Encore (Part 1)
Title: Encore
Author: shady_fetish
Artist: angelicrealism -- thanks for fabulous banners! :)
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Kradam, Katy
Warnings strong language, implied sexual content, possible character death
Summary: Kris finds himself in the hospital after ending up in a serious car accident. What follows is a trip down memory lane as he recalls the last week or so of his life. What will Kris discover once he remembers everything?
August 20, 2010. 3:40 PM
"His oxygen level is low," Kris hears a man say too calmly.
He's not entirely sure what's going on. He keeps fading in and out of the scene, into black and into white. Someone is holding his hand tightly. Someone else is fiddling with his arm while a third person adjusts weight on his face, around his nose. Kris tries to jerk away, but they hold him down. The hand holding his tightens around his as he relaxes. In spite of his cluelessness, he squeezes it back, reassured to have some sort of feeling as the noise around him picks up.
Constant blips.
Talking. Way too much talking. His foggy head can't take it.
Footsteps on a linoleum floor.
The humming of the lights.
"Kris, hang in there, okay?" a familiar voice begs. "Everything's...everything is going to be okay." Fingers never letting go, someone kisses the back of his hand.
He's never felt so peaceful in his life. He's not sure of much else right now, but he does know who is right next to him. He vacantly holds his eyes open, his vision swimming as he struggles to make out blurs and shapes past the white, flickering dots in his eyes.
There's no color in the room. Everything is monotone, lifeless. There's bars of grey and sketchy lines on the drop ceiling. Beige flaps are blowing near the open windows. People in white are frantically walking back and forth, talking to a couple who he barely recognizes as his mother and father. They must be angels comforting them, breaking the news. She starts crying into his father's shoulder, but no sound escapes her.
Kris looks down, the weight of the bed registering with him for a split second, a thin sheet on top of him. He knows his legs are still there, because he can see his toes poking out at the end of the bed, but he can't feel them. He's not even sure if he can sit up. Nothing is completely connecting in his mind at the moment.
His eyes trail over to the hands wrapped around his. The nails on them are black with silver tips. Slowly, slowly, he looks up, his dry mouth gaping at the black streaks running down his face--Adam's face. He wants so badly to reach out and stroke his tear stained cheek, to let him know that he recognizes him, and that he does appreciate him being here. Kris wants to let Adam know that he does want him here despite everything.
No...he needs him here.
But he can't do it. The white dots are expanding, contracting. They're rippling spreading to the rims of his vision. He can't concentrate. He manages to fumble through a name, a word.
"Adam..."
His heart rate shoots up for a split second. He can feel his heart rattling in his chest, and it's almost hitting his ribs painfully. Kris's nails are digging into Adam's as his whole body begins to spasm. The nurses rush to his side, trying to calm him down. His mother covers her eyes and screams. Kris's heart almost hurts for her, hurts for everyone, as he struggles to pull himself together. He's thrashing, agony stabbing him in the chest.
He's never felt so humiliated in his life, but thankfully he starts to feel better. as if nothing ever happened. His nails stop gouging into Adam's wrist, and he's able to allow himself to sink into the bed. His heart is practically still now, and it feels so comfortable, so right.
Kris can't figure out why they are all looking at him like that though, why they are panicking all over again. Everyone's eyes are wide. Adam squeezes his hand harder, and his mother rushes over to Adam's side, running a hand through his hair. The white lines expand, contract, distort. The angels are dashing about to and fro, the head one rushing to his other side.
"Doctor, his heart rate is declining."
"Nurses--"
"Fifty beats per minute."
"Get his parents and his friend out," the doctor snaps, wiping his forehead.
"Forty beats per minute."
Two of them successfully escort his parents out of the room. Adam, on the other hand, isn't quite as easy. They try to shove him away, but he holds on tight to his hand. He's shaking his head. The words are becoming unintelligible, but he vaguely understands that he wants to stay with him. Kris wants to hold on too, but his grip is loosening. The other man is the one doing most of the work.
"Kris, no...No, don't do this!"
"Thirty seven beats per minute."
"Set up the defibrillator and, DAMN IT, I SAID GET HIS FRIEND OUT OF HERE!"
Adam, however, refuses to be moved, so Kris tries to reach up, cup his cheek, but his hand won't move. The other man seems to understand what he wants, because he does it for him. The white around his vision starts eating everything else away, and all he can see is Adam, a soft outline forming around him.
"I...I don't want you to go. There's so much left for us, don't you understand? I want a life with you in it." Kris can't respond, which only makes Adam cry more than he already has been. "God...I let you into my house again and I never even apologized. I'm so sorry, Kris. I-I didn't mean anything I said that night..." He looks down at Kris, ashamed.
Kris doesn't even know what Adam is talking about right now. He can't remember, so tries to open his mouth to ask what any of that means, but words are impossible. Somehow, he's okay with this. He's okay with the way things are playing out, with how much he is learning all over again as his life flashes before his eyes. His parents are around the corner, and Adam is right here with him. It's all he really needs.
"Adam..."
The doctors finally succeed in shoving Adam away as the white spots flicker in Kris's eyesight. They flash in his eyes, just like the lights, just like the sun on his cracked windshield as the world spins around him. He can almost hear the crunching again, the squealing of rubber sliding on pavement. He feels the bruises forming under his skin, the empty air where the airbag should have deployed, the sign breaking through his windshield.
The glass explodes, the shards cut his face. There is a deafening rumble as the bumper and the engine are smashed in by the telephone pole. His head smacks the back of the driver's seat. His knuckles hurt from holding on for a dear life until everything comes collapsing in on him.
Vertigo. Cracking. Bleeding. Screaming.
The world flashes.
August 18, 2010. 11:30 AM
It's a very ugly scene. There's traffic backed up down the next fifteen blocks or so, and way too close to lunch hour for the majority of Los Angeles. There's two or three ambulance vehicles lined up to the left, flashing their red beacons at anyone who dares drive their way, and a police car parked behind them. There's a couple of paparazzi ready with their cameras, taking pictures of the wreckage spread out around the perimeter, but the police officer berates them and takes away their cameras, sending them away with a warning.
The neon orange cones get set up as the tow truck shows up, ready to drag the wrecked car away from the disaster. Everyone at the scene is somber as they try to collect themselves, piece together the story behind the accident and rescue the injured as quickly as they could.
The police officer tries to remain unflappable, telling his assistant details as she scribbles them down. He strolls past the three or four people sitting on the curb in various states of physical pain. A blonde paramedic tests a teenage girl's arm, diagnosing a break in the wrist. The other two appear to be fine aside from a few bruises, but they're hugging each other, shaking. The officer shakes his head, clicking his tongue as he walks over to the first driver.
She's probably in her late forties, but appears older because of the botched job with the botox injections around her eyes. Her eyebrows are over-plucked, giving her a perpetual expression of shock and awe. She takes a drag of her cigarette, her eyes focusing on a broken shard of glass on the ground. The officer clears his throat, and she looks up at him with bloodshot eyes, her bleached blonde hair looking especially messy at the moment.
"I understand you're one of the drivers involved in this accident," the officer states. She nods in acknowledgement, turning her eyes back towards the ground. "Are you ready to talk, ma'am?"
She drops her cigarette to the ground, stomping it under her heel angrily. "What's the point? It's all my fault."
The assistant's eyes widen as she clutches her clipboard tightly, but the the officer doesn't flinch. This is the first time the assistant's really been out on the field, but the officer has been working for the LAPD for the last fifteen years or so of his life. He's used to seeing this sort of thing.
"Can you tell us what happened, ma'am?" he asks, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Nobody is blaming you for the accident."
She shoves him off, her face contorting into something like a devil's mask. "Don't get you get it, asshole? It was all my fault. It's my fault that guy's car flew into the light pole!"
The officer and the assistant look over at the light pole she speaks of. While it's not completely toppled over as the driver makes it sound, there is definitely a dent in the metal where the other car crashed into it. The real collateral damage came from the other car hitting a motorcycle rider and a taxi cab on its way to the light pole.
"Can you remember anything that happened during the accident?" the officer asks, pressing the matter while he can. "Any detail you give us can help the treatment of any injuries on the other party."
"What do you think happened? I was speeding down the hill like the idiot I am and thought I had a green light," the driver sneers, looking at the red car she t-boned on the other side. The assistant hides behind her clipboard, cringing at the sight of the collapsed frame and the pieces of glass scattered about. "I can't believe I..."
The driver trails off, clearly shell-shocked with herself.
The officer and his assistant ask her for her insurance information and her personal information as well as her license plate number. The driver willing gives it, swearing under her breath as she signs the paperwork. Before the officer can even tell her that she's done, the driver goes off and lights another cigarette, turning her back on the scene of the accident.
The paramedicis are having trouble forcing the morbidly curious crowd away from the scene. The officer is forced to step in once more, his placid expression breaking into frustration as he starts yelling orders. He's convinced that they're all like a bunch of dumb dogs--they see something off and they have to chase it, ignoring common sense.
"Everyone step away. This was just an accident. You heard me!" the officer barks at a waif of a brunette man texting on his cell phone. "I said step away from the scene, sir."
"I know whose car got hit," the brunette says, his voice betraying his calm exterior. The officer can see his hands shaking as he fumbles with the keypad. "I'm trying to see if I can get one of his friends to contact his family."
The officer doesn't quite believe him, but if he's trying to contact family then he would be no better than the crowd if he made the other man stop texting, especially given the lack of identification of the driver. "At least step back from the line, sir."
The brunette complies quietly, walking to the outside of a Starbucks where he continues to text. The officer looks the his assistant, who is just as terrified as the blonde driver was. The cop points towards the brunette with a prominent frown beginning to crack his face. The assistant bobs her head and quietly scuffles off, empty paper in hand to write down contact information for the driver of the red car.
Things go by the book for awhile. The officer records the license plate of the car that got hit, as well as the build. He goes and talks to the injured, comforting them and making sure that the paramedics are doing their job. He's grateful that at least one thing is going right with this investigation, especially with all the floods of photographers coming to ogle at the metallic carnage on the street. It almost makes him sick to his stomach just thinking about them and their googly-eyes all over again. On top of that, the paramedics still haven't been able to get the driver out of the vehicle yet.
It's not that the paramedics haven't been trying. They've been working for the last fifteen minutes or so cutting away from the broken parts of the vehicle trying to get someone, anyone, out from the debris. It wouldn't, or shouldn't, have taken so long, except between getting t-boned, smacking around the street and the light pole, the way that the impact manipulated the metal has made it nearly impossible for a quick recovery. Looking at the vehicle, the cop knows that it's going right to the junk yard after this doozy.
He secretly hopes that the same hasn't happened to the driver.
He shakes his head, almost tempted to go find the other driver and see if he can borrow a cigarette from her pack, but his assistant shows up, sweat dripping down her nose and plastering her fiery red hair to her forehead. She's practically hugging her clipboard to her chest, as if she's hiding classified CIA records. Her eyebrows are arched in concern, sickly blue veins bulging on the backs of her frail hands as she gets the attention of the cop.
"Officer, there's something you should know about the driver," she says in a whisper.
"What is it, Alicia?" he gruffly questions, watching as the paramedics and a team of mechanics manage to finally cut away a notable portion of the car door.
"Well, sir, I can't tell you here. His family has requested that his identity remain private for now."
The officer sighs, his brows knitting together. "Then why bother me?"
"Because...well, for one thing it'd explain those guys over there." She timidly points at the photographers, persistent creeps. "And...um...should we get more officers here? Things could get pretty sticky if we don't."
The officer rolls his eyes in annoyance. "Like hell they aren't already." He eyes her clipboard, a light bulb going off in the back of his mind. "What are you hiding?"
The assistant looks around, behind her shoulders, everywhere. Reluctantly, she takes one last look at the piece of paper she has just filled out and hands it to the officer, swallowing. The officer has a hard time making out her shaky handwriting at first, but once he finally manages to translate it, his expression changes completely. The officer shakes his head, feeling uncomfortable as he hands the clipboard back to the assistant.
"But...he's so young..."
His eyes dart back to the wreckage.
"Get Ferguson and his crew here, Alicia. If I know anyone who can manage a crowd, it's him."
"Yes, sir."
"Remind me to get some smokes later," the officer begs, not so much to his assistant, but himself. He is just about to go back and check in with the first ambulance before they pull away, but then he sees someone standing out in the crowd beyond the line of orange cones next to the brunette he had spoken to earlier .
His sunglasses hide any expression that could be written on his face. He just looks soulless, dead. His appearance is rather disheveled looking, his blue jeans ragged in the knees and his grey v-neck sweater wrinkled. His black hair is unkempt--it doesn't even look brushed at this point. The brunette has a comforting hand on his arm, his expression confused, as if he doesn't know quite what to do at this point.
The officer walks over to them, unsure if he should make them back away from the line or if he should question them more about the driver of the red car. The black haired man already decides for him though, holding out a manicured hand for him to shake. They shake stiffly, promptly dropping their hands like bricks.
"I understand you're the officer who has been investigating this accident," the black haired man states, the tone of his voice wooden.
"Officer Dan McCarthy," the officer introduces himself, shaking hands with the brunette man as well. "I assume you're friends with..."
"Brad Bell," the brunette answers. The officer opens his mouth to speak, but then the black haired man cuts him off.
"Have you figured out who the driver of that car is yet?" he questions, worry suddenly striking his voice. Brad pats him on the shoulder again, appearing just as worried.
"I promise, you two will be among the first to know who the driver is."
Before they can even continue their conversation, the officer's assistant is back, her eyes wide as she gestures towards the paramedics and the red car.
"Officer, officer, I think they got the driver!"
Everyone's attention jerks toward the car. Ferguson and the other newly arrived officers immediately jump into action, forcing the crowd to step back. Brad and the black haired men shove their way past the officers, joining McCarthy and his assistant as they watch the paramedics clear away the last of the car parts blocking them from the driver.
Delicately, they pull the driver out, placing him on a stretcher and buckling him down. Before the officers can even stop him, the black haired man dashes right to the side of the driver. Brad tries to hold him back when McCarthy and his assistant protest, but the black haired man takes flight faster than they can catch him.
The paramedics try to tell him to back away too, but he keeps asking them to move over and let him see the driver's face. Brad tries to pry him away, placate him, but the black haired man won't listen to reason. The officer sees him shove one of them out of the way, stopping dead in his tracks as the paramedics keep moving the stretcher towards the nearest ambulance. Brad cautiously walks over, unsure what to do as the black haired man takes off sunglasses and wipes his eyes, his back to the crowd.
Officer McCarthy's heart breaks for the black haired man as he hears him breaking down. Brad wraps his arms around him, speaking softly to him as he tries to assuage the situation. The assistant looks down at the ground, wanting to suddenly get away from this place as the black haired man screams, burying his face into his hands.
"God, it is him. Why did it have to be him, Brad?"
"It's going to be okay, Adam. They'll take good care of him at the hospital." Brad tries to hug the black haired man, but he is shoved away as well.
"What do you mean it's okay? Kris got t-boned. The air bag didn't deploy. I mean, he's out cold for fuck's sake. I don't even know what's going on with him!"
"Calm down. You're not helping him by--"
"What am I supposed to do? What?" The black haired man turns toward McCarthy, his sunglasses back in place. "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?"
Even through his sunglasses, the black haired man's eyes burned with emotion, and for once in his life, Officer McCarthy didn't know what to do or say.
August 18, 2010. 7:12 AM
Kris tip-toes into his apartment as quietly as he can. It's a delicate procedure. This is the fifth or sixth time this week he has stayed out too late, that he hasn't come home before the next morning, and every single time he has come back, Katy has been up waiting for him. Kris was afraid that this would be the case again, especially since the front door has been especially loud and squeaky as of late, but all seems quiet in his home.
The dim sun poking through the window highlights the dirtied pots and pans sitting in the sink. Kris spots a wine glass on the counter next to the sink, with just a spot of red wine left in the bottom. He frowns, pursing his lips and pondering how much Katy had to drink last night while he was out. There's a pair of jeans on the floor--Katy's jeans--and the green tank top she wore yesterday as he was storming out the door in a hurry to get to rehearsal.
Kris pokes his head into the living room, and it appears absolutely empty. He can't help but feel like something is off right now. It's too clean, too vacant, compared to the rest of the apartment. He remembers that Katy was in here watching the television when he was leaving. He had been trying to tell her about the new song he and the band were working on, how he had started writing new lyrics about a time in his life that was dear to him. Katy remained indifferent, however.
She was beautiful and she was cold. Always so cold, she was no longer the warm, bubbly personality he had met in high school. She could care less about his music now, about his career rocketing into something so much more than what he ever thought it could be. It almost hurt him to think that once Katy was his rock, his shelter, the one who pushed him to pursue his music. It was as if time had stolen everything that made her being, and gave it back after sucking the life out of it.
The bags under Kris's eyes feel heavier as he flops onto the couch, burying his head into the cushion and sighing. The last few days or so have been a disaster, and even that is an understatement. Most people would drown this type of sorrow in alcohol, but right now Kris just wanted to crawl under a rock. He didn't want to die under this rock though--he isn't nearly that desperate yet. He just needs to think, needs to feel again. Last night just made him realize this even more, made him more frightened of the reality that's quickly catching up:
Kris isn't happy with the way things are.
There are too many things going on in this equation, he's finding. Everything was so simple back in Arkansas. He was just a newlywed husband with Katy. He was close to giving up music and going back to school. He had a solid attendance at church. He wasn't Kris Allen, winner of American Idol. He was just Kris.
Kris didn't have to worry about fame, record contracts or management. He didn't have to worry about his image, or what other people thought of him. He didn't need to spend time with a stylist, fretting over whether he should wear Armani or Michael Kors to the red carpet. He didn't have to worry about being the man that his managers wanted him to be, and how it was starting to conflict with what he was discovering about himself. He didn't have to worry that he had fallen in love, and not with Katy.
Back in Arkansas, Kris didn't have to worry that he was different, that he had changed too much too quickly over the last year. He didn't have to worry, because he didn't have to think. Now, he couldn't stop thinking, and it was hurting his mind and healing his heart. First his meeting with management, then the realization he had come to rehearsing, then...
Adam's eyes were heavy, were screaming as he left Adam's place the first time. They were still hurting when he came back and tried to make things right. Even when Kris left this morning, Adam's eyes couldn't hide the confliction that resulted from the night before.
The smell of his cologne lingering in his hair. The smile cracking his face. The sensation of his shirt being pulled away, leaving him bare. Hands and arms sheltering him.
Adam is all Kris can think about right now.
His balled up fists continually slam against the pillow as he bites his lip, resisting the urge to shout at the cobwebs and the dust bunnies currently residing in the living room with him. He doesn't know exactly what he wants to do right now, or more specifically, he doesn't know where to start. There's so many things he needs to set right, so many things he needs to fix.
He doesn't want things to be this way anymore. He doesn't want to be management's plaything. He doesn't want to have to hide, to put a black curtain over things that shouldn't need one. He wants to be happy again, and he wants to know if God's okay with him being happy, because if He does, He has a funny way of displaying it.
"Home again, Kris?"
Katy's voice is cross, venomous. It burns as Kris sits up, placing his hands in his lap as he looks up at his wife. Her green eyes drip with a miserable resentment as she tugs him up by the collar, makes him stand as she stares at him.
"I'm sorry, Katy. Rehearsal ran late again. I ended up crashing with Andrew," Kris promptly lies. Katy doesn't smack Kris, but he can tell she really wants to. Instead, she circles around him, vulture-like in the way she intently keeps her sights on him.
"Bull," she murmurs, stopping right behind him, her hand in the small of Kris's back. He tenses under her touch, not used to the foreign hand being draped there. His breath hitches in his throat as her hand starts tracing lower, her thumb hooking around the waist of his jeans.
"Katy--"
"I'm your wife, Kris. Why would you care if I touch you there?" Kris can't help but note the slightly sinister tone in her voice as she reaches into his back pocket. His brown eyes widen, and he reels as she yanks his small pack of condoms out. He pivots around, only to have Katy hold up the pack, her countenance darkening as she takes a stomp closer, her face getting in his.
"You were at Adam's again, weren't you?" she snipes, gritting her teeth. Kris shakes his head, backing away. "While I was here all alone, you were off screwing your mistress. Rehearsals my ass!" She angrily tosses the condoms right at him, and they hit his heart, falling to the ground as she jabs a finger at him. "What did Adam say as he porked you? 'Oh, Kris, that feels so good, so hot. Cheating turns me on'"--Katy puts on her best imitation of Adam, even beginning to talk with her hands just like him. "'--Yeah, Kris, isn't this fun? You went on American Idol and I made you gay, because that's what I do. I get boners for married men and turn them gay.'"
Kris's ears go red.
"'Let's go lock ourselves in the basement all night long and suck each other off. I--'"
He can't control it anymore. His temper breaks out of his mouth before he can even stop it.
"We didn't screw each other!"
Kris's face flushes as he recalls the night he had shared with Adam, but this is more than enough for Katy. She backs away, her mouth gaping. Tears are starting to form in the corners of her eyes, but her expression isn't softening. If anything, her face grows uglier from her black heart being ripped out and stitched back into her expression. She laughs, not a genuine, good-hearted one, but a mocking one.
"So that makes it all better?" Her words are sharp, brutal. "God forgives gay people, but he doesn't forgive adulterers, Kristopher."
Maybe even true.
What if...
...No, Kris tells himself. He backs away, cooling down. Maybe he's not perfect, maybe he made a mistake, but her guilt trip won't work on him. It might have a couple of months ago, but it won't work on him now. Kris has grown up since last year, and with the way Katy just talked about Adam, the way she insulted him, Kris realizes that she hasn't.
Everything is adding up:
Katy doesn't love him neither.
He's been trying to tell himself the opposite for way too long. At first he thought it was because he was a contestant on American Idol. He had been busy for awhile now, so maybe they just hadn't broken in their marriage yet. When Kris and Katy talked about not having kids for now, he thought it was because he was trying to focus on his career. When Katy went off to do things with her friends during his concerts, during important events, first times that would never happen again, it was because she was independent and needed time away from him.
Now Kris knew, everything was just one big fat excuse, and he was the main reason for most of them.
Kris has something in his other back pocket, something Katy didn't pull out yet. He thumbs his pocket, feeling for the card that he picked up earlier from one of the guys over at the recording studio. He looks down at the hardwood floor, taking a minute to gather his courage. Somehow, this sounded like it would be easier inside his head, but then again, nothing was ever as easy as it seemed.
Kris pulls the card out of his pocket, handing it to Katy to read.
"I think...it's time," Kris sighs. He wasn't sure how she was going to take it, but he swears he can see her eyes flashing red as she rips it in half.
"I'm not divorcing you," she remarks, her eyes narrowing as she wipes the tears away. "You need me, Kris. You know that."
Kris shakes his head. "No, Katy, I don't...Especially...when we have been so unhappy." He shakes his head again, reaffirming it for himself. "I'm done playing this game."
"But remember, Kris, we're supposed to be happily married." Her lips form a smirk, a malevolent aura emanating from her. "That's the image your marketing team wants, so that's what we have to give. And also--" She pauses, giving Kris a quick peck on the cheek. "--I'm your beard."
"I don't need a beard," Kris protests, disgusting filling his expression. "I can't even. believe I..." He stares at the ring on his finger, twirling it.
"Believe you what?"
Kris shakes his head, taking off the ring.. "Things are going to change, Katy."
"Things are always changing. It's just how you want them to change." She begins to back away, more confident than ever. "You can either make them easier for us, or make them harder."
"...I deserve to be happy."
"You be happy and I can go tell everyone how I can tell them how drunk off your ass you were that night in New York on tour." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "I can tell them how you were jerking off in the bathroom, moaning Adam's name after he picked Drake LaBry over you." Her smirk breaks open into a grin that possesses her face. "There's a lot I can tell them, Kris. We both know that." She stops, becoming a silhouette as the sun rises behind her. "You serve me divorce papers and I'll spill everything."
"Your words don't scare me."
"And neither do yours."
Both of them mean everything, and that's what's most frustrating about Katy. She sounds absolutely ludicrous right now. He's looking to make things better, and she just wants to stay in this prison with him. True, she does have a lot of secrets that could come back to haunt him later, but would keeping everything in the dark be worth it in the end?
He gathers his wallet, his car keys and his jacket.
Kris is done with this conversation, this place, this time.
He starts to walk to the front door, taking one last look at Katy when he still feels her eyes in the back of his head.
"I'm sorry, but...I can't put up with this any more. It's for our own good."
"Our good? Don't make me laugh. You wouldn't know good for you if it hit you in the face, Kris!"
The door slams behind him.
August 17, 2010. 8:09 PM
Kris shows up at his doorstep and knocks quietly, unassumingly. What surprises him, however, is that the door opens, and Adam is there, his tired eyes scrutinizing Kris. The brunette is shy as he fingers the wrinkled scrap paper with the lyrics written on it in his pocket. Adam stands there, silently, not making Kris go away, but not quite inviting him inside neither.
Kris can see it in Adam's eyes--
He's scared of what could happen if he speaks.
Kris decides to make things easier and just sing. He doesn't even need the lyrics in front of him. They just come naturally. He's not even entirely sure of what he is singing. Perhaps, though, he's realizing, there's no need for a dictionary, there's no need for any logic. He just wants to lay his emotions bare for Adam, to let him see, treasure, the old memories Kris cherishes with him, and the new ones he wishes will come true.
Kris is on the last note, and he can't stand to look at Adam right now. He just looks down at his feet, unsure what else to do. He almost wants to turn and walk away. He's not sure if he should be proud of himself for trying to set things right or embarrassed that he just came all the way out here just to sing to a man who probably doesn't even want to have anything else to do with him.
"I'm sorry. T-This was a stupid idea. I'll just go," Kris apologizes, his voice cracking as he holds back tears. He turns to walk away, but a hand grabs his.
"Don't leave."
Kris's eyes widen as he looks down at Adam's hand. He's never felt so conflicted in his life before. He had just come here to make amends, and nothing more, but at the same time, he wants this so badly. He wants to follow Adam inside, put things to the test. He and Adam had been flirty in the past on tour, but it was nothing serious. That wasn't supposed to mean anything.
This means something, and it terrifies him, but this time, he's ready to face his fears.
August 17, 2010. 5:39 PM
The music is so relaxing. Kris closes his eyes and hums, the strings of the guitar rippling under his fingers as he plucks each one. Most people would call this boring because it's work related, but not Kris. This is therapeutic to him. It's almost enough to lull him to sleep right at this moment.
He plays the last note, the song descending into rest as he opens his eyes.
He feels alive right now, and while everything else is falling in on him, at least he feels safe here in the sound studio. Unlike his life, music is much easier to manipulate. He can change the key, change a note, change a measure. He can't do that with his life. Not because it's impossible, but because he's uncertain of what could happen if he did change things around in his life.
Kris looks through the plexiglass at the crew men on the other side, trying to read their faces. Usually there's an immediate reaction with them insisting that Kris's vocals aren't strong enough, but right now, their expressions are blank. Kris is forced to ask, which he usually hates doing, because he believes people should be able to form their own opinions without him spoon-feeding suggestions as to what to say.
"What's going on over there?" Kris asks, leaning forward on the stool he's been sitting on. "The singing wasn't that bad, was it?"
The crew just looks at each other until one stares, his eyes boring into Kris's as he adjusts his headphones.
"We don't like the song, Kris," one of them admits, rubbing his temples. "It's...not you."
Kris narrows his eyes, annoyed. This crew wouldn't know him if he came and stuck his life story up their asses. He almost is about to snap as another crew member speaks up.
"Take it from the second verse."
Kris bottles it up, plays the second verse again with more fervor than before. He doesn't even care that his band couldn't come to this recording session today. It's almost better that way. He can relax into the song, let it take him over. Kris's eyes begin to droop shut contentedly as he reaches the chorus. A smile forms on his face as he realizes that this take was going much better than the last one, probably because he stopped caring what things sounded like.
It's just a peek into the other side of his life. The part where he has just come out of the dark, endless tunnel into the light. He's started to make things right, given up things that didn't matter, and made things right that were wrong. Words are ringing true for him, moments are coming back to him.
The song is coming more naturally to him after...
Well, it's coming to him more naturally.
Singing is like being wrapped up in a hug. Kris has a place to bury his face into and forget about the outside world. He feels like that when he lets go, he can go and make the world a better place just by the way he feels Adam's smile light up the room. He feels like he can be a better person and do something right for once, for himself, for others.
He had written this song for Adam, expressing how he truly felt. Despite Kris's feelings, it wasn't so much a love song as it was a song of confession. He wrote about how Adam had been right, that he knew Kris better in some ways better than he knew himself. He wrote about how much he missed Adam, how much he wanted to keep him in his life.
It's then that it hits Kris as he plays the last chords on the guitar
He's been unsure for awhile about how to handle the depression that's been building up inside. He thought he'd be able to handle being steamrolled, but somehow that's not appealing to him so much any more.
What has he been doing for the last year of his life? Everyone else has talked down to him like he was a child who needed to be scolded. His wife doesn't care about his career and would rather spend time with her friends or out shopping rather than sharing a life with him. His management wants to keep this piece of shit marriage in a box with a pretty bow just so they can have their happily married singer. His fans are oblivious to most of the behind the scenes turmoil that's happening with the record company, and if they did know, they probably wouldn't even care. Even a majority of Kris's friends and family don't know just how unhappy he is.
Adam does.
Adam knows everything.
Hell, Adam knows more than Kris's own mother.
Tears are streaming down Kris's face as he keeps playing. He thinks he can hear the sound crew trying to stop his playing, trying to see what the matter is, but he keeps playing. The chords begin to unravel themselves into a frenzy as he lets go of the song and just improvises thoughtlessly. Lyrics become gibberish, notes become a new language all of their own. Dialects begin to branch off, one for each of the troubles that Kris is trying to let go.
He has been keeping himself steady for the last year or so, all things considered. He hasn't crashed and burned, or turned to drugs and smoking to relieve his stress. His faith made sure of that. He has, however, been bottling everything up. Whenever people have asked him what the matter is, he's just shoved it off, saying that everything is just fine, he's just tired.
Just tired. Just burnt out from recording. Just fine. Half-asleep. Hungry. Need coffee. Need alone time.
Excuse, after excuse, after excuse, and it still hurts every single time.
The guitar strings feel like they are cutting up his fingertips, but he can't stop playing. The burn feels like heaven. Maybe this is what he gets for bottling everything up for so long. This is what Kris gets for being damn lucky. He's had this coming for awhile now. Luck only lasts for so long before it comes crashing down around his ears.
"Kris, stop playing," the crew yell through the booth.
He can't hear them. He can't even hear the blood pounding in his ears. All he can hear is the guitar as he leans his head back, wallowing in the bliss of the sound bouncing off the walls. Louder, louder, louder. This is the longest bridge he's ever played on a song, but then again, he doesn't come up with masterpieces like this often. He usually plays after the thought, not during it. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. He just can't let it go to waste.
He's done that for long enough.
"KRIS!"
One of the guitar strings snaps and Kris's eyes widen as he slowly stops playing, looking down. There's a cut on his ring finger, and he's not even sure how it got there. He's not even sure how the pain is starting to catch up to his fingers as he puts the guitar down, sluggish as he walks out of the recording booth.
The crew just stare at him, all as wide eyed as he is. It's a silent moment--they've been rendered speechless. They've never seen Kris Allen completely lose it like this before. They're used to seeing him calm, collected. Absolutely nothing like the scene that just witnessed. They're cowards--some of them even look away as Kris gazes at them, his lips parting as he breathes again as he comes to.
Kris is determined to set things right, starting now.
"Hey, Oscar..."
Oscar replies in a mumble.
"...can I have the calling card for that lawyer friend of yours?"
intermission.
second act this way
Author: shady_fetish
Artist: angelicrealism -- thanks for fabulous banners! :)
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Kradam, Katy
Warnings strong language, implied sexual content, possible character death
Summary: Kris finds himself in the hospital after ending up in a serious car accident. What follows is a trip down memory lane as he recalls the last week or so of his life. What will Kris discover once he remembers everything?
August 20, 2010. 3:40 PM
"His oxygen level is low," Kris hears a man say too calmly.
He's not entirely sure what's going on. He keeps fading in and out of the scene, into black and into white. Someone is holding his hand tightly. Someone else is fiddling with his arm while a third person adjusts weight on his face, around his nose. Kris tries to jerk away, but they hold him down. The hand holding his tightens around his as he relaxes. In spite of his cluelessness, he squeezes it back, reassured to have some sort of feeling as the noise around him picks up.
Constant blips.
Talking. Way too much talking. His foggy head can't take it.
Footsteps on a linoleum floor.
The humming of the lights.
"Kris, hang in there, okay?" a familiar voice begs. "Everything's...everything is going to be okay." Fingers never letting go, someone kisses the back of his hand.
He's never felt so peaceful in his life. He's not sure of much else right now, but he does know who is right next to him. He vacantly holds his eyes open, his vision swimming as he struggles to make out blurs and shapes past the white, flickering dots in his eyes.
There's no color in the room. Everything is monotone, lifeless. There's bars of grey and sketchy lines on the drop ceiling. Beige flaps are blowing near the open windows. People in white are frantically walking back and forth, talking to a couple who he barely recognizes as his mother and father. They must be angels comforting them, breaking the news. She starts crying into his father's shoulder, but no sound escapes her.
Kris looks down, the weight of the bed registering with him for a split second, a thin sheet on top of him. He knows his legs are still there, because he can see his toes poking out at the end of the bed, but he can't feel them. He's not even sure if he can sit up. Nothing is completely connecting in his mind at the moment.
His eyes trail over to the hands wrapped around his. The nails on them are black with silver tips. Slowly, slowly, he looks up, his dry mouth gaping at the black streaks running down his face--Adam's face. He wants so badly to reach out and stroke his tear stained cheek, to let him know that he recognizes him, and that he does appreciate him being here. Kris wants to let Adam know that he does want him here despite everything.
No...he needs him here.
But he can't do it. The white dots are expanding, contracting. They're rippling spreading to the rims of his vision. He can't concentrate. He manages to fumble through a name, a word.
"Adam..."
His heart rate shoots up for a split second. He can feel his heart rattling in his chest, and it's almost hitting his ribs painfully. Kris's nails are digging into Adam's as his whole body begins to spasm. The nurses rush to his side, trying to calm him down. His mother covers her eyes and screams. Kris's heart almost hurts for her, hurts for everyone, as he struggles to pull himself together. He's thrashing, agony stabbing him in the chest.
He's never felt so humiliated in his life, but thankfully he starts to feel better. as if nothing ever happened. His nails stop gouging into Adam's wrist, and he's able to allow himself to sink into the bed. His heart is practically still now, and it feels so comfortable, so right.
Kris can't figure out why they are all looking at him like that though, why they are panicking all over again. Everyone's eyes are wide. Adam squeezes his hand harder, and his mother rushes over to Adam's side, running a hand through his hair. The white lines expand, contract, distort. The angels are dashing about to and fro, the head one rushing to his other side.
"Doctor, his heart rate is declining."
"Nurses--"
"Fifty beats per minute."
"Get his parents and his friend out," the doctor snaps, wiping his forehead.
"Forty beats per minute."
Two of them successfully escort his parents out of the room. Adam, on the other hand, isn't quite as easy. They try to shove him away, but he holds on tight to his hand. He's shaking his head. The words are becoming unintelligible, but he vaguely understands that he wants to stay with him. Kris wants to hold on too, but his grip is loosening. The other man is the one doing most of the work.
"Kris, no...No, don't do this!"
"Thirty seven beats per minute."
"Set up the defibrillator and, DAMN IT, I SAID GET HIS FRIEND OUT OF HERE!"
Adam, however, refuses to be moved, so Kris tries to reach up, cup his cheek, but his hand won't move. The other man seems to understand what he wants, because he does it for him. The white around his vision starts eating everything else away, and all he can see is Adam, a soft outline forming around him.
"I...I don't want you to go. There's so much left for us, don't you understand? I want a life with you in it." Kris can't respond, which only makes Adam cry more than he already has been. "God...I let you into my house again and I never even apologized. I'm so sorry, Kris. I-I didn't mean anything I said that night..." He looks down at Kris, ashamed.
Kris doesn't even know what Adam is talking about right now. He can't remember, so tries to open his mouth to ask what any of that means, but words are impossible. Somehow, he's okay with this. He's okay with the way things are playing out, with how much he is learning all over again as his life flashes before his eyes. His parents are around the corner, and Adam is right here with him. It's all he really needs.
"Adam..."
The doctors finally succeed in shoving Adam away as the white spots flicker in Kris's eyesight. They flash in his eyes, just like the lights, just like the sun on his cracked windshield as the world spins around him. He can almost hear the crunching again, the squealing of rubber sliding on pavement. He feels the bruises forming under his skin, the empty air where the airbag should have deployed, the sign breaking through his windshield.
The glass explodes, the shards cut his face. There is a deafening rumble as the bumper and the engine are smashed in by the telephone pole. His head smacks the back of the driver's seat. His knuckles hurt from holding on for a dear life until everything comes collapsing in on him.
Vertigo. Cracking. Bleeding. Screaming.
The world flashes.
August 18, 2010. 11:30 AM
It's a very ugly scene. There's traffic backed up down the next fifteen blocks or so, and way too close to lunch hour for the majority of Los Angeles. There's two or three ambulance vehicles lined up to the left, flashing their red beacons at anyone who dares drive their way, and a police car parked behind them. There's a couple of paparazzi ready with their cameras, taking pictures of the wreckage spread out around the perimeter, but the police officer berates them and takes away their cameras, sending them away with a warning.
The neon orange cones get set up as the tow truck shows up, ready to drag the wrecked car away from the disaster. Everyone at the scene is somber as they try to collect themselves, piece together the story behind the accident and rescue the injured as quickly as they could.
The police officer tries to remain unflappable, telling his assistant details as she scribbles them down. He strolls past the three or four people sitting on the curb in various states of physical pain. A blonde paramedic tests a teenage girl's arm, diagnosing a break in the wrist. The other two appear to be fine aside from a few bruises, but they're hugging each other, shaking. The officer shakes his head, clicking his tongue as he walks over to the first driver.
She's probably in her late forties, but appears older because of the botched job with the botox injections around her eyes. Her eyebrows are over-plucked, giving her a perpetual expression of shock and awe. She takes a drag of her cigarette, her eyes focusing on a broken shard of glass on the ground. The officer clears his throat, and she looks up at him with bloodshot eyes, her bleached blonde hair looking especially messy at the moment.
"I understand you're one of the drivers involved in this accident," the officer states. She nods in acknowledgement, turning her eyes back towards the ground. "Are you ready to talk, ma'am?"
She drops her cigarette to the ground, stomping it under her heel angrily. "What's the point? It's all my fault."
The assistant's eyes widen as she clutches her clipboard tightly, but the the officer doesn't flinch. This is the first time the assistant's really been out on the field, but the officer has been working for the LAPD for the last fifteen years or so of his life. He's used to seeing this sort of thing.
"Can you tell us what happened, ma'am?" he asks, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Nobody is blaming you for the accident."
She shoves him off, her face contorting into something like a devil's mask. "Don't get you get it, asshole? It was all my fault. It's my fault that guy's car flew into the light pole!"
The officer and the assistant look over at the light pole she speaks of. While it's not completely toppled over as the driver makes it sound, there is definitely a dent in the metal where the other car crashed into it. The real collateral damage came from the other car hitting a motorcycle rider and a taxi cab on its way to the light pole.
"Can you remember anything that happened during the accident?" the officer asks, pressing the matter while he can. "Any detail you give us can help the treatment of any injuries on the other party."
"What do you think happened? I was speeding down the hill like the idiot I am and thought I had a green light," the driver sneers, looking at the red car she t-boned on the other side. The assistant hides behind her clipboard, cringing at the sight of the collapsed frame and the pieces of glass scattered about. "I can't believe I..."
The driver trails off, clearly shell-shocked with herself.
The officer and his assistant ask her for her insurance information and her personal information as well as her license plate number. The driver willing gives it, swearing under her breath as she signs the paperwork. Before the officer can even tell her that she's done, the driver goes off and lights another cigarette, turning her back on the scene of the accident.
The paramedicis are having trouble forcing the morbidly curious crowd away from the scene. The officer is forced to step in once more, his placid expression breaking into frustration as he starts yelling orders. He's convinced that they're all like a bunch of dumb dogs--they see something off and they have to chase it, ignoring common sense.
"Everyone step away. This was just an accident. You heard me!" the officer barks at a waif of a brunette man texting on his cell phone. "I said step away from the scene, sir."
"I know whose car got hit," the brunette says, his voice betraying his calm exterior. The officer can see his hands shaking as he fumbles with the keypad. "I'm trying to see if I can get one of his friends to contact his family."
The officer doesn't quite believe him, but if he's trying to contact family then he would be no better than the crowd if he made the other man stop texting, especially given the lack of identification of the driver. "At least step back from the line, sir."
The brunette complies quietly, walking to the outside of a Starbucks where he continues to text. The officer looks the his assistant, who is just as terrified as the blonde driver was. The cop points towards the brunette with a prominent frown beginning to crack his face. The assistant bobs her head and quietly scuffles off, empty paper in hand to write down contact information for the driver of the red car.
Things go by the book for awhile. The officer records the license plate of the car that got hit, as well as the build. He goes and talks to the injured, comforting them and making sure that the paramedics are doing their job. He's grateful that at least one thing is going right with this investigation, especially with all the floods of photographers coming to ogle at the metallic carnage on the street. It almost makes him sick to his stomach just thinking about them and their googly-eyes all over again. On top of that, the paramedics still haven't been able to get the driver out of the vehicle yet.
It's not that the paramedics haven't been trying. They've been working for the last fifteen minutes or so cutting away from the broken parts of the vehicle trying to get someone, anyone, out from the debris. It wouldn't, or shouldn't, have taken so long, except between getting t-boned, smacking around the street and the light pole, the way that the impact manipulated the metal has made it nearly impossible for a quick recovery. Looking at the vehicle, the cop knows that it's going right to the junk yard after this doozy.
He secretly hopes that the same hasn't happened to the driver.
He shakes his head, almost tempted to go find the other driver and see if he can borrow a cigarette from her pack, but his assistant shows up, sweat dripping down her nose and plastering her fiery red hair to her forehead. She's practically hugging her clipboard to her chest, as if she's hiding classified CIA records. Her eyebrows are arched in concern, sickly blue veins bulging on the backs of her frail hands as she gets the attention of the cop.
"Officer, there's something you should know about the driver," she says in a whisper.
"What is it, Alicia?" he gruffly questions, watching as the paramedics and a team of mechanics manage to finally cut away a notable portion of the car door.
"Well, sir, I can't tell you here. His family has requested that his identity remain private for now."
The officer sighs, his brows knitting together. "Then why bother me?"
"Because...well, for one thing it'd explain those guys over there." She timidly points at the photographers, persistent creeps. "And...um...should we get more officers here? Things could get pretty sticky if we don't."
The officer rolls his eyes in annoyance. "Like hell they aren't already." He eyes her clipboard, a light bulb going off in the back of his mind. "What are you hiding?"
The assistant looks around, behind her shoulders, everywhere. Reluctantly, she takes one last look at the piece of paper she has just filled out and hands it to the officer, swallowing. The officer has a hard time making out her shaky handwriting at first, but once he finally manages to translate it, his expression changes completely. The officer shakes his head, feeling uncomfortable as he hands the clipboard back to the assistant.
"But...he's so young..."
His eyes dart back to the wreckage.
"Get Ferguson and his crew here, Alicia. If I know anyone who can manage a crowd, it's him."
"Yes, sir."
"Remind me to get some smokes later," the officer begs, not so much to his assistant, but himself. He is just about to go back and check in with the first ambulance before they pull away, but then he sees someone standing out in the crowd beyond the line of orange cones next to the brunette he had spoken to earlier .
His sunglasses hide any expression that could be written on his face. He just looks soulless, dead. His appearance is rather disheveled looking, his blue jeans ragged in the knees and his grey v-neck sweater wrinkled. His black hair is unkempt--it doesn't even look brushed at this point. The brunette has a comforting hand on his arm, his expression confused, as if he doesn't know quite what to do at this point.
The officer walks over to them, unsure if he should make them back away from the line or if he should question them more about the driver of the red car. The black haired man already decides for him though, holding out a manicured hand for him to shake. They shake stiffly, promptly dropping their hands like bricks.
"I understand you're the officer who has been investigating this accident," the black haired man states, the tone of his voice wooden.
"Officer Dan McCarthy," the officer introduces himself, shaking hands with the brunette man as well. "I assume you're friends with..."
"Brad Bell," the brunette answers. The officer opens his mouth to speak, but then the black haired man cuts him off.
"Have you figured out who the driver of that car is yet?" he questions, worry suddenly striking his voice. Brad pats him on the shoulder again, appearing just as worried.
"I promise, you two will be among the first to know who the driver is."
Before they can even continue their conversation, the officer's assistant is back, her eyes wide as she gestures towards the paramedics and the red car.
"Officer, officer, I think they got the driver!"
Everyone's attention jerks toward the car. Ferguson and the other newly arrived officers immediately jump into action, forcing the crowd to step back. Brad and the black haired men shove their way past the officers, joining McCarthy and his assistant as they watch the paramedics clear away the last of the car parts blocking them from the driver.
Delicately, they pull the driver out, placing him on a stretcher and buckling him down. Before the officers can even stop him, the black haired man dashes right to the side of the driver. Brad tries to hold him back when McCarthy and his assistant protest, but the black haired man takes flight faster than they can catch him.
The paramedics try to tell him to back away too, but he keeps asking them to move over and let him see the driver's face. Brad tries to pry him away, placate him, but the black haired man won't listen to reason. The officer sees him shove one of them out of the way, stopping dead in his tracks as the paramedics keep moving the stretcher towards the nearest ambulance. Brad cautiously walks over, unsure what to do as the black haired man takes off sunglasses and wipes his eyes, his back to the crowd.
Officer McCarthy's heart breaks for the black haired man as he hears him breaking down. Brad wraps his arms around him, speaking softly to him as he tries to assuage the situation. The assistant looks down at the ground, wanting to suddenly get away from this place as the black haired man screams, burying his face into his hands.
"God, it is him. Why did it have to be him, Brad?"
"It's going to be okay, Adam. They'll take good care of him at the hospital." Brad tries to hug the black haired man, but he is shoved away as well.
"What do you mean it's okay? Kris got t-boned. The air bag didn't deploy. I mean, he's out cold for fuck's sake. I don't even know what's going on with him!"
"Calm down. You're not helping him by--"
"What am I supposed to do? What?" The black haired man turns toward McCarthy, his sunglasses back in place. "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?"
Even through his sunglasses, the black haired man's eyes burned with emotion, and for once in his life, Officer McCarthy didn't know what to do or say.
August 18, 2010. 7:12 AM
Kris tip-toes into his apartment as quietly as he can. It's a delicate procedure. This is the fifth or sixth time this week he has stayed out too late, that he hasn't come home before the next morning, and every single time he has come back, Katy has been up waiting for him. Kris was afraid that this would be the case again, especially since the front door has been especially loud and squeaky as of late, but all seems quiet in his home.
The dim sun poking through the window highlights the dirtied pots and pans sitting in the sink. Kris spots a wine glass on the counter next to the sink, with just a spot of red wine left in the bottom. He frowns, pursing his lips and pondering how much Katy had to drink last night while he was out. There's a pair of jeans on the floor--Katy's jeans--and the green tank top she wore yesterday as he was storming out the door in a hurry to get to rehearsal.
Kris pokes his head into the living room, and it appears absolutely empty. He can't help but feel like something is off right now. It's too clean, too vacant, compared to the rest of the apartment. He remembers that Katy was in here watching the television when he was leaving. He had been trying to tell her about the new song he and the band were working on, how he had started writing new lyrics about a time in his life that was dear to him. Katy remained indifferent, however.
She was beautiful and she was cold. Always so cold, she was no longer the warm, bubbly personality he had met in high school. She could care less about his music now, about his career rocketing into something so much more than what he ever thought it could be. It almost hurt him to think that once Katy was his rock, his shelter, the one who pushed him to pursue his music. It was as if time had stolen everything that made her being, and gave it back after sucking the life out of it.
The bags under Kris's eyes feel heavier as he flops onto the couch, burying his head into the cushion and sighing. The last few days or so have been a disaster, and even that is an understatement. Most people would drown this type of sorrow in alcohol, but right now Kris just wanted to crawl under a rock. He didn't want to die under this rock though--he isn't nearly that desperate yet. He just needs to think, needs to feel again. Last night just made him realize this even more, made him more frightened of the reality that's quickly catching up:
Kris isn't happy with the way things are.
There are too many things going on in this equation, he's finding. Everything was so simple back in Arkansas. He was just a newlywed husband with Katy. He was close to giving up music and going back to school. He had a solid attendance at church. He wasn't Kris Allen, winner of American Idol. He was just Kris.
Kris didn't have to worry about fame, record contracts or management. He didn't have to worry about his image, or what other people thought of him. He didn't need to spend time with a stylist, fretting over whether he should wear Armani or Michael Kors to the red carpet. He didn't have to worry about being the man that his managers wanted him to be, and how it was starting to conflict with what he was discovering about himself. He didn't have to worry that he had fallen in love, and not with Katy.
Back in Arkansas, Kris didn't have to worry that he was different, that he had changed too much too quickly over the last year. He didn't have to worry, because he didn't have to think. Now, he couldn't stop thinking, and it was hurting his mind and healing his heart. First his meeting with management, then the realization he had come to rehearsing, then...
Adam's eyes were heavy, were screaming as he left Adam's place the first time. They were still hurting when he came back and tried to make things right. Even when Kris left this morning, Adam's eyes couldn't hide the confliction that resulted from the night before.
The smell of his cologne lingering in his hair. The smile cracking his face. The sensation of his shirt being pulled away, leaving him bare. Hands and arms sheltering him.
Adam is all Kris can think about right now.
His balled up fists continually slam against the pillow as he bites his lip, resisting the urge to shout at the cobwebs and the dust bunnies currently residing in the living room with him. He doesn't know exactly what he wants to do right now, or more specifically, he doesn't know where to start. There's so many things he needs to set right, so many things he needs to fix.
He doesn't want things to be this way anymore. He doesn't want to be management's plaything. He doesn't want to have to hide, to put a black curtain over things that shouldn't need one. He wants to be happy again, and he wants to know if God's okay with him being happy, because if He does, He has a funny way of displaying it.
"Home again, Kris?"
Katy's voice is cross, venomous. It burns as Kris sits up, placing his hands in his lap as he looks up at his wife. Her green eyes drip with a miserable resentment as she tugs him up by the collar, makes him stand as she stares at him.
"I'm sorry, Katy. Rehearsal ran late again. I ended up crashing with Andrew," Kris promptly lies. Katy doesn't smack Kris, but he can tell she really wants to. Instead, she circles around him, vulture-like in the way she intently keeps her sights on him.
"Bull," she murmurs, stopping right behind him, her hand in the small of Kris's back. He tenses under her touch, not used to the foreign hand being draped there. His breath hitches in his throat as her hand starts tracing lower, her thumb hooking around the waist of his jeans.
"Katy--"
"I'm your wife, Kris. Why would you care if I touch you there?" Kris can't help but note the slightly sinister tone in her voice as she reaches into his back pocket. His brown eyes widen, and he reels as she yanks his small pack of condoms out. He pivots around, only to have Katy hold up the pack, her countenance darkening as she takes a stomp closer, her face getting in his.
"You were at Adam's again, weren't you?" she snipes, gritting her teeth. Kris shakes his head, backing away. "While I was here all alone, you were off screwing your mistress. Rehearsals my ass!" She angrily tosses the condoms right at him, and they hit his heart, falling to the ground as she jabs a finger at him. "What did Adam say as he porked you? 'Oh, Kris, that feels so good, so hot. Cheating turns me on'"--Katy puts on her best imitation of Adam, even beginning to talk with her hands just like him. "'--Yeah, Kris, isn't this fun? You went on American Idol and I made you gay, because that's what I do. I get boners for married men and turn them gay.'"
Kris's ears go red.
"'Let's go lock ourselves in the basement all night long and suck each other off. I--'"
He can't control it anymore. His temper breaks out of his mouth before he can even stop it.
"We didn't screw each other!"
Kris's face flushes as he recalls the night he had shared with Adam, but this is more than enough for Katy. She backs away, her mouth gaping. Tears are starting to form in the corners of her eyes, but her expression isn't softening. If anything, her face grows uglier from her black heart being ripped out and stitched back into her expression. She laughs, not a genuine, good-hearted one, but a mocking one.
"So that makes it all better?" Her words are sharp, brutal. "God forgives gay people, but he doesn't forgive adulterers, Kristopher."
Maybe even true.
What if...
...No, Kris tells himself. He backs away, cooling down. Maybe he's not perfect, maybe he made a mistake, but her guilt trip won't work on him. It might have a couple of months ago, but it won't work on him now. Kris has grown up since last year, and with the way Katy just talked about Adam, the way she insulted him, Kris realizes that she hasn't.
Everything is adding up:
Katy doesn't love him neither.
He's been trying to tell himself the opposite for way too long. At first he thought it was because he was a contestant on American Idol. He had been busy for awhile now, so maybe they just hadn't broken in their marriage yet. When Kris and Katy talked about not having kids for now, he thought it was because he was trying to focus on his career. When Katy went off to do things with her friends during his concerts, during important events, first times that would never happen again, it was because she was independent and needed time away from him.
Now Kris knew, everything was just one big fat excuse, and he was the main reason for most of them.
Kris has something in his other back pocket, something Katy didn't pull out yet. He thumbs his pocket, feeling for the card that he picked up earlier from one of the guys over at the recording studio. He looks down at the hardwood floor, taking a minute to gather his courage. Somehow, this sounded like it would be easier inside his head, but then again, nothing was ever as easy as it seemed.
Kris pulls the card out of his pocket, handing it to Katy to read.
"I think...it's time," Kris sighs. He wasn't sure how she was going to take it, but he swears he can see her eyes flashing red as she rips it in half.
"I'm not divorcing you," she remarks, her eyes narrowing as she wipes the tears away. "You need me, Kris. You know that."
Kris shakes his head. "No, Katy, I don't...Especially...when we have been so unhappy." He shakes his head again, reaffirming it for himself. "I'm done playing this game."
"But remember, Kris, we're supposed to be happily married." Her lips form a smirk, a malevolent aura emanating from her. "That's the image your marketing team wants, so that's what we have to give. And also--" She pauses, giving Kris a quick peck on the cheek. "--I'm your beard."
"I don't need a beard," Kris protests, disgusting filling his expression. "I can't even. believe I..." He stares at the ring on his finger, twirling it.
"Believe you what?"
Kris shakes his head, taking off the ring.. "Things are going to change, Katy."
"Things are always changing. It's just how you want them to change." She begins to back away, more confident than ever. "You can either make them easier for us, or make them harder."
"...I deserve to be happy."
"You be happy and I can go tell everyone how I can tell them how drunk off your ass you were that night in New York on tour." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "I can tell them how you were jerking off in the bathroom, moaning Adam's name after he picked Drake LaBry over you." Her smirk breaks open into a grin that possesses her face. "There's a lot I can tell them, Kris. We both know that." She stops, becoming a silhouette as the sun rises behind her. "You serve me divorce papers and I'll spill everything."
"Your words don't scare me."
"And neither do yours."
Both of them mean everything, and that's what's most frustrating about Katy. She sounds absolutely ludicrous right now. He's looking to make things better, and she just wants to stay in this prison with him. True, she does have a lot of secrets that could come back to haunt him later, but would keeping everything in the dark be worth it in the end?
He gathers his wallet, his car keys and his jacket.
Kris is done with this conversation, this place, this time.
He starts to walk to the front door, taking one last look at Katy when he still feels her eyes in the back of his head.
"I'm sorry, but...I can't put up with this any more. It's for our own good."
"Our good? Don't make me laugh. You wouldn't know good for you if it hit you in the face, Kris!"
The door slams behind him.
August 17, 2010. 8:09 PM
Kris shows up at his doorstep and knocks quietly, unassumingly. What surprises him, however, is that the door opens, and Adam is there, his tired eyes scrutinizing Kris. The brunette is shy as he fingers the wrinkled scrap paper with the lyrics written on it in his pocket. Adam stands there, silently, not making Kris go away, but not quite inviting him inside neither.
Kris can see it in Adam's eyes--
He's scared of what could happen if he speaks.
Kris decides to make things easier and just sing. He doesn't even need the lyrics in front of him. They just come naturally. He's not even entirely sure of what he is singing. Perhaps, though, he's realizing, there's no need for a dictionary, there's no need for any logic. He just wants to lay his emotions bare for Adam, to let him see, treasure, the old memories Kris cherishes with him, and the new ones he wishes will come true.
Kris is on the last note, and he can't stand to look at Adam right now. He just looks down at his feet, unsure what else to do. He almost wants to turn and walk away. He's not sure if he should be proud of himself for trying to set things right or embarrassed that he just came all the way out here just to sing to a man who probably doesn't even want to have anything else to do with him.
"I'm sorry. T-This was a stupid idea. I'll just go," Kris apologizes, his voice cracking as he holds back tears. He turns to walk away, but a hand grabs his.
"Don't leave."
Kris's eyes widen as he looks down at Adam's hand. He's never felt so conflicted in his life before. He had just come here to make amends, and nothing more, but at the same time, he wants this so badly. He wants to follow Adam inside, put things to the test. He and Adam had been flirty in the past on tour, but it was nothing serious. That wasn't supposed to mean anything.
This means something, and it terrifies him, but this time, he's ready to face his fears.
August 17, 2010. 5:39 PM
The music is so relaxing. Kris closes his eyes and hums, the strings of the guitar rippling under his fingers as he plucks each one. Most people would call this boring because it's work related, but not Kris. This is therapeutic to him. It's almost enough to lull him to sleep right at this moment.
He plays the last note, the song descending into rest as he opens his eyes.
He feels alive right now, and while everything else is falling in on him, at least he feels safe here in the sound studio. Unlike his life, music is much easier to manipulate. He can change the key, change a note, change a measure. He can't do that with his life. Not because it's impossible, but because he's uncertain of what could happen if he did change things around in his life.
Kris looks through the plexiglass at the crew men on the other side, trying to read their faces. Usually there's an immediate reaction with them insisting that Kris's vocals aren't strong enough, but right now, their expressions are blank. Kris is forced to ask, which he usually hates doing, because he believes people should be able to form their own opinions without him spoon-feeding suggestions as to what to say.
"What's going on over there?" Kris asks, leaning forward on the stool he's been sitting on. "The singing wasn't that bad, was it?"
The crew just looks at each other until one stares, his eyes boring into Kris's as he adjusts his headphones.
"We don't like the song, Kris," one of them admits, rubbing his temples. "It's...not you."
Kris narrows his eyes, annoyed. This crew wouldn't know him if he came and stuck his life story up their asses. He almost is about to snap as another crew member speaks up.
"Take it from the second verse."
Kris bottles it up, plays the second verse again with more fervor than before. He doesn't even care that his band couldn't come to this recording session today. It's almost better that way. He can relax into the song, let it take him over. Kris's eyes begin to droop shut contentedly as he reaches the chorus. A smile forms on his face as he realizes that this take was going much better than the last one, probably because he stopped caring what things sounded like.
It's just a peek into the other side of his life. The part where he has just come out of the dark, endless tunnel into the light. He's started to make things right, given up things that didn't matter, and made things right that were wrong. Words are ringing true for him, moments are coming back to him.
The song is coming more naturally to him after...
Well, it's coming to him more naturally.
Singing is like being wrapped up in a hug. Kris has a place to bury his face into and forget about the outside world. He feels like that when he lets go, he can go and make the world a better place just by the way he feels Adam's smile light up the room. He feels like he can be a better person and do something right for once, for himself, for others.
He had written this song for Adam, expressing how he truly felt. Despite Kris's feelings, it wasn't so much a love song as it was a song of confession. He wrote about how Adam had been right, that he knew Kris better in some ways better than he knew himself. He wrote about how much he missed Adam, how much he wanted to keep him in his life.
It's then that it hits Kris as he plays the last chords on the guitar
He's been unsure for awhile about how to handle the depression that's been building up inside. He thought he'd be able to handle being steamrolled, but somehow that's not appealing to him so much any more.
What has he been doing for the last year of his life? Everyone else has talked down to him like he was a child who needed to be scolded. His wife doesn't care about his career and would rather spend time with her friends or out shopping rather than sharing a life with him. His management wants to keep this piece of shit marriage in a box with a pretty bow just so they can have their happily married singer. His fans are oblivious to most of the behind the scenes turmoil that's happening with the record company, and if they did know, they probably wouldn't even care. Even a majority of Kris's friends and family don't know just how unhappy he is.
Adam does.
Adam knows everything.
Hell, Adam knows more than Kris's own mother.
Tears are streaming down Kris's face as he keeps playing. He thinks he can hear the sound crew trying to stop his playing, trying to see what the matter is, but he keeps playing. The chords begin to unravel themselves into a frenzy as he lets go of the song and just improvises thoughtlessly. Lyrics become gibberish, notes become a new language all of their own. Dialects begin to branch off, one for each of the troubles that Kris is trying to let go.
He has been keeping himself steady for the last year or so, all things considered. He hasn't crashed and burned, or turned to drugs and smoking to relieve his stress. His faith made sure of that. He has, however, been bottling everything up. Whenever people have asked him what the matter is, he's just shoved it off, saying that everything is just fine, he's just tired.
Just tired. Just burnt out from recording. Just fine. Half-asleep. Hungry. Need coffee. Need alone time.
Excuse, after excuse, after excuse, and it still hurts every single time.
The guitar strings feel like they are cutting up his fingertips, but he can't stop playing. The burn feels like heaven. Maybe this is what he gets for bottling everything up for so long. This is what Kris gets for being damn lucky. He's had this coming for awhile now. Luck only lasts for so long before it comes crashing down around his ears.
"Kris, stop playing," the crew yell through the booth.
He can't hear them. He can't even hear the blood pounding in his ears. All he can hear is the guitar as he leans his head back, wallowing in the bliss of the sound bouncing off the walls. Louder, louder, louder. This is the longest bridge he's ever played on a song, but then again, he doesn't come up with masterpieces like this often. He usually plays after the thought, not during it. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. He just can't let it go to waste.
He's done that for long enough.
"KRIS!"
One of the guitar strings snaps and Kris's eyes widen as he slowly stops playing, looking down. There's a cut on his ring finger, and he's not even sure how it got there. He's not even sure how the pain is starting to catch up to his fingers as he puts the guitar down, sluggish as he walks out of the recording booth.
The crew just stare at him, all as wide eyed as he is. It's a silent moment--they've been rendered speechless. They've never seen Kris Allen completely lose it like this before. They're used to seeing him calm, collected. Absolutely nothing like the scene that just witnessed. They're cowards--some of them even look away as Kris gazes at them, his lips parting as he breathes again as he comes to.
Kris is determined to set things right, starting now.
"Hey, Oscar..."
Oscar replies in a mumble.
"...can I have the calling card for that lawyer friend of yours?"
intermission.
second act this way