Fanfic: Once Five Years Pass (1/?)
Title: Once Five years Pass
Author: Radiogaga33
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: Kris, Adam, etc are their own people. They belong to themselves, not to me. No claims to any copyrights, trademarks, or any other intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction from my very idle mind.
Notes: I was going on and on about my love for all things Lambert a couple days ago and a friend asked me where I saw Adam and Kris in five years. The story kinds took on a life of its own from there. My first attempt at fanfic. Comments welcome!
Once Five Years Pass (A Kradam fanfic)
Chapter 1: As If We Never Said Goodbye
May 10, 2014
Everything was as if he’d never said goodbye. Kris Allen stepped out of the black towncar that had whisked him from the airport and onto the Idol studio lot. He had forgotten how blinding the California sunlight could be, even as the day straddled that magical space between late afternoon and twilight. He had forgotten the maddening rush of activity that swirled around the building in the final hours before showtime, the set pieces being dragged to and fro, the band equipment being polished, the house singers being hurried into the building for final rehearsals. Nevertheless, the re-discovery was tinged with a sense of intense familiarity.
He walked in through the stage doors, hauling two guitar cases, his compact body encased in dark blue jeans and yet another plaid shirt and leather jacket, nodding hellos to old friends and stopping every so often for a quick chat with a stagehand here, a wardrobe girl there.
The color of the walls was still the same, the dressing rooms were the same, even the pieces of candy in the crystal bowls were the same. This of course, wasn’t a problem, Kris thought as he munched on yellow peanut M&Ms while waiting for the make-up artist to arrive. He heard the sound of music coming from the mainstage. Final run through. That and one last hurrah for whoever was getting sent home this elimination night and missing out on a shot at the big finale.
The big finale. Five years ago, it had been Adam and him. Adam. A sharp feeling of melancholy washed over him. In five years it hadn’t changed-the sadness that filled him at the mere thought, the mere mention of that man. Adam. He looked over at the empty metal chair next to him. Five years ago, Adam would have been sitting in that chair, his eyeliner-rimmed eyes smiling at him as the final touches to their make up were applied. Five years ago, Adam would have waggled his eye brows as he tossed off an obscene joke with all the precociousness of a school boy. Five years ago, Adam would have ruffled his hair as he leaned in to whisper a quick pep talk in his ear. Five years ago, Kris wouldn’t be swiveling back and forth all alone.
One hour later, Kris walked down the hall, guitar strapped to his body and makeup in place. He walked differently now-his steps peppered with a confidence that hadn’t been there five years ago. But there was weariness too. He walked like what he was-a multi-platinum selling pop star, a radio darling, a divorcee, a recluse. He was infamous now both for his five Top-10 hits and his habit of dropping off the radar for weeks as he hid himself in the anonymity of the crowds in his adopted home of Manhattan. Kris Allen, star, who would’ve have thought, he mused as he neared the mainstage. Adam, his stubborn mind returned. Adam never doubted. Adam always believed in you. Adam loved you. And you threw his love back in his face.
His easy stride faltered for the first time and he paused to gather himself before facing an audience of millions. There. There was the spot where he had laughed hysterically with Adam. There was the spot where Adam’s hand had brushed his accidentally and he had trembled at the fleeting contact. There was the spot where Adam had slung an arm around his neck and kissed him on the side of his head. There, there, there. Everywhere held a memory of Adam. Adam. The man he’d spent so much time trying to forget. After five years he had begun to think he had.
But as he stood there in the hallway, buffeted by memories of the past, he realized that nothing had changed. There it was again…the desire that had held him in its grip five years before. The desire that has washed over him that night, deep in the darkest hour of the night, as he had strained his body closer to Adam’s. Desire held him in its sway even now. Everything was as if he’d never said goodbye.
* * *
Everything was as if he’d never said goodbye. Adam Lambert’s hand tightened convulsively around the grey remote control in his hand. He had forgotten how much of a spectacle an Idol results how was. He had forgotten the barely controlled frenzy of group numbers and Ford commercials, and stage pieces being hauled here and there at dizzying speeds. He remembered the night one of those pieces had come crashing down, leaving a shimmering heap of broken glass on the stage, deadly and beautiful all at once.
He had forgotten the barely concealed frustration of contestants suffering through commercial break after commercial break, waiting to discover on whose head the sword of Damocles would fall that night. It was as if five years had never come and gone. As he sat, sprawled in tight black leather pants, his bare chest adorned with silver necklaces, he was surprised at the intense familiarity of all the pomp and circumstance, the bloated beauty and the bombast.
His hotel room was a touch warmer that most hotel rooms were but no less anonymous, even when filled with the multitude of items that always traveled with The Lambert, as the British celebrity rags had taken to calling him. Tomorrow, they would be filled with glossy pictures of him. Adam arriving at Wembley. Adam performing for 60,000 in black leather pants and nothing else. Adam swilling vodka at the post-show party. But tonight, the tabloid darling sat in an anonymous hotel room, the ghostly light from the television screen flickering across his face.
Adam Lambert’s face was different now. The spiky jet black hair was still the same, and the piercing blue grey of his eyes remained the same. Even so, his face was different, more mature, more handsome somehow, more weary. He looked like what he was, the first rock star in years to sell 10 million copies of a debut album before besting his own feat by selling 16 million more on the second. Adam was an international sensation and a tabloid favorite. Magazines around the world were filled with snippets of Lambert gossip. What was he wearing, where was he playing, who was he doing? No one could get enough. He was on the European leg of his first full world tour and every city adored him, every country loved him. And yet here he was, sprawled across a couch in an anonymous hotel room in London, tracing over the memories of a lost love, all alone.
Ten minutes later, Adam Lambert shot upright as Kris Allen appeared on his television screen, guitar in hand, body sidling up to the microphone. Adam’s gaze was riveted to the screen even as his thoughts scattered and his body was gripped once again by the odd mix of sadness and desire that came over him at the mere thought of Kris Allen. There. There were the soft brown eyes he had lost himself in a thousand times all that time ago. There were the lips he has kissed with more passion that he ever suspected he harbored in his body. There were the hands that had stroked over his skin much the same way they now stroked over guitar strings. And there was the voice that had crooned silly songs in the still of the night as they had laughed and joked in their shared room in the mansion, in hotel rooms and bunkbeds on the tour.
Kris Allen. He lay back down again, suddenly weak, his mind assaulted by memories of the past. Memories of that body straining closer to his. Memories of crushing desire. And crushing pain. Memories of how the blood had roared in his ears and he fumbled blindly for the door, echos of that angelic voice screaming. “Get out. Leave me alone. I don’t want you. I don’t love you.” Adam shut his eyes against the pain. Five years hadn’t tempered it. No. Everything was as if he’d never said goodbye.
[To be continued.]
Author: Radiogaga33
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: Kris, Adam, etc are their own people. They belong to themselves, not to me. No claims to any copyrights, trademarks, or any other intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction from my very idle mind.
Notes: I was going on and on about my love for all things Lambert a couple days ago and a friend asked me where I saw Adam and Kris in five years. The story kinds took on a life of its own from there. My first attempt at fanfic. Comments welcome!
Once Five Years Pass (A Kradam fanfic)
Chapter 1: As If We Never Said Goodbye
May 10, 2014
Everything was as if he’d never said goodbye. Kris Allen stepped out of the black towncar that had whisked him from the airport and onto the Idol studio lot. He had forgotten how blinding the California sunlight could be, even as the day straddled that magical space between late afternoon and twilight. He had forgotten the maddening rush of activity that swirled around the building in the final hours before showtime, the set pieces being dragged to and fro, the band equipment being polished, the house singers being hurried into the building for final rehearsals. Nevertheless, the re-discovery was tinged with a sense of intense familiarity.
He walked in through the stage doors, hauling two guitar cases, his compact body encased in dark blue jeans and yet another plaid shirt and leather jacket, nodding hellos to old friends and stopping every so often for a quick chat with a stagehand here, a wardrobe girl there.
The color of the walls was still the same, the dressing rooms were the same, even the pieces of candy in the crystal bowls were the same. This of course, wasn’t a problem, Kris thought as he munched on yellow peanut M&Ms while waiting for the make-up artist to arrive. He heard the sound of music coming from the mainstage. Final run through. That and one last hurrah for whoever was getting sent home this elimination night and missing out on a shot at the big finale.
The big finale. Five years ago, it had been Adam and him. Adam. A sharp feeling of melancholy washed over him. In five years it hadn’t changed-the sadness that filled him at the mere thought, the mere mention of that man. Adam. He looked over at the empty metal chair next to him. Five years ago, Adam would have been sitting in that chair, his eyeliner-rimmed eyes smiling at him as the final touches to their make up were applied. Five years ago, Adam would have waggled his eye brows as he tossed off an obscene joke with all the precociousness of a school boy. Five years ago, Adam would have ruffled his hair as he leaned in to whisper a quick pep talk in his ear. Five years ago, Kris wouldn’t be swiveling back and forth all alone.
One hour later, Kris walked down the hall, guitar strapped to his body and makeup in place. He walked differently now-his steps peppered with a confidence that hadn’t been there five years ago. But there was weariness too. He walked like what he was-a multi-platinum selling pop star, a radio darling, a divorcee, a recluse. He was infamous now both for his five Top-10 hits and his habit of dropping off the radar for weeks as he hid himself in the anonymity of the crowds in his adopted home of Manhattan. Kris Allen, star, who would’ve have thought, he mused as he neared the mainstage. Adam, his stubborn mind returned. Adam never doubted. Adam always believed in you. Adam loved you. And you threw his love back in his face.
His easy stride faltered for the first time and he paused to gather himself before facing an audience of millions. There. There was the spot where he had laughed hysterically with Adam. There was the spot where Adam’s hand had brushed his accidentally and he had trembled at the fleeting contact. There was the spot where Adam had slung an arm around his neck and kissed him on the side of his head. There, there, there. Everywhere held a memory of Adam. Adam. The man he’d spent so much time trying to forget. After five years he had begun to think he had.
But as he stood there in the hallway, buffeted by memories of the past, he realized that nothing had changed. There it was again…the desire that had held him in its grip five years before. The desire that has washed over him that night, deep in the darkest hour of the night, as he had strained his body closer to Adam’s. Desire held him in its sway even now. Everything was as if he’d never said goodbye.
* * *
Everything was as if he’d never said goodbye. Adam Lambert’s hand tightened convulsively around the grey remote control in his hand. He had forgotten how much of a spectacle an Idol results how was. He had forgotten the barely controlled frenzy of group numbers and Ford commercials, and stage pieces being hauled here and there at dizzying speeds. He remembered the night one of those pieces had come crashing down, leaving a shimmering heap of broken glass on the stage, deadly and beautiful all at once.
He had forgotten the barely concealed frustration of contestants suffering through commercial break after commercial break, waiting to discover on whose head the sword of Damocles would fall that night. It was as if five years had never come and gone. As he sat, sprawled in tight black leather pants, his bare chest adorned with silver necklaces, he was surprised at the intense familiarity of all the pomp and circumstance, the bloated beauty and the bombast.
His hotel room was a touch warmer that most hotel rooms were but no less anonymous, even when filled with the multitude of items that always traveled with The Lambert, as the British celebrity rags had taken to calling him. Tomorrow, they would be filled with glossy pictures of him. Adam arriving at Wembley. Adam performing for 60,000 in black leather pants and nothing else. Adam swilling vodka at the post-show party. But tonight, the tabloid darling sat in an anonymous hotel room, the ghostly light from the television screen flickering across his face.
Adam Lambert’s face was different now. The spiky jet black hair was still the same, and the piercing blue grey of his eyes remained the same. Even so, his face was different, more mature, more handsome somehow, more weary. He looked like what he was, the first rock star in years to sell 10 million copies of a debut album before besting his own feat by selling 16 million more on the second. Adam was an international sensation and a tabloid favorite. Magazines around the world were filled with snippets of Lambert gossip. What was he wearing, where was he playing, who was he doing? No one could get enough. He was on the European leg of his first full world tour and every city adored him, every country loved him. And yet here he was, sprawled across a couch in an anonymous hotel room in London, tracing over the memories of a lost love, all alone.
Ten minutes later, Adam Lambert shot upright as Kris Allen appeared on his television screen, guitar in hand, body sidling up to the microphone. Adam’s gaze was riveted to the screen even as his thoughts scattered and his body was gripped once again by the odd mix of sadness and desire that came over him at the mere thought of Kris Allen. There. There were the soft brown eyes he had lost himself in a thousand times all that time ago. There were the lips he has kissed with more passion that he ever suspected he harbored in his body. There were the hands that had stroked over his skin much the same way they now stroked over guitar strings. And there was the voice that had crooned silly songs in the still of the night as they had laughed and joked in their shared room in the mansion, in hotel rooms and bunkbeds on the tour.
Kris Allen. He lay back down again, suddenly weak, his mind assaulted by memories of the past. Memories of that body straining closer to his. Memories of crushing desire. And crushing pain. Memories of how the blood had roared in his ears and he fumbled blindly for the door, echos of that angelic voice screaming. “Get out. Leave me alone. I don’t want you. I don’t love you.” Adam shut his eyes against the pain. Five years hadn’t tempered it. No. Everything was as if he’d never said goodbye.
[To be continued.]