Want // Part 6
Title: Want // Part 6
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: R for language, to be safe
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: These are not my boys,and this didn't happen. Well, except for the part where Kris makes "Ain't No Sunshine" his little bitch. That totally happened.
Summary: Kris can't get his head in the game. Adam gives him some help.
Author's Note: Sorry for the gap in posting. I got momentarily distracted, but I'm trying to get my head back in the game, too. This is a bit shorter than some of the others, I think?
Performance day passes quickly, like it always does. Today, though, I feel like I'm watching it from inside the car of a train. Everything is blurring by in shifting color and vague, muddled noise, and I'm somehow getting from place to place, from the shower to the kitchen to the theater, but it's not really by my own power, it's the click click click of machinery beneath my feet.
I'm half aware of Adam watching me when seven other pairs of eyes are turned away, his expression sometimes soft, sometimes steeled in concentration, like he's x-raying my skull to see the chaos inside.
And I can't get out of my own way today, either. I trip over things I should see. I notice, on the way to the theater, that my socks are on inside out. I flub dress rehearsal so badly that everyone just stares uncomfortably; unable, even, to make a joke out of it. I'm playing the wrong song in my head. Pronouns are reversed; verbs are spinning backwards; the melody is unrecognizable. I have to start over six times. Everyone is getting annoyed, and we're running over, and it's all my fault, and I know everybody is wondering why I'm going last and thinking maybe we should switch the order. I can't make this song work, and it's one I've done a thousand times, and I want to pitch this fucking keyboard over the edge of the stage and call it a day.
But I don't. I look to my right, instead, and see the look on Adam's face. It stops me dead, fingers poised over the keys as I'm about to start yet again. He looks utterly undone, like someone's just sliced him open from belly to neck and his guts are hanging out all over the place. He's not even trying to hide it, or maybe he can't. He looks wrecked. I have to call time-out.
"I'm sorry," I mutter. "Just give me two minutes. Let me get a drink." I hear complaints follow me offstage, but I ignore them and take off toward the bathrooms. Adam heads me off at the pass and corners me against the sink once we get through the door.
I back away as he advances toward me, my thoughts frustrated and fuzzy and incoherent. All I want to do is get out of this fucking theater. I actually look toward the window and consider making a break for it, in one bizarre moment. But I don't have time, even if I'd wanted to, because in five seconds, my back is against the mirror, and he's right there, totally ignoring my personal fucking space.
My chin is in his hot, hard hand all of the sudden, and I can smell him, sweaty and full of fruity hair product, and my pulse is battering my eardrums, and my entire head is threatening to explode.
"Stop it," he fairly shouts. His breath skims my eyelashes. I just stare, like some dumb, wild animal. "Stop fucking up!" His voice lowers to a hiss. "You did this. I told you last night to stop being a fucking shithead, and I told you to back off if you couldn't deal with it, and you fucking didn't. So this is on you. You chose this. Look around. You're better than everybody else in this whole fucking place, and you're gonna sit there like some dumb fuck who can't tell his dick from a microphone?"
His eyes are boring a hole into my brain. I'm moving my lips, but there's nothing coming through them but air and space. He drops my chin and shoves me gently into the wall, his fingers in my chest. They hold me there with no pressure at all. How does he do that? I think, and I don't know when I decide to kiss him - I don't think the thought actually gels in my head - but I grab him behind the neck and mash his startled mouth into mine, squeeze my eyes shut hard against the ugly florescent lights, against the anger in his face, against the second hand of the clock ticking like a bomb, and go for it.
When he realizes what's happening, he leaps away from me like I'm a fire he just wandered whole-body into and sucks in a breath. He looks gobsmacked. Stunned. Taken utterly aback. For a second, I think he's going to sock me in the face, but he doesn't. My mouth is hanging agape. I literally push it closed with my hand, my finger sticking to my lip, waiting.
"Unless you get your shit together, walk out there, and make that fucking song your horny little bitch, don't ever do that again. You are not blowing this because of me. You hear me?"
I nod stupidly. He walks out the door without looking back. I splash my face with water and dry it with a paper towel. My skin looks white in the mirror, my eyes rimmed with bruise-colored circles.
I walk back out to more than a few quizzical stares. I ignore them. I shake my shoulders. I sit down on the stool. I close my eyes, reach back into my muscle memory, into my soul memory, the doors to which have sprung back open somewhere between the bathroom and the stage, and I don't even hear myself, but I feel it, and by the time I hit the last note, I know the song is on her knees, sopping wet and panting and begging me to fuck her.
When I finally open my eyes, the theater is quiet. Adam's got his face in his hands, rubbing at his temples. From where I sit, I can see him exhale, one huge breath.
"Do that again tonight," he says, hushed, when I walk over to relieved applause.
I do.
I do, and the whole time I'm up there, melting under the lights, sweating into my expensive clothes, shutting my eyes against the room full of people crowding my private moment, I pretend I'm singing it right into his shocked, dirty mouth.
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: R for language, to be safe
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: These are not my boys,and this didn't happen. Well, except for the part where Kris makes "Ain't No Sunshine" his little bitch. That totally happened.
Summary: Kris can't get his head in the game. Adam gives him some help.
Author's Note: Sorry for the gap in posting. I got momentarily distracted, but I'm trying to get my head back in the game, too. This is a bit shorter than some of the others, I think?
Performance day passes quickly, like it always does. Today, though, I feel like I'm watching it from inside the car of a train. Everything is blurring by in shifting color and vague, muddled noise, and I'm somehow getting from place to place, from the shower to the kitchen to the theater, but it's not really by my own power, it's the click click click of machinery beneath my feet.
I'm half aware of Adam watching me when seven other pairs of eyes are turned away, his expression sometimes soft, sometimes steeled in concentration, like he's x-raying my skull to see the chaos inside.
And I can't get out of my own way today, either. I trip over things I should see. I notice, on the way to the theater, that my socks are on inside out. I flub dress rehearsal so badly that everyone just stares uncomfortably; unable, even, to make a joke out of it. I'm playing the wrong song in my head. Pronouns are reversed; verbs are spinning backwards; the melody is unrecognizable. I have to start over six times. Everyone is getting annoyed, and we're running over, and it's all my fault, and I know everybody is wondering why I'm going last and thinking maybe we should switch the order. I can't make this song work, and it's one I've done a thousand times, and I want to pitch this fucking keyboard over the edge of the stage and call it a day.
But I don't. I look to my right, instead, and see the look on Adam's face. It stops me dead, fingers poised over the keys as I'm about to start yet again. He looks utterly undone, like someone's just sliced him open from belly to neck and his guts are hanging out all over the place. He's not even trying to hide it, or maybe he can't. He looks wrecked. I have to call time-out.
"I'm sorry," I mutter. "Just give me two minutes. Let me get a drink." I hear complaints follow me offstage, but I ignore them and take off toward the bathrooms. Adam heads me off at the pass and corners me against the sink once we get through the door.
I back away as he advances toward me, my thoughts frustrated and fuzzy and incoherent. All I want to do is get out of this fucking theater. I actually look toward the window and consider making a break for it, in one bizarre moment. But I don't have time, even if I'd wanted to, because in five seconds, my back is against the mirror, and he's right there, totally ignoring my personal fucking space.
My chin is in his hot, hard hand all of the sudden, and I can smell him, sweaty and full of fruity hair product, and my pulse is battering my eardrums, and my entire head is threatening to explode.
"Stop it," he fairly shouts. His breath skims my eyelashes. I just stare, like some dumb, wild animal. "Stop fucking up!" His voice lowers to a hiss. "You did this. I told you last night to stop being a fucking shithead, and I told you to back off if you couldn't deal with it, and you fucking didn't. So this is on you. You chose this. Look around. You're better than everybody else in this whole fucking place, and you're gonna sit there like some dumb fuck who can't tell his dick from a microphone?"
His eyes are boring a hole into my brain. I'm moving my lips, but there's nothing coming through them but air and space. He drops my chin and shoves me gently into the wall, his fingers in my chest. They hold me there with no pressure at all. How does he do that? I think, and I don't know when I decide to kiss him - I don't think the thought actually gels in my head - but I grab him behind the neck and mash his startled mouth into mine, squeeze my eyes shut hard against the ugly florescent lights, against the anger in his face, against the second hand of the clock ticking like a bomb, and go for it.
When he realizes what's happening, he leaps away from me like I'm a fire he just wandered whole-body into and sucks in a breath. He looks gobsmacked. Stunned. Taken utterly aback. For a second, I think he's going to sock me in the face, but he doesn't. My mouth is hanging agape. I literally push it closed with my hand, my finger sticking to my lip, waiting.
"Unless you get your shit together, walk out there, and make that fucking song your horny little bitch, don't ever do that again. You are not blowing this because of me. You hear me?"
I nod stupidly. He walks out the door without looking back. I splash my face with water and dry it with a paper towel. My skin looks white in the mirror, my eyes rimmed with bruise-colored circles.
I walk back out to more than a few quizzical stares. I ignore them. I shake my shoulders. I sit down on the stool. I close my eyes, reach back into my muscle memory, into my soul memory, the doors to which have sprung back open somewhere between the bathroom and the stage, and I don't even hear myself, but I feel it, and by the time I hit the last note, I know the song is on her knees, sopping wet and panting and begging me to fuck her.
When I finally open my eyes, the theater is quiet. Adam's got his face in his hands, rubbing at his temples. From where I sit, I can see him exhale, one huge breath.
"Do that again tonight," he says, hushed, when I walk over to relieved applause.
I do.
I do, and the whole time I'm up there, melting under the lights, sweating into my expensive clothes, shutting my eyes against the room full of people crowding my private moment, I pretend I'm singing it right into his shocked, dirty mouth.