: Starlight_1985
Pairing: Kris Allen/Adam Lambert
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,700
Disclaimer: Don’t know. Never happened. All fiction.
Notes: This is part one of five. Part two will be coming soon. The title is borrowed from Gaga (of course). As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated!
Summary: AU featuring paparazzo!Kris and celebrity!Adam.
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This is how he’s going to die - he’s sure of it - with beads of sweat clinging stubbornly to his hairline and his white v-neck tee plastered to his chest under the unseasonably brutal Los Angeles sun; nondescript black bag perched at his feet and thick black strap wrapped around his neck, supporting what feels like 50 pounds of solid lead between his hands; sweaty fingertip poised reflexively over the shutter button and unblinking eye trained fixedly through the lens while his nose twitches from the tantalizing aroma of freshly made pasta sauce drifting from the upscale outdoor restaurant across the street.
Yes, Kris Allen is going to be the first paparazzo in history to collapse on one of L.A.’s glitzy city streets from heat exhaustion. Or hunger. Possibly boredom. Definitely impatience.
It feels like he’s been there forever, rooted to the same spot with the hope of scoring a few shots of some A-list Hollywood starlet whose name he can’t even remember. He’s not entirely ignorant of his subject, though; there are a few things Kris recognizes: namely her bleach blonde hair and her two most important assets that, at any minute now, are likely to free themselves from the confines of her tight black halter dress and perkily welcome strolling tourists to the wonder of Los Angeles (and the skillfulness of its plastic surgeons).
He’s not at all interested in the bimbo twirling her hair and spearing a piece of lettuce (sans dressing) with her fork. He’s more interested in the guy sitting opposite her: not because he’s hot - although Kris does take a moment (or several) to appreciate the muscular arms, broad chest and Hollywood-white smile through the camera lens - but because the hot guy in question is most decidedly not Hollywood starlet’s husband of three and a half years.
Kris knows that he’s working on borrowed time. He’s the only one here - he just so happened to be on his way to grab some lunch when he spotted them out of the corner of his eye - so he knows the payoff has the potential to be big. He keeps the camera aimed on the couple, tension strumming through his arms and breath held as he patiently waits for it. He knows it’s coming. He can tell by the hand Hollywood starlet places oh-so-slyly on her companion’s thigh and begins trailing upwards, and the accompanying coy smile she sends him over the top of her wine glass.
“Come on already,” Kris mutters, camera focusing on their faces which are growing closer and closer as he waits them out. He’s normally a patient person, but all of the flirting with no real action is starting to get old and it’s only a matter of time before some of the others get tipped off and ten more cameras are hastily aligned next to his.
Finally, finally - he watches Hollywood starlet glance around the restaurant before she grins and beckons her companion closer with a teasing crook of her finger. This is it, Kris thinks, and his smile matches that of his prey as he watches their mouths press together and their tongues play.
“Gotcha,” Kris murmurs amidst the soft clicks of the camera.
Kris Allen, paparazzo: 1.
Celebrity: 0.
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In the grand scheme of things, there are a million other occupations that Kris Allen would be better suited for: teacher, social worker, missionary and, perhaps most notably, musician. He’s got the fingers of an experienced and well practiced guitar player - long and lean, callused and quick - and if strumming cords and pressing frets could pay the bills, he’d toss the camera in a heartbeat.
But they can’t.
Eight months ago, Kris left Conway, Arkansas as a big fish in a small pond. He kissed his mama goodbye and hopped on a Greyhound bus headed west with nothing but his guitar and an oversized duffel bag, determined to make it in an exciting land of new possibilities, a place where being a musician was an acceptable career choice and not a backup plan. He moved in with Cale, a long time friend and fellow musician, who had failed to mention that he’d given up on his own dream of stardom six months prior to Kris’s arrival and started working as a freelance paparazzo to help pay the rent.
At the time, Kris had nodded wordlessly and vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to avoid a similar predicament, but seven long weeks of auditions and rejections came and went and it wasn’t long before Cale was manhandling him off the couch and introducing him to Star Catcher Dave, a man in his mid-50s with a small crew of guys he’d send out to take the pictures that he would turn around and sell to the highest bidder; a man who preferred to accessorize his Birkenstocks with high, white socks and who wore what was left of his graying hair in a short ponytail. Dave had eyed Kris for all of ten seconds before setting a camera in his hands, patting him roughly on the back and sending him out with Cale to bring back “some fucking amazing shots, boys.”
Then, Kris had thought Star Catcher Dave must have either 1.) been pretty desperate to hire someone or 2.) trusted Cale implicitly because Kris certainly wasn’t qualified; his knowledge of cameras began and ended with the words Easy Shot. And his knowledge of celebrities and pop culture? Non-existent.
Later, Cale had told him that Dave made his on-the-spot decision on the basis that Kris was a good looking guy: a rarity in the industry and a sure fire guarantee to attract some of the most beautiful celebrities in Tinsel Town. Kris wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he figured that he should probably get used to the whole objectifying people thing; this was Hollywood, after all.
Kris had spent the first few days of his new career trailing Cale. They passed their days drinking high priced coffee in popular Hollywood cafes where Cale kept one eye pealed for celebrity activity as he showed Kris the ins and outs of his new Nikon camera. Kris had been of the persuasion that once he knew where the shutter button was, he was all set to go, but hours of discussion with Cale about light, shutter speed and resolution had quickly thwarted that belief. The moonlight didn’t offer much familiarity, either; nights were spent watching Cale charm glamorous women into stopping for a few quick photographs and a brief chat on camera.
It wasn’t long before Cale had declared Kris knowledgeable enough to embark on the crazy journey that was paparazzi life and Kris stepped out on his own, camera in hand and a growing desire to prove himself to Dave and Cale with some awesome shots and new celebrity connections.
He didn’t have to wait long to do so. Kris was a natural. Whereas he may have seemed out of place in front of the cameras in his plaid shirt and jeans amidst the glitz and glamour of Hollywood life, he quickly found a home for himself behind the safety of the camera. He was short, but wiry. He could push his way to the front of paparazzi hoards with the best of them, his small frame allowing him to easily duck underneath arms and avoid flying elbows. He was cute and charming, with honest eyes that beckoned welcomingly to celebrities who would find themselves drawn to Kris’s easygoing demeanor and bashful smile. In a sea of sharks, Kris Allen was the doggy-paddling puppy; he was their friend: the least likely person to turn around and sell their image to the highest bidder.
But that’s exactly what he did.
He gave his film to Dave every morning, not caring - not even thinking - about what happened after the photographs were sold and printed. It was just a job: a way to pay the bills and put food on the table.
That all changes the day he meets Adam Lambert.
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Kris knows who Adam Lambert is - you’d have to be living under a rock for the past three years not to have heard of the guy whose sinfully melodic voice dipped, ebbed and soared to the highest of levels, hitting and holding notes that had only ever been written on lined music sheets, notes that were never performed and, certainly, never mastered. Adam Lambert is young, confident, talented and beautiful - a true quadruple threat in Hollywood - with the swagger of a preying lion, but the well-known reputation of a gentle cub.
It is this very knowledge that leaves Kris shaking his head in confusion when Dave announces that he is planning to send Kris out with Cale tomorrow night to cover Adam’s CD release party; Dave never sends Kris out to an Adam Lambert-affiliated event. He usually prefers to send Jake or Devon with their sharp cheekbones, kohl shaded eyelids and shiny designer clothing, hoping that their look alone will make Adam pause and take notice; certainly not Kris who Dave considers “a little too plaid and ordinary for the likes of His Sparkly-ness, no offense.”
Naturally, Kris has difficulty understanding Dave’s current change of heart.
“Why me?” Kris asks Cale between bites of blueberry pancakes the next morning.
“Why you, what?” Cale replies sleepily, one hand clenched around his coffee mug and the other working diligently to rip open the three packets of sugar necessary for full-functioning capability.
“Why is Dave sending me out with you to Adam’s release party?” asks Kris.
“You know why. Devon and Jake are busy tonight covering the premiere of Depp’s new movie and Dave wants a second person at Lambert’s thing tonight. You’re in. What’s the problem?” says Cale.
“I just don’t think that I’m the right person for this job,” says Kris, looking down at the table. “You’ve seen Adam Lambert. You know what he likes. There’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to get that man’s attention tonight.”
Cale gives him a long, measured look as he stirs his coffee slowly. “Yeah, right. One look at you and Adam Lambert won’t know what hit him. I don’t care what Dave says, I’ve seen this guy in action and I’ll tell you right now that I’m counting on you to be our secret weapon tonight. Don’t let me down, man.”
Kris sighs and rubs the back of his neck, “What do I have to do, Cale?”
“Not a thing, Kris. Trust me,” says Cale.
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Hours later, Kris feels nothing like a secret weapon. His neck is stiff, his hands sweaty, and he is beginning to feel out of place standing in the queue of paparazzi with Cale. The shutter clicks of his camera have become more mechanical than anything else as he watches the who’s who of the music industry parade down the red carpet with outrageous shades of hair that are bright enough to rival his little cousin’s Rainbow Brite doll, and bold outfits that are made out of a strange mixture of leather, mesh and torn chiffon.
Kris is lost in the sea of unusual fashion, but the flux of increased activity and whispers around him are enough to send Kris’s camera panning instinctually to the right and, sure enough, there is the man of the hour. Kris allows himself a few self indulgent moments to just look and appreciate. Adam is gorgeous. Decked out in shiny black leather pants that cling beautifully to toned thighs and impossibly long legs, a grey vintage Queen concert tee, and a black blazer with sequined lapels that catch the light of the cameras and glitter back enticingly, Adam poses for the line of paparazzi with several strands of silver necklaces around his neck, chunky rings on almost every finger, and his arm around the shoulders of a tiny guy with sparkles on his cheeks and a smug smile on his lips.
Kris’s hands tighten reflexively on his camera. Who is this guy?
“Boyfriend,” comes the answer from Cale and Kris turns to look at him in confusion. When did Cale become a mind reader?
“What? You asked a question, I answered it,” says Cale with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s Mark something or other, Adam’s boyfriend of five months and all-around asshole if you ask any of the other paps around here.”
Kris is trying to digest the new information and attempting to quell the tiny seed of unfounded jealousy beginning to take root in his stomach when Cale throws a sharp elbow into his side with a mumbled “pay attention, Kris” and Kris looks up in time to see Adam heading their way.
Adam has lost the glittery boyfriend, replaced now by one of Adam’s handlers who seems so hum drum in comparison to Adam’s fierceness. She guides Adam through the press line until he’s standing directly in front of Kris and Cale, lighting up the night with the beauty of his smile and the soft trills of his laughter as the paps call out to him.
He is close, so close that Kris can see the dark purple metallic shadow decorating his eyelids, the black eyeliner smudged deliberately and artfully into his lower lash line and the few tiny freckles around his glossy lips that peek out from underneath the foundation.
Kris picks up his camera with unsteady hands to snap a few quick shots as Adam looks from left to right, twisting his full lips into a sexy pout and eye fucking the cameras surrounding him into complete and total submission. When his sinful gaze lands on Kris and his camera, Adam’s mouth parts and his tongue comes out to slide wetly across his bottom lip, spreading the gloss from one corner to the other, over and over again.
It‘s second nature for Kris to lower the camera; it is not enough for him to witness such a blatant display of sexiness through an artificial lens. Adam Lambert is probably the only person in the world who can make Kris forget about the camera, forget about the job, and just focus on the man. Adam Lambert is probably the only person who Kris can see as being more beautiful in person than on the cover of some magazine.
Without the barrier of the camera, it is easy for Adam’s blue eyes to find and hold Kris’s brown ones. Kris can’t stop the brief shiver from running up his spine as one of Adam’s eyebrows raises in silent appreciation and he casts a speculative look up and down Kris’s body. They are alone in the world, Adam’s blistering stare holding Kris a willing prisoner as the cameras continue to click, the rest of the paparazzi too caught up in getting their million dollar shots to notice.
Finally, Adam drags his eyes away from Kris when his handler reappears to put a gentle hand on his elbow and to whisper something in his ear. As Adam turns towards her with a nod and a smirk, Kris remembers his job and stutters into action, lifting his camera to get more shots as desire burns its way through his veins and pure, unbridled want sets up shop warmly between his legs.
He spends the rest of the night behind the press line watching Adam charm his friends and acquaintances as flashing lights try to capture the allure of the man on film.
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The next morning, Cale has endless rolls of Adam laughing and posing crazily with other A-list celebrities; rolls of Adam shaking the hands of well known industry executives; rolls of Adam posing with his arms around pretty women and even prettier boys.
Kris has close-ups of Adam’s lip freckles; still shots of him smiling; an entire roll cataloguing the varying shades of blue in his eyes and the intricacy of his eye makeup; dozens of pictures of blue-highlighted, glitter-infused hair; and one spur of the moment shot of Adam’s ass in those deliciously tight leather pants.
Kris gives Dave all of the photos except the ass shot. He has a feeling that Dave won’t be sending him out again anytime soon to shoot Adam Lambert and he needs a little something to remember him by.
Part Two
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