Fic: Community Rules for Hauntings AU 1/6
Title: Covington Marshes Bylaws, Section 13.D: Community Rules for Hauntings
Fandom: American Idol
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 50,000 [complete]
Warning: horror, divorce
Playlist: Read and download the playlist.
Summary: "You're sleeping in your car."
"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.
"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."
"Yeah."
"You really don't have any place to go, do you?"
"No, I do, I just. I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, unable to meet Adam's eyes.
Kris doesn't expect a lot from his new home. He's optimistic about his new city-selling his music, meeting new people, and putting his old life behind him-but he knew when he moved down here not to expect great things from a foreclosed condo he'd bought sight-unseen. It's taken a few weeks of hard labor, but he's actually made it pretty decent; he's painted over the graffiti the squatters left and deep-cleaned the rugs, he's started rebuilding the broken shelves in the bedroom, and he's hoping to save up some money to deal with the water-damage under the cracked bathroom tiles before the new year.
His meager income is still novel, still feels like the badge of honor of a professional musician. The studio's been promising him that session work will pick up by the end of summer, and in the meantime he picks up spare cash busking downtown or around his neighborhood. Being perpetually short on cash makes it hard to meet people, but he's finally in a city with an actual gay scene, so he's confident things on that front will start happening soon. All in all, he has a good feeling about his new life.
Until things start happening at home.
The first time he wakes up in the morning to find things not the way he left them-papers scattered all over the living room-he blames the rotating fan. But the fan couldn't have overturned the stack of Tupperware on the countertop four nights later. Kris is confused, even slightly alarmed, but he isn't comfortable talking about it with his coworkers; he needs to keep that studio connection. He can't even talk to his old friends in Arkansas, since Katy got most of them in the divorce, and the others just wanna hear how wild the parties are in New Orleans. And no, they don't mean the gay ones.
So Kris keeps his mouth shut and his eyes peeled.
The infrequent happenings escalate to attacks in his third month. He wakes up in the middle of the night to a feeling of complete helplessness; something is on him, holding him down. His limbs are frozen; he can't speak or move because of it, the presence on top of him. He can't look at the clock, so the only sense of time is his jack-hammering pulse. And he's the only thing that's frozen, because something else is moving, making sounds. Books fall off shelves, a bottle rolls across the kitchen floor. The curtains blow in front of the closed-and freshly resealed-bedroom window, moving just enough that he can catch them at the edge of his vision. Worst of all is the overwhelming malevolence, the knowledge that something wants to hurt him. It's going to hurt him….
The attacks happen three times in two weeks, and after the third Kris can't take being there anymore. His solution for a cheap night away from home is to go out to Simon's and find someone to take him home. He doesn't go back to his place until the morning. He does it again the next night, but hookups aren't really in his nature. He can't do it the third night in a row-he's not a slut, no matter what his ex-wife said about him in the depositions, and he's hating how he's feeling about himself. He stays home that night.
And it happens again. He can almost feel the thing breathing on his face while he's pinned to the mattress, his body unresponsive as his mind screams at him to protect himself, to fight back, to run. The feeling of threat gradually passes, the paralysis wears off between one heartbeat and the next, and Kris spends the rest of the night locked in his bathroom, terrified of his bed and of closing his eyes in that condo again.
In the morning, he knows he's on the verge of a breakdown. Even though it's been strictly benign in daylight, he flees the condo-goes to a crowded mall and sits there all Sunday drinking coffee and keeping his quiet freak out to himself. When it starts to get dark out, he heads to Simon's again and looks for someone he can spend the night with. He lands a good prospect, spends the night buying drinks for both of them. But it ends with a blowjob in the bathroom and no invitation home. Kris tries inviting himself over, but the guy is a tourist with a wife waiting at the hotel, and the asshole laughs and leaves without him.
Kris heads back out to the bar proper, humiliated and desperate to find another option other than his own bed. It's past last call, and there aren't many choices left in the bar, certainly not many that look particularly safe or palatable. His best prospect is a guy who at least seems to know the staff; he's chatting with the short, chick bartender with the butch haircut and eyebrow piercings. Kris thinks he recognizes him from another night, so hopefully that means he isn't a tourist.
Kris slides onto the bar stool next to his target and orders himself a whiskey, giving the bartender a puppy dog face when she says sorry, the bar's closed. "How about one for me, one for you, and one for this guy right here?" he offers.
She looks from Kris to the tall, broad-shouldered guy on the stool next to him and shakes her head again, but this time with a you've-got-some-fucking-balls smile. Three glasses are lined up and filled with different liquors, and she's carried her drink and Kris's $20 off to the other end of the bar before the guy even acknowledges Kris by looking his way.
And. Oh.
He's tall, yeah. Dyed-black hair shaggy around his face, elegant black eyebrows, piercing blue eyes, and black eyeliner. And Kris is…
Well, Kris is only attracted to masculine types. He's never felt comfortable around the gays who wear makeup or women's clothes. It's…not his thing.
So he's just bought a drink for a guy in eyeliner, who's staring down at him with a blank expression just waiting for Kris to say something. Kris picks up his drink and takes a quick glance around the room for anyone he'd feel more comfortable with, but no, this guy still looks like the safest bet.
"Hi," Kris says nervously.
"Hi, yourself."
Humor is usually a good way to break the ice. He starts out with the lamest pickup line he knows. "Come here often?"
The guy doesn't even blink. "You could say that."
Kris gulps half of the whiskey and swishes the taste of semen out of his mouth. Nice makeup, he doesn't say, but it's close. "This is a great place."
"Uh huh."
"I'm Kris. Kristopher. What's your name?"
"Adam," he says, taking a sip of his orange vodka.
"Adam. Nice to meet you."
Adam doesn't shake his outstretched hand.
Kris tries to ignore the not-interested vibes the guy is throwing off. "You from the area?"
"I live here," he allows.
Wow, he's really getting nothing from this guy. Outside, the night is black and threatening, so Kris spins his half-full glass on the bar and asks, "You here with anybody else, or…."
Adam smirks and shakes his head, and finally asks a question in return: "Jesus, you're a desperate little twink, aren't you?"
Kris freezes. "What?"
"I'm not your first guy tonight, or even your tenth this week."
Kris shifts on his stool to cover the flinch. The guy's count is off, but the accusation hits home. "You think so?"
"I'm not blind."
No, he wouldn't be with those bright blue eyes. The longer he looks at Adam, the more familiar he seems. Kris wouldn't be surprised if Adam's been here every night he hooked up this week. "Congratulations," Kris says, like he doesn't care what anyone thinks about his sexual activities. "See anything you like?"
"I haven't decided yet," Adam says.
"Don't take all night."
Adam hums into his glass and looks at some of the other patrons as though sizing up his own options. Kris swallows his pride and smiles harder, stretching his arms behind his head to flex his muscles. Adam's eyes cut back immediately and he licks his lips.
They head out to the parking lot when the club closes down, and Adam stands too close and says, "So, where to?"
"Your place," Kris says firmly.
"Uh huh," Adam cocks an eyebrow, unsurprised and unimpressed. "Then you're driving."
The ride to Metairie is quiet and tense. Kris's skin crawls as he watches the road, unable to see Adam with the passenger seat pushed all the way back to accommodate long legs. The few times he looks over his shoulder, Adam is watching him with an unreadable expression.
They get all the way up to his apartment before Adam finally makes things easy, pulling off Kris's t-shirt and hauling him in close by his upper arms as soon as the door is locked behind them. Kris leans up on his toes to reach his mouth, bites Adam's lip until the tall man lowers his head for a better angle. Kris flexes his biceps under Adam's hands, and Adam groans, squeezes tighter and sticks his tongue in Kris's mouth, leaning in to seal them together.
It's fucking hot; a guy that big, with that much attitude, wanting him that bad. Kris doesn't even care about the eyeliner anymore. He tries to catch his breath, but Adam's tongue is pushing and stroking in exactly the right way to get to his cock. He gets his arms in between them and starts unbuckling Adam's shiny zebra-striped belt, unbuttoning and unzipping the tight grey jeans, and if he's jumped way ahead in the evening's program, he can't make himself slow down or even care.
Adam is all over him with his hands-wide, uncallused hands that can cover a lot of skin, sliding over Kris's chest and back, his neck. Adam's making more sounds than Kris would have expected just from rubbing on pecs and abs, but Kris is making noises too, needy whimpers he's never made in the state of Louisiana, possibly not even Arkansas or Tennessee. He wedges a hand into Adam's pants and finds a cock just as big as the rest of him, cut and hard, hot in his hand because Adam's going commando tonight. Every night? Christ.
"Fuck," Adam pants, kneading Kris's shoulders as he squeezes Adam's cock. Kris's hips buck against Adam's and Adam laughs into his ear before moaning and pulling Kris's face up again for another suffocating kiss. Kris holds on and tries to keep jacking his hand, but it's getting overwhelming, and when his knees want to give out he drops smoothly to the carpet, dragging those jeans down with him. Adam's cock bobs free with a sharp inhalation above him and Kris leans in, drawn like a magnet, mouth already opening to taste.
"Oh my god, you're not even-" Adam moans, but his hands are under Kris's armpits and he's lifting him to his feet for another kiss, which feels like backtracking, and Kris tries to squirm out of his grip so he can get back to where he wants to be. "Bed. Now." Adam punctuates the command with a kiss and then manhandles Kris around so he's facing the bedroom door, starts forcing Kris forward with his hips, his hands looped around his waist to undo Kris's jeans. And okay, Kris can get behind this kind of forward momentum.
Adam stops him unexpectedly in the doorway, leaning in closer and wrenching harder at his jeans.
"Kristopher," he whispers in his ear, "I don't care how good these pants look on you; do not wear button-flys to a club ever again."
Kris laughs and tries to help, sucking in his stomach and sliding his fingers under the waistband alongside Adam's fingers, but that just seems to slow things down even more because Adam starts sucking on his throat and forgets about the pants entirely. Kris swats Adam's hands out of the way so he can get his fucking pants off himself…and then he giggles, because Adam just made it clear that these are not 'fucking pants.'
"What's so funny," Adam purrs, licking the stubble on his jaw against the grain, wet and hot.
"Oh." Kris gives up on the bottom two buttons and just shoves, scraping the denim over his hips and off.
His cock is suddenly a lot happier and getting harder under Adam's magic fingers. They're sliding his boxers down, lifting the elastic carefully over his cock until he's completely free, and Adam looks over Kris's shoulder and says, "There you are," and gives him a very friendly handshake with an extra firm grip.
"God," Kris chokes, his hips stuttering forward. Adam steps on the jeans between his ankles and nudges him forward again, and Kris can feel the hard cock against his lower back. He stumbles, kicking out of his pants and underwear and shoes, heading for the oversized bed with the tangle of black sheets and pillowcases, Adam kicking off his own jeans behind him. Kris climbs on and crawls to the middle, rolls over to sit and gives Adam a hot grin, waiting for him.
"Of all the tight guys on the floor tonight, who'd've pegged you for my lucky number," Adam says, like he's asking himself a question he can't answer.
Kris gives it to him, crooking his finger and beckoning him forward. Adam pulls his scoop-necked t-shirt over his head and comes for him, crawling up so he can kiss Kris again, braced on his arms as he rocks their hips together.
"I'm gonna fuck you so good," he promises, and Kris believes him, whimpers. Jesus, it's getting hard to focus again, all that skin, and Adam big and gorgeous. Kris slides one hand up the back of Adam's sweaty neck and the other down to grope at his ass, pull him in tighter where Kris can rub against him. Adam bites Kris's lower lip with a playful nip and pulls his head away, smiling down with a self-satisfied smirk. "Oh yeah," he says when Kris's brow furrows a question, and then he starts sliding down, tonguing Kris's chin, his jaw, his throat, sucking on his Adam's apple and twisting at his nipples.
Kris groans and bucks, half-begs, "Adam," because he's burning up with the need to get fucked right now and Adam is taking the slow way there.
"Shh," Adam says against his body, nipping at the thin skin over his collarbone, holding himself up and away from Kris's aching cock, giving him no friction to work with. He keeps up the torture, licking down to his left nipple and starting off with a slow, strong suck before biting at the tip, licking around the outside in a swirl. Kris is too sensitive for that and his hips twist. He makes a grab for Adam's black hair to pull him up, pull him back on course, but Adam sees him coming, shoots him a gloating look and catches his wrists, shoves them down into the mattress as he sprawls on top of him, hips weighing down his thighs, stomach flat and hard against his cock, and Kris bucks in earnest, his back arching off the bed as he fights for freedom, for his life, the dark room closing in, darkness that moves over and around him, cutting off his air, freezing his lungs in place, and he opens his mouth as he struggles against it, screams "NO! NO!" swinging with all his might to break its hold.
It backs off fast, releases Kris's wrists and backpedals off the bed. Kris's arms flail wildly at nothing for a few seconds before he opens his eyes and gasps frantically for air, gaze unexpectedly landing on Adam's stunned face.
Kris gradually comes down from the adrenaline spike, and embarrassment fills the void it leaves behind.
Adam jerks his gaze away, turns to grab up his grey jeans from the doorway. Once he has pants on he faces Kris again and says, "I think you should go home now," in a shaky voice.
"I can't," Kris chokes, chest still tight, eyes wet.
"You obviously don't wanna stay here."
"I'm sorry, I just…"
Adam stares at Kris, hunched over naked on the bed, and announces, "I need a drink," and wanders out of the bedroom.
Kris scrambles off the bed and grabs up his own pants, muttering the filthiest curses he knows as he tugs them up. He picks his t-shirt up by the front door and hesitates. Adam is moving around the kitchen, ignoring him, pouring a tall glass from a tall bottle, throwing in a lot of ice.
Kris's fingers shake and slip on the hemline of his shirt before he balls it up, too hot already in his own skin, and advances into the barely defined eating space, the small square table wedged under the breakfast bar. "Do you mind…."
Adam shoots him a suspicious look, but Kris just licks his lip and gestures to the bottle on the counter. "Shit, why not. You probably need it," Adam says with an exaggerated shrug, like it's nothing out of the ordinary for one of his hookups to have a fucking panic attack under him. They trade places, carefully circling each other to prevent contact as Kris steps into the kitchen and Adam takes a seat at the table.
Kris pours himself a short glass of white rum-ouch-and opens the fridge looking for something to cut it. He finds orange juice, holds it up for permission before pouring. He takes his glass to the table and sits in the chair against the wall, facing the door. Not facing Adam. Kris takes a bracing sip, lets the alcohol burn away the metallic taste of fear so he can say, "I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Adam says, not looking at him either.
And what the hell else does Kris want from him? Why isn't he slinking back to his car at this very moment? He's just seriously screwed up Adam's night-the guy doesn't look like he'll be able to sleep for hours, long fingers trembling just slightly on his glass, clinking the ice.
"That hasn't…happened before," he offers.
"It's cool," Adam says, "some guys feel safer on their knees, whatever. Your choice."
"That's not what I…." Kris sighs and takes a bigger gulp of the rum and juice.
Silence takes a seat at the table, and Kris must be out of his mind to still be sitting here, unwelcome, in Adam's home. The last thing he wants to do is force a confrontation.
"So, what brings you to the Big Easy?" Adam suddenly asks, bright and fake and offering a way out of this Huis Clos.
Kris gapes for a second, and then clears his throat and smiles at the living room gamely, "Divorce, Debt, and Music. In that order."
Adam's eyebrows go up. "Wow. Meaty. Sounds like you've got a story there, Kristopher."
"Yeah, not so much."
"Oh do tell," he says in a feminine lilt, playing the vamp. "I've got at least half an hour before I really feel this one and I could use the distraction," Adam gestures with his glass before swallowing down three big gulps.
Kris winces and tells himself he deserves this for freaking the guy out so bad. He pulls the third chair closer and props his legs up, leans forward to unstick his sweaty skin from the wooden back of the chair, settles more comfortably. "Tell you what, let's start over. Hi Adam, I'm Kris." He sticks his right hand out, keeps holding it out, waiting for Adam to let go of his glass and shake it.
Adam eventually rolls his eyes and obliges. "So what's your story, Kris?"
And for lack of anything else to talk about, Kris puts his life story out there. The fresh divorce that should've happened three years sooner-before he'd discovered he was more into guys than he was his wife, before she'd started racking up credit card debt out of revenge, and before he'd started stepping out to clubs out of bitterness. And how when it was finally over, they sold their house in Arkansas and split the small profit. They also split the debt.
He's warming to his song-writing ambitions when he gets distracted by the Nashville tangent: the last dream Katy had taken from him in the divorce by moving to Nashville and claiming the whole city off limits.
Adam grins at Kris's wry tone, making Kris feel like he's actually entertaining the guy. Adam offers sympathetic insults to Katy's character, her face, her waistline, whenever Kris pauses to sip his water. The black liner around his right eye has smudged out toward his temple, and Adam's head is nearly down on the table, supported by an elbow leaning way off to the side.
Adam's latest tirade against Southern women with dainty hands and gloves of steel, or vice versa ("Either way, doesn't that metaphor make you think of fisting?"), gets interrupted by a jaw cracking yawn, and he drags himself upright, shaking his head with watering eyes. "Okay, I can't stay awake anymore. You have to go."
"Oh, yeah, sure, sorry." Kris jumps to his feet and almost falls over because his feet and calves are asleep, and the backs of his thighs are tingling. "Fuck," he groans, bent over and shaking his legs out.
"Yeah, no thanks," Adam laughs sleepily, and Kris smiles, not even upset about the humiliating freak out anymore.
With his feet shoved into his shoes and his hand on the doorknob, Kris turns around and says, "Um, for what it's worth…thanks."
Adam yawns and shuffles past on his way to the bedroom, one hand shoving against Kris's shoulder. Kris opens the door and leaves.
Adam's forgiveness rests lightly on his shoulders on the long drive across the lake. The sun isn't up yet, he has the roads mostly to himself at this hour. Even the condo development is silent; he's beat the early morning joggers by traveling in the opposite direction of sleep.
Jesus, is he even making any sense? He probably shouldn't have been driving.
Kris parks in his reserved space out front and shuffles up the covered stairway to his 2nd floor unit, puts his key in the lock and suddenly remembers.
He lets go of the keys. They dangle in the lock, and Kris looks over his shoulder at the pinkish-gray patch of sky where the sun should be. Isn't yet. He looks at the keys swinging slightly as though moving on their own, and he takes a deep breath, tries to dredge up the willpower to go in there, prays for the courage to open the door.
The courage never comes.
After a long minute of staring at the clouds and the keys, Kris sits down on his doormat, tucks his knees under his chin, and closes his eyes to wait for dawn.
He spends the next evening back at the club, willing to prostitute himself yet again for a night away from his condo. He's slow to make real headway, though, and then the DJ announces the start of the live entertainment and Kris looks up and recognizes Adam. No wonder why he thought he'd seen him somewhere before...although only the width of his shoulders and those blue eyes are recognizable under the Donna Summer wig, sequined dress slit up and down nearly to there, smoky eye shadow, and sparkling red lipstick.
Kris loses interest in the guy he was chatting up, finally paying attention to the drag show. The sound system is for shit; he can barely hear the singing over the Justin Timberlake karaoke recording and the talking around him. He moves closer to the stage and watches for a few minutes, hearing something that might be good...but what he sees is what's really got him. Adam's vamping it up without going full drag, purple dress flapping open over his hairless, flat chest, extra equipment between his legs obvious under the long skirt, a shaved thigh sticking out every time he takes a step, too muscular to be a woman's. It's everything that usually makes Kris uncomfortable, but the way he moves his body reminds Kris of Adam's confidence last night, in the club and at his apartment, before things got completely fucked. And Kris is getting hard standing in the middle of the tiny dance floor watching Adam perform. And it isn't nearly crowded enough for him to go unnoticed.
Kris retreats and watches Adam finish his first set from the anonymity of the back wall. He actually watches the rest of the show, too: the following two performers who each sound way better than Adam, for all that they're feminine to the extreme. He even watches the two additional sets the three of them perform over the next four hours. Until the night is winding down and Kris realizes he hasn't found anyone-hasn't honestly been looking. And now he's pretty much screwed.
He wakes up an hour later with a terrible crick in his neck, disoriented and cold. The sound comes again, a tapping on the glass. He jerks upright and looks up into Adam's naked, cleaned-off face, just inches from the driver's side window. He stares back at the singer for a long minute, trying to catch up.
Adam taps a third time before Kris finally turns the key in the ignition and lowers the window.
"What?"
"You're sleeping in your car."
"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.
"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."
"Yeah."
"You really don't have any place to go, do you?"
"No, I do, I just-" he blurts out too quickly, cuts himself off.
"Then maybe you should try sleeping there. Unless you wanna get mugged or killed," Adam says like he thinks Kris is a complete idiot. Which is possibly spot on, because Kris doesn't know what he's doing with his life anymore, hiding from something supernatural in his condo that he thinks wants to hurt him. "If you can't drive, call a cab or something. Don't sleep out here."
"I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, staring at his throat because he's unable to meet Adam's eyes.
Adam raises a skeptical eyebrow and crosses his arms against the wind, in regular street clothes of a t-shirt under a bulky leather jacket. But he shrugs, says, "Okay, well. Suit yourself..." with a half-hearted smile and jerk of his chin.
He turns to walk away, leaving something unsaid, and Kris leans out the window to say, "What?" way too hopefully.
Adam pauses, turns back to the car and his right hand is picking at the dark nail polish on his thumb, his lips pressed in an unhappy line. "Look...you don't seem like the dangerous sort, so. I've got a sofa you can crash on for a few hours, if you're really that hard up..."
And that offer is more than a little humiliating, but to hell with it, Kris doesn't have much pride left. "Ye- Yes. Please. Please, that would be amazing."
Adam looks at him for a long moment, as though considering reconsidering, and then says for the second time, "You're driving," and bends down to pick up his black makeup case.
"Thank you so much," Kris calls as Adam walks around to the passenger side.
Things at Adam's spacious apartment are awkward because Kris isn't sure what Adam expects in return, but Adam gives him a blanket and shoves songbooks and clothes off the couch and turns out the light and ignores Kris's repeated protestations of gratitude.
Kris falls asleep immediately, curled on his side, but he wakes up flat on his back, his hands holding the blanket off him as though pushing someone away, sweating and shaking with adrenaline, fear. He can't see anyone in the dim light from the thinly-curtained windows, can't hear anyone moving but himself. And he isn't being restrained at all. The horrible paralysis was just a dream, a nightmare. He rolls onto his side, bites his fist, and tries to calm his heart rate.
His eyes want to droop, want him to drift off as his breathing comes down, but a stray thought chases around the back of his brain and his eyes fly open in panic and it's just not working, being blind in a strange place.
He sits up, fumbles for the side table lamp, and flips it on. The light hurts for a few seconds but then he can see clearly, can make sense of all the shadows in Adam's living room. There's nothing there that can scare him. He lies down again and doesn't remember falling asleep.
It's mid-afternoon the next time Kris wakes up. He hasn't slept like that in weeks-a real slumber, for hours and hours. Adam is already awake, already in the room, propped against the other end of the couch quietly watching TV on the floor. And that's sunlight, beautiful sunlight glowing through the curtains.
Kris takes a deep breath that must get Adam's attention, because he turns around and says, "Man, you were out like a light."
Kris opens his mouth to apologize for any inconvenience and to thank him again for the place to crash, and then remembers the light he'd turned on last night. He clears his throat and stretches up to turn off the lamp, but the bulb is already dark.
"Yeah, I turned that off a few hours ago. Don't need my power bill getting any higher this month, thanks."
"I-" Kris stammers. "I'm sorry, I didn't think..." Adam scowls, and Kris stops talking because Adam is frowning at himself.
"Fuck, don't. I'm a bitch in the mornings. Forget it."
Kris sits up and smoothes his bunched up t-shirt, pulls the blanket closer to his legs, making room on the sofa if Adam wants it.
Adam turns back to the TV set though, like he's perfectly comfortable on the floor. "So, you afraid of the dark or something?"
"Something like that," Kris says lowly, more to himself than to Adam.
He's slept through most of Tuesday, and Kris hurries to check his voicemail in the bathroom, hoping he hasn't missed a session gig offer. There are no messages, thank God. But now he doesn't know what to do with his day.
So he does nothing, literally sitting on Adam's couch all afternoon because Adam doesn't tell him to leave, actually asks him if he wants to watch a movie, like maybe Adam wants company just as much as Kris does. Adam puts on One Crazy Summer followed by Say Anything, because Adam had a thing-still has a thing-for young John Cusack and he refuses to be mocked by Kris's careful teasing. Kris doesn't even notice Adam's eyeliner until halfway through the first movie. He seems to have just...gotten used to it.
Adam gives him toast for lunch, and a tuna fish sandwich with pickle slices on it for dinner, ordering him to stop being a baby and eat when he starts pulling off the pickles. The way Adam treats him, it's like they've been friends for years, like he belongs there. And having been alone so long in New Orleans, Kris can't help losing himself in it.
But it couldn't last.
Adam disappears into the bedroom for a while and comes out in a dark blue suit with his black hair slicked back, foundation covering his freckles, and mascara making his blue eyes look huge. What should have made him look feminine instead looks glamorous. Expensive. Kris stares and then stands up, breadcrumbs dropping from his lap. He's overstayed. Adam's going out and he has to leave.
"I've got a show downtown," Adam says to the French cuff of his suit, fingers fastening the cufflinks.
"I'll get out of here," Kris offers, already folding the blanket he's been sitting on all day.
"There's no cover or anything, and I get a break on drinks if you wanna come along."
Kris is stunned, but he recovers quick enough to say, "And you just assume because I've spent the last 18 hours on your couch that I don't have a life..."
Adam looks up, catches his smile and grins back at him. "What can I say; I'm a mind reader."
They take the bus because Adam says it's cheaper than parking, which is Kris's first clue that they're not going to the club. Actually it's his second. Adam's conservative, slick appearance should have been his first, but he was too bowled over to process it completely. The way the suit fits him-makes him look like a long tall drink of something stiff-doesn't go unnoticed on the bus. People are looking at them, and Kris knows just how well they don't match, Adam sharp and polished, Kris still wearing the rumpled, slightly-smelly, too-tight t-shirt and jeans he wore to the club last night, and then slept in, and then laid around in all day. There are probably circles under his eyes, and he hadn't wanted to impose by borrowing a comb for the spiky brown hair sticking any direction but up.
Adam ignores the strangers' looks on the ride to the French Quarter, takes Kris by the elbow and leads him off the bus at Harrah's Casino and Kris's eyes go wide. "Don't tell me you perform at Harrah's." He shakes his head, trying to picture Adam in front of a bunch of gray-haired old ladies yanking on slot machines.
"What kind of lounge singer do you take me for?" Adam smiles and tugs him toward the towering Orleans Wyndham across the street.
Adam's kind of lounge is a long, low corner room on the second floor of the lobby, windows on both sides overlooking the glittering lights of the city in the darkness below. Adam pushes Kris toward a group of arm chairs near the side of the room before shaking hands with the bartender, one of the waitresses, the manager, and disappearing to go warm up.
The waitress comes by a minute later, giving Kris a disapproving once-over in the dim, intimate lighting. She sniffs and tosses her hair and says, "First drink is on the house, so make it a good one."
"Uh." Kris fakes a glance at the drink menu in front of him and looks up, drawing a blank. "What do you have on tap?"
"Right, double Johnny Black. You want it on the rocks or straight?"
"The.... Straight?" he guesses, since she's already made up her mind for him.
"Good choice." She sashays back toward the bar and Kris watches her go, really not sure what's going on. But he thinks she maybe likes him. Or Adam.
Speaking of...Adam walks out with a pianist about twenty minutes later while Kris is slowly sipping his whiskey. He takes his place in front of the microphone stand on the low stage in the corner and starts in after the opening bars, singing something quiet and sad that Kris has never heard. And he's never heard Adam before either, because that voice is like the glass framing him, reflecting him back in gold and blues, unbreakable and clear and so much higher and more delicate than Kris would have imagined. Adam cups the microphone like a lover's face and sings a love song with an earnestness that makes Kris's eyes sting, and when it ends Kris can't applaud, just sits there stunned while a dozen or so well-dressed hotel guests murmur and clap politely.
Adam's joy is obvious; the energy he's putting out seems to fill up the room when he sings, and his smile is genuine, even on the stage. His artistry is real, and Kris can't get over the talent he couldn't see in the club. Adam looks the part, too, suave and beautiful instead of garish and campy. He looks...unreachable. Kris shifts in his comfortable chair and knows he's the one who doesn't belong.
After a 45-minute set Adam thanks the audience, shakes hands with his pianist, takes a clear drink from the waitress on his way off the stage, and heads straight for the empty chair next to Kris.
Kris watches him come, uneasy. He doesn't know how to relate to this Adam-this isn't the aloof hookup who took him home two nights ago, or the vamp who let him crash on his couch, or even the old friend who watched 80's movies and shared his food all day. The singer doesn't seem to notice his discomfort, just flops down, nudges Kris's leg with his foot, and asks, "What do you think?"
"Incredible," Kris says honestly. "I've never...I've never heard you sing before and I hadn't expected...god, you can really sing."
Adam cocks his head at him. "You've heard me, like, a dozen times at Simon's."
"Not really," Kris explains. "I...think their sound tech might kind of hate you." Adam blinks at him. Kris says, squirming and sympathetic, "I don't think your microphone was even on this past week."
Instead of throwing the perfectly justified diva bitch fit Kris expects, Adam sighs long and loud and takes another sip of his drink. "Fucking asshole," he mutters.
"You don't sound too surprised," Kris points out carefully.
"Those that can, perform. And those that can't, tech. Badly. Guys like that come with the territory."
"He set the levels for the other two just fine..."
"Yeah, well," Adam pulls a vicious queen face out of nowhere and snaps, "he isn't my type."
Kris wants to kick himself for bringing it up because now Adam's shut down and angry, jaw clenched and glaring out the far windows. "If he's doing it on purpose, can't you take it up with the manager?"
Adam laughs-a cold, biting sound-and says with fake niceness, "Don't worry about it."
Kris doesn't know what to do with the silence that follows. Adam looks to be enjoying the quiet, but Kris has all this pressure in his chest that got stirred up by Adam's performance. Before his brain can slap a filter on it, it comes out as a tangle of syllables that sound like, "So, what is your type," hopeful and obvious.
Adam smiles a little and looks down into his drink. "Brown eyes. Tan skin. Sweet. And stable."
The burgeoning shy smile freezes on Kris's face and his stomach drops at the well-aimed barb. He looks down at his hands and doesn't say anything for the few minutes until Adam takes the stage again.
Kris doesn't mean to stay for Adam's whole gig; he knows he should leave after that rejection, but he keeps telling himself he'll leave after the next song. In between the second and third sets, Adam gets pulled into a conversation by a couple at the bar, talking about something energetic involving a lot of laughter. And then he's back on the stage again and Kris stupidly holds out for the next song, the next. And then it's almost midnight and Adam is done and Kris knows he has to find another place to stay, even as Adam is shaking hands with tipsy patrons, making his way to Kris's seat.
He's stayed too long again.
Kris pulls on his jacket and says, before Adam can bring it up, "My car's back at your place. How do I..."
Adam looks at him, surprised maybe, but shrugs and says, "Yeah, no problem. Lemme get my coat."
They meet up at the main entrance and Adam gets them on the right bus. Kris takes a seat on the opposite side of the aisle, giving him space, but his eyes are inevitably drawn to Adam's sinfully dark eyelashes, pink lips, broad shoulders. Adam is shooting little looks back at him before pulling his eyes quickly away each time he catches Kris staring.
They get off the bus and walk the two blocks to Adam's upscale apartment building in silence, and then in the parking lot Adam asks, "So where are you headed now?"
"I don't know," Kris admits. "Back downtown, I guess."
"Why?" Adam asks, more direct than he's been all day.
"I gotta...find somewhere to spend the night." Kris winces at how pathetic and lost he sounds.
"You seriously-" Adam cuts himself off. "Um. There's a shelter at St. Mary's, over in the fourth ward. They might still be open...." He looks a little dubious at that, even without checking his watch.
Kris blanches, finally realizing what he's acting like. What Adam thinks he is. What he's slowly turning into. "Fuck that," he says harshly; he is not some homeless guy who needs to sleep in the gutter. "I'll find a fucking motel, make some extra money on the street tomorrow-"
Adam inhales sharply and takes a step back, his eyes going from compassionate to cold in the ghostly street lights. "That's what you'll do, huh?"
Kris blinks at his retreat, replays the conversation. And in the toss-up between laughing and screaming, laughing thankfully wins. "Oh my god. Oh my god no, I don't. Oh my god, I meant busking. You know I do music and..." Adam's shoulders are relaxing, he's shaking his head incredulously, and Kris has had the week from hell-the month from hell-and this latest misunderstanding just drives it all home, the ludicrousness of his situation, how far his life has slipped from normal, respectable, and he sits down on the curb, puts his head in his arms and laughs until it's turning into something worse, until he's almost sobbing with frustration.
Adam sits next to him, long legs folded awkwardly over the short curb, and puts an arm around his shoulders, stroking his back a little.
Kris tries to pull himself together, tries to explain. "I have a home. I have a job, and a car, and...and other clothes." It had been so easy to cling to the comfortable welcome he'd found at Adam's apartment rather than going back to Satan's garden-style walk-up. "I just..."
"You can't go back at night," Adam supplies quietly, remembering what Kris had said 24 hours earlier.
"Yes!" It's wrenched from his throat and leaves him shaking and worn out.
"Okay," Adam says eventually, still rubbing his shoulders. "Okay. D'you wanna crash on my couch again? Just for one more night. And you can leave the light on, too, I don't mind."
Kris nods, wipes at his face with his sleeves and straightens up a little. "Yeah, thank you. Thank you."
"Okay," Adam says again, and tugs Kris to his feet, into the apartment building.
Despite his emotional overload outside, Kris isn't tired yet.
Neither is Adam. He gives Kris a pair of sweatpants, changes into his own pajamas, and comes back out of the bedroom to join him on the couch. Adam keeps glancing at him as they flip through all the channels twice, settling on some reality crap on MTV that neither of them is actually watching. Kris's focus has narrowed down to just Adam's breathing, Adam's knee barely touching his thigh.
Kris turns his head and Adam doesn't look away this time. Kris stares back for a long moment-from the neck up Adam's still perfectly put together from the lounge and Kris wants to touch him so bad he can barely sit still-until Adam leans in quickly and kisses him. Kris feels lips hot and soft against his and then Adam turns his head away and says to the TV, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...you don't have to..."
Kris grabs Adam's face and pulls him back in, runs a hand into his gelled hair so he can kiss him back longer, harder, with more intent and more tongue. Adam groans and leans back on the couch, puts a big hand on Kris's hip and drags his body against him.
The surprising, overwhelming lust of Sunday night flares again, picking up right where they left off, and Kris wants Adam bad enough to give it another try. Adam feels the same, judging by the hardening bulge in his cotton pants. Kris pulls himself up Adam's chest and kisses at his eyelids, his nose, his lips again before reminding him, "You said you were gonna fuck me." Adam moans and Kris stands up, says, "Get your stuff," peeling off his own t-shirt.
Adam's eyes open and he grins up at him like he's enjoying a show, so Kris puts his hands on his hips, impatient. "Now."
Adam is gone in a flash and Kris shucks off his borrowed sweats. Adam races back from the bathroom with a box of condoms and lube in his hands and Kris grabs him, yanks the shirt up and the pants down, stripping him naked in the middle of the living room. Adam leans into him, looking for another kiss, but Kris is in no mood to go slow, not with the tense memory of last time still attached to it. He grabs Adam's hips and pushes him down to sit on the couch, climbing on to straddle him, knees on the outsides of Adam's thighs.
Adam is staring at him like he's a genius and Kris smirks, pries the lube packet out of Adam's fist, tears it open and smears it over his own fingers. He hooks an arm around Adam's neck for support and reaches back between his spread legs, arching his back to get the right angle and shoves a slick finger in his ass. He hisses and Adam says, "Holy shit, Kris, yeah, baby, I got ya," big hands sliding up to his shoulder blades, taking some of Kris's weight as Adam leans closer and starts biting and sucking on Kris's throat.
He leans back into Adam's grip and forward against his mouth and worms a second finger in, his strumming wrist aching from the angle as he twists and loosens. He's not gonna get deep enough with three, not around the back like this, so it'll have to be enough. "Adam, condom," he pants.
Adam stops ravaging his throat and lets go with one hand, biting open the wrapper carefully and dumping the condom on the couch next to them. Kris lends Adam a hand and together they manage to slide it over Adam's cock, Kris dripping a little extra slick over it and smearing it around. Then he straightens up, braces his greasy hands on Adam's shoulders, and lowers himself down, Adam guiding his cock and Kris's hip so they meet at just the right spot.
It's tight and hard and Kris pushes down anyway, grunts until the head pops in and Adam makes a choked sound and Kris can slide all the way home, Adam throbbing hot and deep inside him. Adam throws his head back, eyes shut, mascara-coated lashes dark on his cheeks, and Kris suddenly sees Katy in the feminine detail, tenses up. But the hands on his ribs urge him up, drag him off so he can sink down again, just a little too much friction making his head loll and his teeth sink into his lower lip, his mind wiped clean of the unwelcome memory.
Adam bucks as Kris slides down and that's exactly the right angle. Kris clenches harder with his hands and his ass, simultaneous reward and punishment, and lifts up again easier and faster. Adam starts attacking his throat and shoulders again, kissing and whispering dirty endearments, dark promises into his skin, rocking up to meet Kris each time, and Kris's thighs are burning from the endless rise and fall.
Too soon, Adam's stroking his cock and rubbing his balls, giving him just that little bit more than he can handle, and Kris falls apart, coming all over Adam's stomach and throwing himself against his chest. Adam struggles under him, frees his arms and starts lifting Kris's hips, grinding up into his ass for his own release. His fingers are digging in like iron and Kris squirms, tries to give a few small bounces to help him out, and that does the trick. After a minute Adam groans, his whole body shaking.
Kris relaxes and nuzzles up under his chin, closing his eyes and smelling Adam's sweat and makeup and hair gel.
Kris wakes up just before noon on Wednesday, naked under the borrowed blanket, his ass sore and his heart lighter than it's been in a week. His back hates him for spending another night on that couch though. The sound of running water shutting off gets his attention and he lies awake humming a country song until Adam appears in the bathroom doorway, wearing a red towel around his hips and a black towel on his head. "You alright?"
"Nothing a cup of coffee wouldn't fix," Kris smiles hopefully.
Adam looks him over and then leans a hip against the doorframe, showing off the hard, lean muscles of his chest and arms. "I'll make you a deal. I'll give you coffee only if you take a shower."
"What kind of deal is that?" Kris laughs.
"A win-win for both of us. I can practically smell you from here."
Kris grumbles like he's insulted, but he's a lot closer to himself than Adam is, and happens to agree on the need for immediate drastic measures.
Over their post-shower coffee and toast, Adam asks Kris for a favor; he could use some help running a couple errands that the bus can't get him to... Kris immediately volunteers to drive Adam wherever he needs to go; it's the least he can do after Adam's let him stay so long. Adam beams and runs to his bedroom to get changed, excited as a kid who's been told to pack for Disney World.
Their first destination is Adam's favorite costume shop in a little strip mall in Slidell. As soon as they open the door, Kris starts laughing at the trio of Cher mannequins, each in a signature red carpet look, including the two foot showgirl headdress.
"I know, right?" Adam gushes. "They're to die for."
Kris almost chokes. He hadn't considered guys wanting to wearing them. Or Adam wanting to wear them.
Thankfully, Adam darts ahead to a display of boots, running his fingers over black leather mid-calf platforms with about 20 straps each.
Kris follows, regaining his equilibrium as Adam ogles the more masculine leather footwear. He sticks an elbow in Adam's ribs and says, with an ease he doesn't quite feel, "If you said no to button-flys, I'm saying no to those. They look impossible to get off."
"Naw, baby, this is drama. Totally worth it." He shoves half of the pair into Kris's hands and says, "See if you can find these in a 10.5," and then he wanders toward a display case of silver jewelry.
Kris shakes his head and crouches down to sort through the shelves of green and black boxes. By the time he turns back around, Adam is lost from sight. "Adam? I found 'em!"
"Just a minute," Adam yells from the other end of the surprisingly deep shop.
Kris brings the box with him, ducking past racks of dresses, pants, shirts, skirts. He's never been in a costume shop outside of Halloween. But he has to remind himself that, apparently, every night is Halloween for Adam and the other performers at Simon's. That thought makes him feel a little better, although the wig section is especially disturbing; picturing Adam in a Marie Antoinette hairpiece is a pretty big turnoff.
There are sequins and feathers and rhinestones everywhere he looks, and the whole place is pretty dazzling, but not as dazzling as Adam, emerging from a changing room wearing a white leather and rhinestone Elvis jumpsuit and posing with his hips forward, legs out, sneer in place, ready to rock.
"Oh hell no," Kris cackles, caught off guard by the almost-straight, totally sexy vision in front of him.
"What! This is hot!" Adam protests.
"That's one of my rock idols, dude! You're not supposed to make him hot! He's supposed to be old and bloated and majestic!"
"You don't think young Elvis was hot?" Adam sticks out his tongue and cranes his neck down like he'll lick his own nipple through the gaping jumpsuit.
"Oh my god," Kris protests again. "Take the boots! Take them! And get out of that!" He tosses the box to Adam and giggles his way to the comparable safety of the makeup displays, childhood memories of his mother's Elvis records now tarnished by the thought of sexing up a young hot gay Elvis.
Adam clomps out of the dressing room a few minutes later dressed in his own tight jeans and Boondock Saints t-shirt. And the boots. It's only four extra inches; but they make him look eight feet tall stomping toward Kris with a fierce, commanding expression on his face, his hips swaying as he struts, shoulders back and staring him down. He's pure power and sex, and Kris is captivated, thinks about last night and doing it again as soon as possible. The car is out in the parking lot...
And then Adam gets distracted by a neon orange string-boa on a display rack and whips it off as he passes, wrapping it around his fists. It ruins the image and Kris snickers.
"C'mere, sweetie," Adam coos, orange fluff extended, and Kris is torn between backing away and playing along, but Adam's grin is like a tractor beam and he ends up wrapped in the boa and Adam's arms as the taller man leans over him to get at the makeup counter. "I wanna show you my favorite party trick. Can I show my party trick? Please," Adam coaxes, squeezing his shoulders and nuzzling near his ear.
"Why not," Kris shrugs. He has a passing concern that he might be setting himself up for a two minute blowjob in public, but he dismisses it as highly unlikely.
Adam picks out a red gel lipgloss and tows Kris by the boa lasso to a full-length mirror. "Okay, you have to promise to hold absolutely still, no matter what. Do you promise?"
"Fine."
Adam unscrews the gloss and coats his own lips once, dips again and coats a second time, dips again for a third coat of shiny berry-red lipgloss, almost hypnotic in his methodical precision, the dark stain jarring against his strong jaw and faint stubble. He screws the tube closed and tosses it over his shoulder, rubs his thumb hard and unexpected over Kris's lips. It would be so easy to open his mouth and suck him in-
Adam steps close, tips Kris's chin up and all the way back so he can bend down and kiss him. Kris remembers his promise and holds as still as he can, though it's so hard not to respond as Adam rolls a kiss across his lips excruciatingly slow and careful, his breath a maddening tickle as he presses to the left, to the right, to the left and right again.
Then he lifts up and examines his work, eyes crinkled at the black-rimmed edges, biting his own lip with pride. Satisfied, he points Kris toward the mirror and yeah, okay, Kris is honestly impressed at the near-perfect transfer. "Neat trick," he admits, heart still fluttering a little.
"I don't even need to tell you how awesome college was," Adam brags. "Ooo, sweetie, what d'you think?"
Kris drags his gaze away from the foreign and discomforting sight of lipstick on his own face to the boots on Adam's feet. "I can't see the straps if you're wearing them under jeans."
"I'd wear skinny jeans. The boots go on top." Adam bends all the way down, his t-shirt riding up over his lower back-tantalizingly close-to haul up the cuff of his blue jeans. He twists his ankle around and bends his neck, considering all the angles.
"Your call," Kris hears himself say dimly. He wants to wipe the lipstick off and trash the boa. He wants to push Adam into the changing room and take care of the growing problem in his pants. He never wants to stop seeing that pleased look on Adam's face directed at him.
Their second destination is Adam's favorite gourmet food shop, this one halfway to Baton Rouge.
"That is a gross exaggeration," Adam announces as Kris pulls into the parking lot. "We're still within sight of urban sprawl."
"I'm the one watching the odometer, babe. And I'm starting to think you owe me for gas."
"Sugar, if you want a little sugar, all you gotta do is ask," Adam purrs, running a finger up the inseam of Kris's jeans. Thank god the car was already in park.
They stock up on Napa Valley wine and Modesto cheese and San Diego salsa and a case of tofu that Kris can find no explanation for, Adam almost giddy as he fills two grocery bags with Californian exports. And oh. That's more than he's learned about Adam's past in the whole last two days.
It finally dawns on Kris that Adam's been getting Kris talking while saying almost nothing about himself. It's a weird dynamic-unpleasant, too. Like maybe they aren't as close as he's let himself pretend. Maybe this is just how Adam acts with everyone; friends, lovers, strangers all alike. Kris presses his lips together, raw and sensitive from the vigorous scrubbing he'd given them earlier.
He's more somber on the way back to the city. This time he knows what the right thing to do is; get some space, get his head cleared out. He's been running from his demon for so long he's starting to lose touch with reality. He needs to think up an actual plan, not this escape fantasy he's been indulging in. "Hey," he says as they're coming up on his exit. "Do you mind if we make a side trip before I drop you off?"
"Drop me... Sure, no problem," Adam says cheerfully, lifting his face out of the bag of avocados he's been sniffing in ecstasy.
"It'll just take a few minutes. I...I wanna pick up a few things."
His hands are tightening on the wheel as he pictures the drive through the development, the view from the bottom of the outside staircase, his hand on the doorknob.
He doesn't realize he's gone quiet and white-knuckled until Adam guesses, too observant by half, "From your place."
"Yeah."
He takes the second Covington exit and tries to concentrate on the white and yellow lines on the road.
Part 2
Chapter 1 revised March 21, 2011.
Fandom: American Idol
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 50,000 [complete]
Warning: horror, divorce
Playlist: Read and download the playlist.
Summary: "You're sleeping in your car."
"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.
"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."
"Yeah."
"You really don't have any place to go, do you?"
"No, I do, I just. I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, unable to meet Adam's eyes.
Kris doesn't expect a lot from his new home. He's optimistic about his new city-selling his music, meeting new people, and putting his old life behind him-but he knew when he moved down here not to expect great things from a foreclosed condo he'd bought sight-unseen. It's taken a few weeks of hard labor, but he's actually made it pretty decent; he's painted over the graffiti the squatters left and deep-cleaned the rugs, he's started rebuilding the broken shelves in the bedroom, and he's hoping to save up some money to deal with the water-damage under the cracked bathroom tiles before the new year.
His meager income is still novel, still feels like the badge of honor of a professional musician. The studio's been promising him that session work will pick up by the end of summer, and in the meantime he picks up spare cash busking downtown or around his neighborhood. Being perpetually short on cash makes it hard to meet people, but he's finally in a city with an actual gay scene, so he's confident things on that front will start happening soon. All in all, he has a good feeling about his new life.
Until things start happening at home.
The first time he wakes up in the morning to find things not the way he left them-papers scattered all over the living room-he blames the rotating fan. But the fan couldn't have overturned the stack of Tupperware on the countertop four nights later. Kris is confused, even slightly alarmed, but he isn't comfortable talking about it with his coworkers; he needs to keep that studio connection. He can't even talk to his old friends in Arkansas, since Katy got most of them in the divorce, and the others just wanna hear how wild the parties are in New Orleans. And no, they don't mean the gay ones.
So Kris keeps his mouth shut and his eyes peeled.
The infrequent happenings escalate to attacks in his third month. He wakes up in the middle of the night to a feeling of complete helplessness; something is on him, holding him down. His limbs are frozen; he can't speak or move because of it, the presence on top of him. He can't look at the clock, so the only sense of time is his jack-hammering pulse. And he's the only thing that's frozen, because something else is moving, making sounds. Books fall off shelves, a bottle rolls across the kitchen floor. The curtains blow in front of the closed-and freshly resealed-bedroom window, moving just enough that he can catch them at the edge of his vision. Worst of all is the overwhelming malevolence, the knowledge that something wants to hurt him. It's going to hurt him….
The attacks happen three times in two weeks, and after the third Kris can't take being there anymore. His solution for a cheap night away from home is to go out to Simon's and find someone to take him home. He doesn't go back to his place until the morning. He does it again the next night, but hookups aren't really in his nature. He can't do it the third night in a row-he's not a slut, no matter what his ex-wife said about him in the depositions, and he's hating how he's feeling about himself. He stays home that night.
And it happens again. He can almost feel the thing breathing on his face while he's pinned to the mattress, his body unresponsive as his mind screams at him to protect himself, to fight back, to run. The feeling of threat gradually passes, the paralysis wears off between one heartbeat and the next, and Kris spends the rest of the night locked in his bathroom, terrified of his bed and of closing his eyes in that condo again.
In the morning, he knows he's on the verge of a breakdown. Even though it's been strictly benign in daylight, he flees the condo-goes to a crowded mall and sits there all Sunday drinking coffee and keeping his quiet freak out to himself. When it starts to get dark out, he heads to Simon's again and looks for someone he can spend the night with. He lands a good prospect, spends the night buying drinks for both of them. But it ends with a blowjob in the bathroom and no invitation home. Kris tries inviting himself over, but the guy is a tourist with a wife waiting at the hotel, and the asshole laughs and leaves without him.
Kris heads back out to the bar proper, humiliated and desperate to find another option other than his own bed. It's past last call, and there aren't many choices left in the bar, certainly not many that look particularly safe or palatable. His best prospect is a guy who at least seems to know the staff; he's chatting with the short, chick bartender with the butch haircut and eyebrow piercings. Kris thinks he recognizes him from another night, so hopefully that means he isn't a tourist.
Kris slides onto the bar stool next to his target and orders himself a whiskey, giving the bartender a puppy dog face when she says sorry, the bar's closed. "How about one for me, one for you, and one for this guy right here?" he offers.
She looks from Kris to the tall, broad-shouldered guy on the stool next to him and shakes her head again, but this time with a you've-got-some-fucking-balls smile. Three glasses are lined up and filled with different liquors, and she's carried her drink and Kris's $20 off to the other end of the bar before the guy even acknowledges Kris by looking his way.
And. Oh.
He's tall, yeah. Dyed-black hair shaggy around his face, elegant black eyebrows, piercing blue eyes, and black eyeliner. And Kris is…
Well, Kris is only attracted to masculine types. He's never felt comfortable around the gays who wear makeup or women's clothes. It's…not his thing.
So he's just bought a drink for a guy in eyeliner, who's staring down at him with a blank expression just waiting for Kris to say something. Kris picks up his drink and takes a quick glance around the room for anyone he'd feel more comfortable with, but no, this guy still looks like the safest bet.
"Hi," Kris says nervously.
"Hi, yourself."
Humor is usually a good way to break the ice. He starts out with the lamest pickup line he knows. "Come here often?"
The guy doesn't even blink. "You could say that."
Kris gulps half of the whiskey and swishes the taste of semen out of his mouth. Nice makeup, he doesn't say, but it's close. "This is a great place."
"Uh huh."
"I'm Kris. Kristopher. What's your name?"
"Adam," he says, taking a sip of his orange vodka.
"Adam. Nice to meet you."
Adam doesn't shake his outstretched hand.
Kris tries to ignore the not-interested vibes the guy is throwing off. "You from the area?"
"I live here," he allows.
Wow, he's really getting nothing from this guy. Outside, the night is black and threatening, so Kris spins his half-full glass on the bar and asks, "You here with anybody else, or…."
Adam smirks and shakes his head, and finally asks a question in return: "Jesus, you're a desperate little twink, aren't you?"
Kris freezes. "What?"
"I'm not your first guy tonight, or even your tenth this week."
Kris shifts on his stool to cover the flinch. The guy's count is off, but the accusation hits home. "You think so?"
"I'm not blind."
No, he wouldn't be with those bright blue eyes. The longer he looks at Adam, the more familiar he seems. Kris wouldn't be surprised if Adam's been here every night he hooked up this week. "Congratulations," Kris says, like he doesn't care what anyone thinks about his sexual activities. "See anything you like?"
"I haven't decided yet," Adam says.
"Don't take all night."
Adam hums into his glass and looks at some of the other patrons as though sizing up his own options. Kris swallows his pride and smiles harder, stretching his arms behind his head to flex his muscles. Adam's eyes cut back immediately and he licks his lips.
They head out to the parking lot when the club closes down, and Adam stands too close and says, "So, where to?"
"Your place," Kris says firmly.
"Uh huh," Adam cocks an eyebrow, unsurprised and unimpressed. "Then you're driving."
The ride to Metairie is quiet and tense. Kris's skin crawls as he watches the road, unable to see Adam with the passenger seat pushed all the way back to accommodate long legs. The few times he looks over his shoulder, Adam is watching him with an unreadable expression.
They get all the way up to his apartment before Adam finally makes things easy, pulling off Kris's t-shirt and hauling him in close by his upper arms as soon as the door is locked behind them. Kris leans up on his toes to reach his mouth, bites Adam's lip until the tall man lowers his head for a better angle. Kris flexes his biceps under Adam's hands, and Adam groans, squeezes tighter and sticks his tongue in Kris's mouth, leaning in to seal them together.
It's fucking hot; a guy that big, with that much attitude, wanting him that bad. Kris doesn't even care about the eyeliner anymore. He tries to catch his breath, but Adam's tongue is pushing and stroking in exactly the right way to get to his cock. He gets his arms in between them and starts unbuckling Adam's shiny zebra-striped belt, unbuttoning and unzipping the tight grey jeans, and if he's jumped way ahead in the evening's program, he can't make himself slow down or even care.
Adam is all over him with his hands-wide, uncallused hands that can cover a lot of skin, sliding over Kris's chest and back, his neck. Adam's making more sounds than Kris would have expected just from rubbing on pecs and abs, but Kris is making noises too, needy whimpers he's never made in the state of Louisiana, possibly not even Arkansas or Tennessee. He wedges a hand into Adam's pants and finds a cock just as big as the rest of him, cut and hard, hot in his hand because Adam's going commando tonight. Every night? Christ.
"Fuck," Adam pants, kneading Kris's shoulders as he squeezes Adam's cock. Kris's hips buck against Adam's and Adam laughs into his ear before moaning and pulling Kris's face up again for another suffocating kiss. Kris holds on and tries to keep jacking his hand, but it's getting overwhelming, and when his knees want to give out he drops smoothly to the carpet, dragging those jeans down with him. Adam's cock bobs free with a sharp inhalation above him and Kris leans in, drawn like a magnet, mouth already opening to taste.
"Oh my god, you're not even-" Adam moans, but his hands are under Kris's armpits and he's lifting him to his feet for another kiss, which feels like backtracking, and Kris tries to squirm out of his grip so he can get back to where he wants to be. "Bed. Now." Adam punctuates the command with a kiss and then manhandles Kris around so he's facing the bedroom door, starts forcing Kris forward with his hips, his hands looped around his waist to undo Kris's jeans. And okay, Kris can get behind this kind of forward momentum.
Adam stops him unexpectedly in the doorway, leaning in closer and wrenching harder at his jeans.
"Kristopher," he whispers in his ear, "I don't care how good these pants look on you; do not wear button-flys to a club ever again."
Kris laughs and tries to help, sucking in his stomach and sliding his fingers under the waistband alongside Adam's fingers, but that just seems to slow things down even more because Adam starts sucking on his throat and forgets about the pants entirely. Kris swats Adam's hands out of the way so he can get his fucking pants off himself…and then he giggles, because Adam just made it clear that these are not 'fucking pants.'
"What's so funny," Adam purrs, licking the stubble on his jaw against the grain, wet and hot.
"Oh." Kris gives up on the bottom two buttons and just shoves, scraping the denim over his hips and off.
His cock is suddenly a lot happier and getting harder under Adam's magic fingers. They're sliding his boxers down, lifting the elastic carefully over his cock until he's completely free, and Adam looks over Kris's shoulder and says, "There you are," and gives him a very friendly handshake with an extra firm grip.
"God," Kris chokes, his hips stuttering forward. Adam steps on the jeans between his ankles and nudges him forward again, and Kris can feel the hard cock against his lower back. He stumbles, kicking out of his pants and underwear and shoes, heading for the oversized bed with the tangle of black sheets and pillowcases, Adam kicking off his own jeans behind him. Kris climbs on and crawls to the middle, rolls over to sit and gives Adam a hot grin, waiting for him.
"Of all the tight guys on the floor tonight, who'd've pegged you for my lucky number," Adam says, like he's asking himself a question he can't answer.
Kris gives it to him, crooking his finger and beckoning him forward. Adam pulls his scoop-necked t-shirt over his head and comes for him, crawling up so he can kiss Kris again, braced on his arms as he rocks their hips together.
"I'm gonna fuck you so good," he promises, and Kris believes him, whimpers. Jesus, it's getting hard to focus again, all that skin, and Adam big and gorgeous. Kris slides one hand up the back of Adam's sweaty neck and the other down to grope at his ass, pull him in tighter where Kris can rub against him. Adam bites Kris's lower lip with a playful nip and pulls his head away, smiling down with a self-satisfied smirk. "Oh yeah," he says when Kris's brow furrows a question, and then he starts sliding down, tonguing Kris's chin, his jaw, his throat, sucking on his Adam's apple and twisting at his nipples.
Kris groans and bucks, half-begs, "Adam," because he's burning up with the need to get fucked right now and Adam is taking the slow way there.
"Shh," Adam says against his body, nipping at the thin skin over his collarbone, holding himself up and away from Kris's aching cock, giving him no friction to work with. He keeps up the torture, licking down to his left nipple and starting off with a slow, strong suck before biting at the tip, licking around the outside in a swirl. Kris is too sensitive for that and his hips twist. He makes a grab for Adam's black hair to pull him up, pull him back on course, but Adam sees him coming, shoots him a gloating look and catches his wrists, shoves them down into the mattress as he sprawls on top of him, hips weighing down his thighs, stomach flat and hard against his cock, and Kris bucks in earnest, his back arching off the bed as he fights for freedom, for his life, the dark room closing in, darkness that moves over and around him, cutting off his air, freezing his lungs in place, and he opens his mouth as he struggles against it, screams "NO! NO!" swinging with all his might to break its hold.
It backs off fast, releases Kris's wrists and backpedals off the bed. Kris's arms flail wildly at nothing for a few seconds before he opens his eyes and gasps frantically for air, gaze unexpectedly landing on Adam's stunned face.
Kris gradually comes down from the adrenaline spike, and embarrassment fills the void it leaves behind.
Adam jerks his gaze away, turns to grab up his grey jeans from the doorway. Once he has pants on he faces Kris again and says, "I think you should go home now," in a shaky voice.
"I can't," Kris chokes, chest still tight, eyes wet.
"You obviously don't wanna stay here."
"I'm sorry, I just…"
Adam stares at Kris, hunched over naked on the bed, and announces, "I need a drink," and wanders out of the bedroom.
Kris scrambles off the bed and grabs up his own pants, muttering the filthiest curses he knows as he tugs them up. He picks his t-shirt up by the front door and hesitates. Adam is moving around the kitchen, ignoring him, pouring a tall glass from a tall bottle, throwing in a lot of ice.
Kris's fingers shake and slip on the hemline of his shirt before he balls it up, too hot already in his own skin, and advances into the barely defined eating space, the small square table wedged under the breakfast bar. "Do you mind…."
Adam shoots him a suspicious look, but Kris just licks his lip and gestures to the bottle on the counter. "Shit, why not. You probably need it," Adam says with an exaggerated shrug, like it's nothing out of the ordinary for one of his hookups to have a fucking panic attack under him. They trade places, carefully circling each other to prevent contact as Kris steps into the kitchen and Adam takes a seat at the table.
Kris pours himself a short glass of white rum-ouch-and opens the fridge looking for something to cut it. He finds orange juice, holds it up for permission before pouring. He takes his glass to the table and sits in the chair against the wall, facing the door. Not facing Adam. Kris takes a bracing sip, lets the alcohol burn away the metallic taste of fear so he can say, "I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Adam says, not looking at him either.
And what the hell else does Kris want from him? Why isn't he slinking back to his car at this very moment? He's just seriously screwed up Adam's night-the guy doesn't look like he'll be able to sleep for hours, long fingers trembling just slightly on his glass, clinking the ice.
"That hasn't…happened before," he offers.
"It's cool," Adam says, "some guys feel safer on their knees, whatever. Your choice."
"That's not what I…." Kris sighs and takes a bigger gulp of the rum and juice.
Silence takes a seat at the table, and Kris must be out of his mind to still be sitting here, unwelcome, in Adam's home. The last thing he wants to do is force a confrontation.
"So, what brings you to the Big Easy?" Adam suddenly asks, bright and fake and offering a way out of this Huis Clos.
Kris gapes for a second, and then clears his throat and smiles at the living room gamely, "Divorce, Debt, and Music. In that order."
Adam's eyebrows go up. "Wow. Meaty. Sounds like you've got a story there, Kristopher."
"Yeah, not so much."
"Oh do tell," he says in a feminine lilt, playing the vamp. "I've got at least half an hour before I really feel this one and I could use the distraction," Adam gestures with his glass before swallowing down three big gulps.
Kris winces and tells himself he deserves this for freaking the guy out so bad. He pulls the third chair closer and props his legs up, leans forward to unstick his sweaty skin from the wooden back of the chair, settles more comfortably. "Tell you what, let's start over. Hi Adam, I'm Kris." He sticks his right hand out, keeps holding it out, waiting for Adam to let go of his glass and shake it.
Adam eventually rolls his eyes and obliges. "So what's your story, Kris?"
And for lack of anything else to talk about, Kris puts his life story out there. The fresh divorce that should've happened three years sooner-before he'd discovered he was more into guys than he was his wife, before she'd started racking up credit card debt out of revenge, and before he'd started stepping out to clubs out of bitterness. And how when it was finally over, they sold their house in Arkansas and split the small profit. They also split the debt.
He's warming to his song-writing ambitions when he gets distracted by the Nashville tangent: the last dream Katy had taken from him in the divorce by moving to Nashville and claiming the whole city off limits.
Adam grins at Kris's wry tone, making Kris feel like he's actually entertaining the guy. Adam offers sympathetic insults to Katy's character, her face, her waistline, whenever Kris pauses to sip his water. The black liner around his right eye has smudged out toward his temple, and Adam's head is nearly down on the table, supported by an elbow leaning way off to the side.
Adam's latest tirade against Southern women with dainty hands and gloves of steel, or vice versa ("Either way, doesn't that metaphor make you think of fisting?"), gets interrupted by a jaw cracking yawn, and he drags himself upright, shaking his head with watering eyes. "Okay, I can't stay awake anymore. You have to go."
"Oh, yeah, sure, sorry." Kris jumps to his feet and almost falls over because his feet and calves are asleep, and the backs of his thighs are tingling. "Fuck," he groans, bent over and shaking his legs out.
"Yeah, no thanks," Adam laughs sleepily, and Kris smiles, not even upset about the humiliating freak out anymore.
With his feet shoved into his shoes and his hand on the doorknob, Kris turns around and says, "Um, for what it's worth…thanks."
Adam yawns and shuffles past on his way to the bedroom, one hand shoving against Kris's shoulder. Kris opens the door and leaves.
Adam's forgiveness rests lightly on his shoulders on the long drive across the lake. The sun isn't up yet, he has the roads mostly to himself at this hour. Even the condo development is silent; he's beat the early morning joggers by traveling in the opposite direction of sleep.
Jesus, is he even making any sense? He probably shouldn't have been driving.
Kris parks in his reserved space out front and shuffles up the covered stairway to his 2nd floor unit, puts his key in the lock and suddenly remembers.
He lets go of the keys. They dangle in the lock, and Kris looks over his shoulder at the pinkish-gray patch of sky where the sun should be. Isn't yet. He looks at the keys swinging slightly as though moving on their own, and he takes a deep breath, tries to dredge up the willpower to go in there, prays for the courage to open the door.
The courage never comes.
After a long minute of staring at the clouds and the keys, Kris sits down on his doormat, tucks his knees under his chin, and closes his eyes to wait for dawn.
He spends the next evening back at the club, willing to prostitute himself yet again for a night away from his condo. He's slow to make real headway, though, and then the DJ announces the start of the live entertainment and Kris looks up and recognizes Adam. No wonder why he thought he'd seen him somewhere before...although only the width of his shoulders and those blue eyes are recognizable under the Donna Summer wig, sequined dress slit up and down nearly to there, smoky eye shadow, and sparkling red lipstick.
Kris loses interest in the guy he was chatting up, finally paying attention to the drag show. The sound system is for shit; he can barely hear the singing over the Justin Timberlake karaoke recording and the talking around him. He moves closer to the stage and watches for a few minutes, hearing something that might be good...but what he sees is what's really got him. Adam's vamping it up without going full drag, purple dress flapping open over his hairless, flat chest, extra equipment between his legs obvious under the long skirt, a shaved thigh sticking out every time he takes a step, too muscular to be a woman's. It's everything that usually makes Kris uncomfortable, but the way he moves his body reminds Kris of Adam's confidence last night, in the club and at his apartment, before things got completely fucked. And Kris is getting hard standing in the middle of the tiny dance floor watching Adam perform. And it isn't nearly crowded enough for him to go unnoticed.
Kris retreats and watches Adam finish his first set from the anonymity of the back wall. He actually watches the rest of the show, too: the following two performers who each sound way better than Adam, for all that they're feminine to the extreme. He even watches the two additional sets the three of them perform over the next four hours. Until the night is winding down and Kris realizes he hasn't found anyone-hasn't honestly been looking. And now he's pretty much screwed.
He wakes up an hour later with a terrible crick in his neck, disoriented and cold. The sound comes again, a tapping on the glass. He jerks upright and looks up into Adam's naked, cleaned-off face, just inches from the driver's side window. He stares back at the singer for a long minute, trying to catch up.
Adam taps a third time before Kris finally turns the key in the ignition and lowers the window.
"What?"
"You're sleeping in your car."
"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.
"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."
"Yeah."
"You really don't have any place to go, do you?"
"No, I do, I just-" he blurts out too quickly, cuts himself off.
"Then maybe you should try sleeping there. Unless you wanna get mugged or killed," Adam says like he thinks Kris is a complete idiot. Which is possibly spot on, because Kris doesn't know what he's doing with his life anymore, hiding from something supernatural in his condo that he thinks wants to hurt him. "If you can't drive, call a cab or something. Don't sleep out here."
"I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, staring at his throat because he's unable to meet Adam's eyes.
Adam raises a skeptical eyebrow and crosses his arms against the wind, in regular street clothes of a t-shirt under a bulky leather jacket. But he shrugs, says, "Okay, well. Suit yourself..." with a half-hearted smile and jerk of his chin.
He turns to walk away, leaving something unsaid, and Kris leans out the window to say, "What?" way too hopefully.
Adam pauses, turns back to the car and his right hand is picking at the dark nail polish on his thumb, his lips pressed in an unhappy line. "Look...you don't seem like the dangerous sort, so. I've got a sofa you can crash on for a few hours, if you're really that hard up..."
And that offer is more than a little humiliating, but to hell with it, Kris doesn't have much pride left. "Ye- Yes. Please. Please, that would be amazing."
Adam looks at him for a long moment, as though considering reconsidering, and then says for the second time, "You're driving," and bends down to pick up his black makeup case.
"Thank you so much," Kris calls as Adam walks around to the passenger side.
Things at Adam's spacious apartment are awkward because Kris isn't sure what Adam expects in return, but Adam gives him a blanket and shoves songbooks and clothes off the couch and turns out the light and ignores Kris's repeated protestations of gratitude.
Kris falls asleep immediately, curled on his side, but he wakes up flat on his back, his hands holding the blanket off him as though pushing someone away, sweating and shaking with adrenaline, fear. He can't see anyone in the dim light from the thinly-curtained windows, can't hear anyone moving but himself. And he isn't being restrained at all. The horrible paralysis was just a dream, a nightmare. He rolls onto his side, bites his fist, and tries to calm his heart rate.
His eyes want to droop, want him to drift off as his breathing comes down, but a stray thought chases around the back of his brain and his eyes fly open in panic and it's just not working, being blind in a strange place.
He sits up, fumbles for the side table lamp, and flips it on. The light hurts for a few seconds but then he can see clearly, can make sense of all the shadows in Adam's living room. There's nothing there that can scare him. He lies down again and doesn't remember falling asleep.
It's mid-afternoon the next time Kris wakes up. He hasn't slept like that in weeks-a real slumber, for hours and hours. Adam is already awake, already in the room, propped against the other end of the couch quietly watching TV on the floor. And that's sunlight, beautiful sunlight glowing through the curtains.
Kris takes a deep breath that must get Adam's attention, because he turns around and says, "Man, you were out like a light."
Kris opens his mouth to apologize for any inconvenience and to thank him again for the place to crash, and then remembers the light he'd turned on last night. He clears his throat and stretches up to turn off the lamp, but the bulb is already dark.
"Yeah, I turned that off a few hours ago. Don't need my power bill getting any higher this month, thanks."
"I-" Kris stammers. "I'm sorry, I didn't think..." Adam scowls, and Kris stops talking because Adam is frowning at himself.
"Fuck, don't. I'm a bitch in the mornings. Forget it."
Kris sits up and smoothes his bunched up t-shirt, pulls the blanket closer to his legs, making room on the sofa if Adam wants it.
Adam turns back to the TV set though, like he's perfectly comfortable on the floor. "So, you afraid of the dark or something?"
"Something like that," Kris says lowly, more to himself than to Adam.
He's slept through most of Tuesday, and Kris hurries to check his voicemail in the bathroom, hoping he hasn't missed a session gig offer. There are no messages, thank God. But now he doesn't know what to do with his day.
So he does nothing, literally sitting on Adam's couch all afternoon because Adam doesn't tell him to leave, actually asks him if he wants to watch a movie, like maybe Adam wants company just as much as Kris does. Adam puts on One Crazy Summer followed by Say Anything, because Adam had a thing-still has a thing-for young John Cusack and he refuses to be mocked by Kris's careful teasing. Kris doesn't even notice Adam's eyeliner until halfway through the first movie. He seems to have just...gotten used to it.
Adam gives him toast for lunch, and a tuna fish sandwich with pickle slices on it for dinner, ordering him to stop being a baby and eat when he starts pulling off the pickles. The way Adam treats him, it's like they've been friends for years, like he belongs there. And having been alone so long in New Orleans, Kris can't help losing himself in it.
But it couldn't last.
Adam disappears into the bedroom for a while and comes out in a dark blue suit with his black hair slicked back, foundation covering his freckles, and mascara making his blue eyes look huge. What should have made him look feminine instead looks glamorous. Expensive. Kris stares and then stands up, breadcrumbs dropping from his lap. He's overstayed. Adam's going out and he has to leave.
"I've got a show downtown," Adam says to the French cuff of his suit, fingers fastening the cufflinks.
"I'll get out of here," Kris offers, already folding the blanket he's been sitting on all day.
"There's no cover or anything, and I get a break on drinks if you wanna come along."
Kris is stunned, but he recovers quick enough to say, "And you just assume because I've spent the last 18 hours on your couch that I don't have a life..."
Adam looks up, catches his smile and grins back at him. "What can I say; I'm a mind reader."
They take the bus because Adam says it's cheaper than parking, which is Kris's first clue that they're not going to the club. Actually it's his second. Adam's conservative, slick appearance should have been his first, but he was too bowled over to process it completely. The way the suit fits him-makes him look like a long tall drink of something stiff-doesn't go unnoticed on the bus. People are looking at them, and Kris knows just how well they don't match, Adam sharp and polished, Kris still wearing the rumpled, slightly-smelly, too-tight t-shirt and jeans he wore to the club last night, and then slept in, and then laid around in all day. There are probably circles under his eyes, and he hadn't wanted to impose by borrowing a comb for the spiky brown hair sticking any direction but up.
Adam ignores the strangers' looks on the ride to the French Quarter, takes Kris by the elbow and leads him off the bus at Harrah's Casino and Kris's eyes go wide. "Don't tell me you perform at Harrah's." He shakes his head, trying to picture Adam in front of a bunch of gray-haired old ladies yanking on slot machines.
"What kind of lounge singer do you take me for?" Adam smiles and tugs him toward the towering Orleans Wyndham across the street.
Adam's kind of lounge is a long, low corner room on the second floor of the lobby, windows on both sides overlooking the glittering lights of the city in the darkness below. Adam pushes Kris toward a group of arm chairs near the side of the room before shaking hands with the bartender, one of the waitresses, the manager, and disappearing to go warm up.
The waitress comes by a minute later, giving Kris a disapproving once-over in the dim, intimate lighting. She sniffs and tosses her hair and says, "First drink is on the house, so make it a good one."
"Uh." Kris fakes a glance at the drink menu in front of him and looks up, drawing a blank. "What do you have on tap?"
"Right, double Johnny Black. You want it on the rocks or straight?"
"The.... Straight?" he guesses, since she's already made up her mind for him.
"Good choice." She sashays back toward the bar and Kris watches her go, really not sure what's going on. But he thinks she maybe likes him. Or Adam.
Speaking of...Adam walks out with a pianist about twenty minutes later while Kris is slowly sipping his whiskey. He takes his place in front of the microphone stand on the low stage in the corner and starts in after the opening bars, singing something quiet and sad that Kris has never heard. And he's never heard Adam before either, because that voice is like the glass framing him, reflecting him back in gold and blues, unbreakable and clear and so much higher and more delicate than Kris would have imagined. Adam cups the microphone like a lover's face and sings a love song with an earnestness that makes Kris's eyes sting, and when it ends Kris can't applaud, just sits there stunned while a dozen or so well-dressed hotel guests murmur and clap politely.
Adam's joy is obvious; the energy he's putting out seems to fill up the room when he sings, and his smile is genuine, even on the stage. His artistry is real, and Kris can't get over the talent he couldn't see in the club. Adam looks the part, too, suave and beautiful instead of garish and campy. He looks...unreachable. Kris shifts in his comfortable chair and knows he's the one who doesn't belong.
After a 45-minute set Adam thanks the audience, shakes hands with his pianist, takes a clear drink from the waitress on his way off the stage, and heads straight for the empty chair next to Kris.
Kris watches him come, uneasy. He doesn't know how to relate to this Adam-this isn't the aloof hookup who took him home two nights ago, or the vamp who let him crash on his couch, or even the old friend who watched 80's movies and shared his food all day. The singer doesn't seem to notice his discomfort, just flops down, nudges Kris's leg with his foot, and asks, "What do you think?"
"Incredible," Kris says honestly. "I've never...I've never heard you sing before and I hadn't expected...god, you can really sing."
Adam cocks his head at him. "You've heard me, like, a dozen times at Simon's."
"Not really," Kris explains. "I...think their sound tech might kind of hate you." Adam blinks at him. Kris says, squirming and sympathetic, "I don't think your microphone was even on this past week."
Instead of throwing the perfectly justified diva bitch fit Kris expects, Adam sighs long and loud and takes another sip of his drink. "Fucking asshole," he mutters.
"You don't sound too surprised," Kris points out carefully.
"Those that can, perform. And those that can't, tech. Badly. Guys like that come with the territory."
"He set the levels for the other two just fine..."
"Yeah, well," Adam pulls a vicious queen face out of nowhere and snaps, "he isn't my type."
Kris wants to kick himself for bringing it up because now Adam's shut down and angry, jaw clenched and glaring out the far windows. "If he's doing it on purpose, can't you take it up with the manager?"
Adam laughs-a cold, biting sound-and says with fake niceness, "Don't worry about it."
Kris doesn't know what to do with the silence that follows. Adam looks to be enjoying the quiet, but Kris has all this pressure in his chest that got stirred up by Adam's performance. Before his brain can slap a filter on it, it comes out as a tangle of syllables that sound like, "So, what is your type," hopeful and obvious.
Adam smiles a little and looks down into his drink. "Brown eyes. Tan skin. Sweet. And stable."
The burgeoning shy smile freezes on Kris's face and his stomach drops at the well-aimed barb. He looks down at his hands and doesn't say anything for the few minutes until Adam takes the stage again.
Kris doesn't mean to stay for Adam's whole gig; he knows he should leave after that rejection, but he keeps telling himself he'll leave after the next song. In between the second and third sets, Adam gets pulled into a conversation by a couple at the bar, talking about something energetic involving a lot of laughter. And then he's back on the stage again and Kris stupidly holds out for the next song, the next. And then it's almost midnight and Adam is done and Kris knows he has to find another place to stay, even as Adam is shaking hands with tipsy patrons, making his way to Kris's seat.
He's stayed too long again.
Kris pulls on his jacket and says, before Adam can bring it up, "My car's back at your place. How do I..."
Adam looks at him, surprised maybe, but shrugs and says, "Yeah, no problem. Lemme get my coat."
They meet up at the main entrance and Adam gets them on the right bus. Kris takes a seat on the opposite side of the aisle, giving him space, but his eyes are inevitably drawn to Adam's sinfully dark eyelashes, pink lips, broad shoulders. Adam is shooting little looks back at him before pulling his eyes quickly away each time he catches Kris staring.
They get off the bus and walk the two blocks to Adam's upscale apartment building in silence, and then in the parking lot Adam asks, "So where are you headed now?"
"I don't know," Kris admits. "Back downtown, I guess."
"Why?" Adam asks, more direct than he's been all day.
"I gotta...find somewhere to spend the night." Kris winces at how pathetic and lost he sounds.
"You seriously-" Adam cuts himself off. "Um. There's a shelter at St. Mary's, over in the fourth ward. They might still be open...." He looks a little dubious at that, even without checking his watch.
Kris blanches, finally realizing what he's acting like. What Adam thinks he is. What he's slowly turning into. "Fuck that," he says harshly; he is not some homeless guy who needs to sleep in the gutter. "I'll find a fucking motel, make some extra money on the street tomorrow-"
Adam inhales sharply and takes a step back, his eyes going from compassionate to cold in the ghostly street lights. "That's what you'll do, huh?"
Kris blinks at his retreat, replays the conversation. And in the toss-up between laughing and screaming, laughing thankfully wins. "Oh my god. Oh my god no, I don't. Oh my god, I meant busking. You know I do music and..." Adam's shoulders are relaxing, he's shaking his head incredulously, and Kris has had the week from hell-the month from hell-and this latest misunderstanding just drives it all home, the ludicrousness of his situation, how far his life has slipped from normal, respectable, and he sits down on the curb, puts his head in his arms and laughs until it's turning into something worse, until he's almost sobbing with frustration.
Adam sits next to him, long legs folded awkwardly over the short curb, and puts an arm around his shoulders, stroking his back a little.
Kris tries to pull himself together, tries to explain. "I have a home. I have a job, and a car, and...and other clothes." It had been so easy to cling to the comfortable welcome he'd found at Adam's apartment rather than going back to Satan's garden-style walk-up. "I just..."
"You can't go back at night," Adam supplies quietly, remembering what Kris had said 24 hours earlier.
"Yes!" It's wrenched from his throat and leaves him shaking and worn out.
"Okay," Adam says eventually, still rubbing his shoulders. "Okay. D'you wanna crash on my couch again? Just for one more night. And you can leave the light on, too, I don't mind."
Kris nods, wipes at his face with his sleeves and straightens up a little. "Yeah, thank you. Thank you."
"Okay," Adam says again, and tugs Kris to his feet, into the apartment building.
Despite his emotional overload outside, Kris isn't tired yet.
Neither is Adam. He gives Kris a pair of sweatpants, changes into his own pajamas, and comes back out of the bedroom to join him on the couch. Adam keeps glancing at him as they flip through all the channels twice, settling on some reality crap on MTV that neither of them is actually watching. Kris's focus has narrowed down to just Adam's breathing, Adam's knee barely touching his thigh.
Kris turns his head and Adam doesn't look away this time. Kris stares back for a long moment-from the neck up Adam's still perfectly put together from the lounge and Kris wants to touch him so bad he can barely sit still-until Adam leans in quickly and kisses him. Kris feels lips hot and soft against his and then Adam turns his head away and says to the TV, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...you don't have to..."
Kris grabs Adam's face and pulls him back in, runs a hand into his gelled hair so he can kiss him back longer, harder, with more intent and more tongue. Adam groans and leans back on the couch, puts a big hand on Kris's hip and drags his body against him.
The surprising, overwhelming lust of Sunday night flares again, picking up right where they left off, and Kris wants Adam bad enough to give it another try. Adam feels the same, judging by the hardening bulge in his cotton pants. Kris pulls himself up Adam's chest and kisses at his eyelids, his nose, his lips again before reminding him, "You said you were gonna fuck me." Adam moans and Kris stands up, says, "Get your stuff," peeling off his own t-shirt.
Adam's eyes open and he grins up at him like he's enjoying a show, so Kris puts his hands on his hips, impatient. "Now."
Adam is gone in a flash and Kris shucks off his borrowed sweats. Adam races back from the bathroom with a box of condoms and lube in his hands and Kris grabs him, yanks the shirt up and the pants down, stripping him naked in the middle of the living room. Adam leans into him, looking for another kiss, but Kris is in no mood to go slow, not with the tense memory of last time still attached to it. He grabs Adam's hips and pushes him down to sit on the couch, climbing on to straddle him, knees on the outsides of Adam's thighs.
Adam is staring at him like he's a genius and Kris smirks, pries the lube packet out of Adam's fist, tears it open and smears it over his own fingers. He hooks an arm around Adam's neck for support and reaches back between his spread legs, arching his back to get the right angle and shoves a slick finger in his ass. He hisses and Adam says, "Holy shit, Kris, yeah, baby, I got ya," big hands sliding up to his shoulder blades, taking some of Kris's weight as Adam leans closer and starts biting and sucking on Kris's throat.
He leans back into Adam's grip and forward against his mouth and worms a second finger in, his strumming wrist aching from the angle as he twists and loosens. He's not gonna get deep enough with three, not around the back like this, so it'll have to be enough. "Adam, condom," he pants.
Adam stops ravaging his throat and lets go with one hand, biting open the wrapper carefully and dumping the condom on the couch next to them. Kris lends Adam a hand and together they manage to slide it over Adam's cock, Kris dripping a little extra slick over it and smearing it around. Then he straightens up, braces his greasy hands on Adam's shoulders, and lowers himself down, Adam guiding his cock and Kris's hip so they meet at just the right spot.
It's tight and hard and Kris pushes down anyway, grunts until the head pops in and Adam makes a choked sound and Kris can slide all the way home, Adam throbbing hot and deep inside him. Adam throws his head back, eyes shut, mascara-coated lashes dark on his cheeks, and Kris suddenly sees Katy in the feminine detail, tenses up. But the hands on his ribs urge him up, drag him off so he can sink down again, just a little too much friction making his head loll and his teeth sink into his lower lip, his mind wiped clean of the unwelcome memory.
Adam bucks as Kris slides down and that's exactly the right angle. Kris clenches harder with his hands and his ass, simultaneous reward and punishment, and lifts up again easier and faster. Adam starts attacking his throat and shoulders again, kissing and whispering dirty endearments, dark promises into his skin, rocking up to meet Kris each time, and Kris's thighs are burning from the endless rise and fall.
Too soon, Adam's stroking his cock and rubbing his balls, giving him just that little bit more than he can handle, and Kris falls apart, coming all over Adam's stomach and throwing himself against his chest. Adam struggles under him, frees his arms and starts lifting Kris's hips, grinding up into his ass for his own release. His fingers are digging in like iron and Kris squirms, tries to give a few small bounces to help him out, and that does the trick. After a minute Adam groans, his whole body shaking.
Kris relaxes and nuzzles up under his chin, closing his eyes and smelling Adam's sweat and makeup and hair gel.
Kris wakes up just before noon on Wednesday, naked under the borrowed blanket, his ass sore and his heart lighter than it's been in a week. His back hates him for spending another night on that couch though. The sound of running water shutting off gets his attention and he lies awake humming a country song until Adam appears in the bathroom doorway, wearing a red towel around his hips and a black towel on his head. "You alright?"
"Nothing a cup of coffee wouldn't fix," Kris smiles hopefully.
Adam looks him over and then leans a hip against the doorframe, showing off the hard, lean muscles of his chest and arms. "I'll make you a deal. I'll give you coffee only if you take a shower."
"What kind of deal is that?" Kris laughs.
"A win-win for both of us. I can practically smell you from here."
Kris grumbles like he's insulted, but he's a lot closer to himself than Adam is, and happens to agree on the need for immediate drastic measures.
Over their post-shower coffee and toast, Adam asks Kris for a favor; he could use some help running a couple errands that the bus can't get him to... Kris immediately volunteers to drive Adam wherever he needs to go; it's the least he can do after Adam's let him stay so long. Adam beams and runs to his bedroom to get changed, excited as a kid who's been told to pack for Disney World.
Their first destination is Adam's favorite costume shop in a little strip mall in Slidell. As soon as they open the door, Kris starts laughing at the trio of Cher mannequins, each in a signature red carpet look, including the two foot showgirl headdress.
"I know, right?" Adam gushes. "They're to die for."
Kris almost chokes. He hadn't considered guys wanting to wearing them. Or Adam wanting to wear them.
Thankfully, Adam darts ahead to a display of boots, running his fingers over black leather mid-calf platforms with about 20 straps each.
Kris follows, regaining his equilibrium as Adam ogles the more masculine leather footwear. He sticks an elbow in Adam's ribs and says, with an ease he doesn't quite feel, "If you said no to button-flys, I'm saying no to those. They look impossible to get off."
"Naw, baby, this is drama. Totally worth it." He shoves half of the pair into Kris's hands and says, "See if you can find these in a 10.5," and then he wanders toward a display case of silver jewelry.
Kris shakes his head and crouches down to sort through the shelves of green and black boxes. By the time he turns back around, Adam is lost from sight. "Adam? I found 'em!"
"Just a minute," Adam yells from the other end of the surprisingly deep shop.
Kris brings the box with him, ducking past racks of dresses, pants, shirts, skirts. He's never been in a costume shop outside of Halloween. But he has to remind himself that, apparently, every night is Halloween for Adam and the other performers at Simon's. That thought makes him feel a little better, although the wig section is especially disturbing; picturing Adam in a Marie Antoinette hairpiece is a pretty big turnoff.
There are sequins and feathers and rhinestones everywhere he looks, and the whole place is pretty dazzling, but not as dazzling as Adam, emerging from a changing room wearing a white leather and rhinestone Elvis jumpsuit and posing with his hips forward, legs out, sneer in place, ready to rock.
"Oh hell no," Kris cackles, caught off guard by the almost-straight, totally sexy vision in front of him.
"What! This is hot!" Adam protests.
"That's one of my rock idols, dude! You're not supposed to make him hot! He's supposed to be old and bloated and majestic!"
"You don't think young Elvis was hot?" Adam sticks out his tongue and cranes his neck down like he'll lick his own nipple through the gaping jumpsuit.
"Oh my god," Kris protests again. "Take the boots! Take them! And get out of that!" He tosses the box to Adam and giggles his way to the comparable safety of the makeup displays, childhood memories of his mother's Elvis records now tarnished by the thought of sexing up a young hot gay Elvis.
Adam clomps out of the dressing room a few minutes later dressed in his own tight jeans and Boondock Saints t-shirt. And the boots. It's only four extra inches; but they make him look eight feet tall stomping toward Kris with a fierce, commanding expression on his face, his hips swaying as he struts, shoulders back and staring him down. He's pure power and sex, and Kris is captivated, thinks about last night and doing it again as soon as possible. The car is out in the parking lot...
And then Adam gets distracted by a neon orange string-boa on a display rack and whips it off as he passes, wrapping it around his fists. It ruins the image and Kris snickers.
"C'mere, sweetie," Adam coos, orange fluff extended, and Kris is torn between backing away and playing along, but Adam's grin is like a tractor beam and he ends up wrapped in the boa and Adam's arms as the taller man leans over him to get at the makeup counter. "I wanna show you my favorite party trick. Can I show my party trick? Please," Adam coaxes, squeezing his shoulders and nuzzling near his ear.
"Why not," Kris shrugs. He has a passing concern that he might be setting himself up for a two minute blowjob in public, but he dismisses it as highly unlikely.
Adam picks out a red gel lipgloss and tows Kris by the boa lasso to a full-length mirror. "Okay, you have to promise to hold absolutely still, no matter what. Do you promise?"
"Fine."
Adam unscrews the gloss and coats his own lips once, dips again and coats a second time, dips again for a third coat of shiny berry-red lipgloss, almost hypnotic in his methodical precision, the dark stain jarring against his strong jaw and faint stubble. He screws the tube closed and tosses it over his shoulder, rubs his thumb hard and unexpected over Kris's lips. It would be so easy to open his mouth and suck him in-
Adam steps close, tips Kris's chin up and all the way back so he can bend down and kiss him. Kris remembers his promise and holds as still as he can, though it's so hard not to respond as Adam rolls a kiss across his lips excruciatingly slow and careful, his breath a maddening tickle as he presses to the left, to the right, to the left and right again.
Then he lifts up and examines his work, eyes crinkled at the black-rimmed edges, biting his own lip with pride. Satisfied, he points Kris toward the mirror and yeah, okay, Kris is honestly impressed at the near-perfect transfer. "Neat trick," he admits, heart still fluttering a little.
"I don't even need to tell you how awesome college was," Adam brags. "Ooo, sweetie, what d'you think?"
Kris drags his gaze away from the foreign and discomforting sight of lipstick on his own face to the boots on Adam's feet. "I can't see the straps if you're wearing them under jeans."
"I'd wear skinny jeans. The boots go on top." Adam bends all the way down, his t-shirt riding up over his lower back-tantalizingly close-to haul up the cuff of his blue jeans. He twists his ankle around and bends his neck, considering all the angles.
"Your call," Kris hears himself say dimly. He wants to wipe the lipstick off and trash the boa. He wants to push Adam into the changing room and take care of the growing problem in his pants. He never wants to stop seeing that pleased look on Adam's face directed at him.
Their second destination is Adam's favorite gourmet food shop, this one halfway to Baton Rouge.
"That is a gross exaggeration," Adam announces as Kris pulls into the parking lot. "We're still within sight of urban sprawl."
"I'm the one watching the odometer, babe. And I'm starting to think you owe me for gas."
"Sugar, if you want a little sugar, all you gotta do is ask," Adam purrs, running a finger up the inseam of Kris's jeans. Thank god the car was already in park.
They stock up on Napa Valley wine and Modesto cheese and San Diego salsa and a case of tofu that Kris can find no explanation for, Adam almost giddy as he fills two grocery bags with Californian exports. And oh. That's more than he's learned about Adam's past in the whole last two days.
It finally dawns on Kris that Adam's been getting Kris talking while saying almost nothing about himself. It's a weird dynamic-unpleasant, too. Like maybe they aren't as close as he's let himself pretend. Maybe this is just how Adam acts with everyone; friends, lovers, strangers all alike. Kris presses his lips together, raw and sensitive from the vigorous scrubbing he'd given them earlier.
He's more somber on the way back to the city. This time he knows what the right thing to do is; get some space, get his head cleared out. He's been running from his demon for so long he's starting to lose touch with reality. He needs to think up an actual plan, not this escape fantasy he's been indulging in. "Hey," he says as they're coming up on his exit. "Do you mind if we make a side trip before I drop you off?"
"Drop me... Sure, no problem," Adam says cheerfully, lifting his face out of the bag of avocados he's been sniffing in ecstasy.
"It'll just take a few minutes. I...I wanna pick up a few things."
His hands are tightening on the wheel as he pictures the drive through the development, the view from the bottom of the outside staircase, his hand on the doorknob.
He doesn't realize he's gone quiet and white-knuckled until Adam guesses, too observant by half, "From your place."
"Yeah."
He takes the second Covington exit and tries to concentrate on the white and yellow lines on the road.
Part 2
Chapter 1 revised March 21, 2011.