fic: Way down inside [American Idol: Kris/Adam]
i don't know. this isn't what i expected to be doing tonight either.
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Way down inside
American Idol, Kris/Adam
~3500 words
For reference, this is how Kris and Adam hug. Gay bar via the Abbey, which proclaims itself the #1 spot to take your straight friends.
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"I don't think they put ice machines on floors this high up," Adam says from behind him.
Kris holds up the chrome bucket. "Then why..."
"You can call the desk, I'm sure they'd --"
"Nah, Katy's crashed out on the couch. I don't want to -- to make a big deal."
Adam fiddles with the zipper on a soft leather jacket. "Yeah," he says. They've both figured out already it's worth saving a real argument for a situation that deserves it.
"Yeah," Kris says, and then they just stand there on opposite sides of the hall.
It's so weird to be in a hotel instead of the house, to be in identical self-contained suites with enough room for Adam's family to stay with him and for Katy to spread her makeup all over the bathroom counter just like Adam had.
Kris is barefoot, still in the same jeans and t-shirt he'd worn for rehearsal all day. Adam is all gussied up, though.
"You going out?"
Adam shakes out his shoulders. "Yeah, I just need -- just a break, right? I'm going to meet some friends for a drink."
Kris can feel his eyebrows rise, just like his mom.
"Just one," Adam laughs, "I swear."
Kris knows he doesn't have to worry about Adam, about what Adam'll do, whether he'll be ready the next day when it all starts again. Of all the things he's worried about in this competition, whether Adam will do what needs to be done and then some has never kept him up at night.
"Sounds good," he says. He rattles the ice bucket. "Me and the minibar are right behind you."
"I can stop, on my way out -- ask them to send up --"
"I can drink it straight, I'll live."
"Yeah," Adam says. "Or you can come with me. We'll be back by two, latest."
Adam smiles, soft and tired in that way neither of them can shake. On Adam it looks like weary determination. When Kris catches himself in the mirror it seems more like resignation. He doesn't know what it'll look like when he's back in Arkansas on his own again, with no one who really gets what the last few months have felt like right there staring back at him.
"Okay," he says, "just gimme a minute."
Katy's snoring and doesn't move a muscle when he drops a blanket over her. He scratches out a note on hotel stationary -- out with adam, call if you wake up -- and slips on his shoes. He closes the door as quietly as he can and when he turns around Adam's taking a quick step back, away, turning towards the elevators. Kris follows him.
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They get into and out of the cab without any hassle, but Adam grabs his elbow as soon as they step into the bar's patio. "Back here," he says, and shoves through the crowd.
There are big booths with curtains billowing around them, and Adam waves at some people spilling out of the one at the end.
A few feet away, Adam stops. "My friends are --" He almost looks bashful.
Kris isn't an idiot, he knows what kind of bar this is. "It's cool," he says.
"They're totally cool," Adam says. "They keep me in my place. With, like, a lot of mocking."
"Oh," Kris says, "okay," and then a girl is climbing over someone's lap and throwing herself at Adam for a hug.
Kris lets himself get pushed into the booth between Adam and a skinny guy with shaggy blond hair. He looks like a surfer but says hello with a broad Southern accent. "Kentucky," he says, when Kris asks, "born, bred and pumped full of bourbon." He blinks widely. "I'm drunk," he adds. "Not as a matter of principle, just tonight."
There are tall, heavy glasses filling the table and Kris pokes a finger at one. "What should I have?"
A flurry of arguments follows, debating drinks Kris has heard of and ones he hasn't, something that sounds maybe Brazilian. Then comes a round of complaints about how long it's going to take to flag down another waiter. By the time they all have a fresh glass in hand Kris hasn't learned anybody's name but no one's asked his, either, and it's by far the most relaxed he's been in a long time.
Adam's leg is warm against his, big boots knocking into Kris' ankles every time anybody moves. His drink tastes like fruit punch with just the hint of a dark edge, probably rum. It's warm out and big fans circle lazily overhead. Amped up dance music pumps out of the other end of the bar and Adam drums his fingers on the table in time with the beat.
Kris chews on the slice of sugarcane that came in his drink and barely startles when Mr. Kentucky grabs his hand, pulling it over and turning it palm down on the table. He flicks at Kris' half-painted fingernail and says, "Now tell me about this. Adam get ahold of you when you were sleeping or something?"
The music quiets for just that last bit, and Kris feels a flush rise on his cheeks. Adam flashes both hands at them, like a dance move, then goes back to whatever conversation he's having.
Kentucky waits, skeptical.
"No," Kris says, "it's -- my niece, she's been bugging me every week, about how Adam paints his nails and someone -- I don't know where she got it, school or something, somehow she decided Adam was doing so well 'cause of his nails. She kept asking me when I was gonna do mine. For good luck, I guess, and --"
Adam bumps their shoulders together. "So we decided before doing the whole homecoming thing he should take a little with him."
"A little of that Adam magic," Kentucky says dryly. Adam's already moved on, something about somebody named Charlie and his crazy sister the other half of the table has been stuck on all night.
Kris says, "Yeah, you know," and adds, lamely, "kids." He's not sure how a hundred confused questions about it back home slid right off his back and this guy has made him feel like a 10-year-old girl with a glitter sign. No one's asked him who he is, or pretended they don't already know. All this and he's as famous as a twice-removed cousin.
"Another round?" the waiter offers, and Kris says, "yeah, something stronger," but waves off any further specifics.
Adam puts one arm up on the back of the seat, his sleeve brushing Kris' neck. "You okay?" he asks low, near Kris' ear and Kris nods. "One more and we'll go?"
Kris says sure and Adam takes his arm away. Kris turns back to Kentucky, who's been watching them. Kris swallows and asks, "What's your name?" He throws a grin behind it like he's singing.
Doug is from a farm town two hours outside Louisville. His best girlfriend growing up won Miss Kentucky only to be dethroned, or decrowned, or whatever it's called, after they caught her messing around with one of the judge's daughters. Doug and the beauty queen moved out to LA, where she did some soft-core porn and used the money to buy a smoothie franchise in the Valley.
He did some acting, did some bullshit LA work chauffeuring stars around town, then fell into costume design mostly by accident after helping some friends all dress up for Halloween as the cast of the Love Boat. Now he makes whatever small amount of clothing gets worn by Hustler centerfolds. "It's wasted on me, I know," he says.
Doug is a cautionary tale come to life, straight out of Bible study. He also agrees with Kris that there is no point in ordering sweet tea anywhere in California unless you are looking to be disappointed and that no single malt scotch can ever come close to small batch bourbon. Kris likes him. Maybe it should be more complicated than that, but it's not.
He's got his drink halfway to his mouth when something slams into Adam. The heel of one of Adam's boots skids up Kris' shin, and his elbow catches Kris in the ribs. The sharp spike of pain cuts through the rum haze and Kris opens his mouth to complain when he recognizes the pile of limbs in Adam's lap as a person. A guy. That guy Brad who Adam had at the show last week.
"Hi, hi, hi," Brad says as he straddles Adam's legs, turning him until he's facing out of the booth and Brad can wrap one arm around Adam's neck.
Adam laughs, low, and his "hello" back is dark, almost a purr.
"Everything I've done for you and all I get is 'hello'?" Brad grabs Adam's jaw, tilts it up and kisses him, messy and wet.
Brad's tongue pushes into Adam's half-open mouth, and Adam's head falls back an inch, not exactly giving as good as he's getting but not fighting it either. It only seems to stop because Brad gets bored, sitting back and licking his lips with a smirk and roll of his eyes.
"You've been locked up in that convent too long, boy," he says. "You're losing your touch."
Adam laughs at that, hard and real, and shoves at Brad until he clambers off Adam and into the seat across from them. Kris finally sets his drink down on the table, harder than he meant to.
"Oh," Brad says, cocking his head at Kris. "Hello to you too."
Kris manages a nod and Doug snickers. "What, no kisses for the rest of the table?" Doug demands.
"No, not tonight. Tonight I'm only willing to demand affection from those who owe me for ruining my life."
Adam sighs dramatically. "Please, tell me my sins again."
"Some chick from the National Enquirer came knocking on my door today." Brad leans in, and he's not kidding around. Kris can't tell if he's mad or scared or making a joke, but Adam takes it seriously.
"The same?" he asks.
"Yup," Brad nods. "Knock, knock, who's there." He winks, at Kris or Adam or the table at large, Kris can't tell. "I said it had always been my dream to be a spokesmodel for Avon but that the timing just wasn't right."
"Please," Doug says. "Mary Kaye or bust."
Adam shakes his head. "Did she come back?"
"Not yet."
They stare at each other a while, carrying on whatever conversation they've clearly had before in silence as Doug turns his attention back to the other half of the table.
Kris shifts in his seat and the vague need to piss suddenly becomes a solid pressure in his groin. "I gotta," he starts, and nudges Adam's shoulder. "Lemme out."
Adam stands beside the booth, his hand warm and dry on Kris' as he pulls him to his feet.
"Men's room back there?"
"Yeah," Adam says, "but --"
"Cool," Kris says, heading off.
He makes it down a short set of steps without falling before a hand on his back makes him spin around. It's Adam.
"I'm fine," he insists. "I don't need a chaperon to take a leak."
Adam looks down at him. "Believe me, you'll get better offers than that."
Kris rocks back on his heels, shoes sticky on the grimy floor. Adam holds his shoulder and Kris just stares up, no idea what he's supposed to say about that, about this whole night. His dad always said he didn't have a poker face to save his life and he wonders what it's saying now, what Adam sees.
"Come on," Adam says. "Let's do this and get out of here."
Adam steers him to a urinal, leaves him there with a pat on the back, and comes around the other side. Kris has never seen a bathroom set up like this, an island in the middle with troughs on both sides. He fumbles his dick out of his pants, eyes trained downward on his Chucks even though all he can see is Adam from the chest up.
It takes a minute, long enough that Adam has turned away and gone to wash his hands by the time Kris gets started. It feels good to piss, the way it only does when he's drunker than he planned on. It feels good to be drunk but not wasted, almost like a normal night out instead of a couple of stolen hours in the middle of insanity. No matter what happens next week things aren't going back to normal. Whatever normal even means.
He fights his zipper until it finally pulls up, splashes a little water on his face. Adam is leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Better?" he asks, and Kris says, "Yeah, I -- I feel good."
He walks at Adam's side, a half-step behind, and Adam heads right for the street.
"Your friends, you don't want to say --"
Adam shakes his head no. "They know where to find me."
A guy sitting at one of the front bars yells Adam's name as they pass. "Win big, rockstar," he calls, and Adam grins and flashes him a peace sign and shouts back a thanks, not even breaking stride.
They stand behind some other men in line for a cab and Kris says, "How come," but swallows the end of it. It's none of his business.
"How come what?" Adam kicks the toe of his boot against Kris' foot. "What?"
"How come everyone here -- shouldn't this be your, another homecoming for you. You know what I mean?"
"You mean why West Hollywood isn't throwing me a parade?"
"Yeah," Kris says.
"The gays, they are a fickle people," he says, but the lightness sounds forced and Adam even shakes his own head at it. "It's -- it's complicated, I guess. It's not like everybody all likes the same thing just because we're gay --"
"No, I didn't --" He didn't mean that, he knows that much.
"-- and I'm not, I'm maybe not what all of them want out there representing them. So everybody, you know, everybody gets all catty about what I wear, about my skin, who I slept with. Like they can be twice as bitchy about me because I'm one of theirs."
Adam opens the back door of a taxi, and Kris pauses before he steps off the curb. Adam's in the street, car door between them, and they're closer to the same height like this. Kris says, "Sounds a lot like living in a small town."
He thinks Adam might laugh at that, but he just looks long and hard at Kris and says, "Yeah, I guess so."
In the cab, Adam's cheek is turned toward the window, lights and cars passing by in a blurry reflection. They should do a commercial that feels like this, like coming home on a late night, familiar and easy.
He's tired and when the driver brakes hard for a light, he lets his head fall onto Adam's shoulder. "This week --" he says, and when Adam shushes him, Kris knows exactly why.
This week they do it all again, rehearsal, recording, wardrobe, rehearsal, rehearsal, photo shoot, rehearsal, performance, performance, performance, the end. Even if it's a competition Kris is sure he hasn't got a shot of winning, he's not going out with anything less than the best he can do. And he knows Adam won't take anything for granted even once it's his for real. Adam's right. It's better not to talk about it.
Adam sits up straighter and curls his arm around Kris' shoulder, pulling Kris' head down onto his chest. Adam's jacket smells expensive, and the spiky edge of a zipper bites at Kris' bottom lip. Kris closes his eyes and breathes in and out in time with Adam. This is what it should feel like, their song together for the finale.
Everything soothes into a hum. Adam's hand is draped warmly over Kris' neck, and Kris lets the arm not pinned into Adam's side fall over Adam's stomach, spreading his fingers over the hem of Adam's shirt. Adam hisses in, bites down on a gasp, and then slowly, steadily exhales in one long whoosh. His diaphragm trembles and Kris feels it in his wristbone, his elbow, the back of his biceps.
This is how it always is now, equal parts exhaustion and nerves, fatigue and anticipation, and when the cab slides into the hotel loading zone he lets Adam's momentum propel them both through the lobby and into the elevator. Adam yawns loudly, only barely covering his mouth with a fist that he giggles into.
Kris smiles and falls into a yawn, too, face stretching pleasantly. "I feel like a clown," he says, and Adam laughs so hard he has to brace himself on one mirrored wall.
"You're drunk," he manages to spit out, and Kris nods.
"You too," he says.
Adam runs his hands through his hair. "Fuck, kind of, yeah. Their drinks sneak up on you."
The elevator dings, which only sets them both off giggling again. This time Kris is the one to shush them as they clomp down the hall. Adam tiptoes the few feet down to Kris' door, then lands heavily back on his heels.
"Here," Adam says, and Kris nods, repeating the word softly, drawing it out like a closing note.
"Thanks," Kris says finally, "for taking me out tonight."
It seems like the right thing to say, like he's been taken out on a date, even though that's kind of weird. Adam's staring at the floor but he nods slightly, and Kris takes a step forward, putting a hand on Adam's sleeve.
"Thanks," he says again, and rises up on his toes to hug Adam goodnight. Adam bends down and squeezes him back. They do this a lot, on stage, backstage before a show, at the end of a long day in the studio.
Adam's a good hugger, solid and steady, and Kris sways into him. Adam holds him tighter, his mouth damp against Kris' neck, and Kris lets all his weight fall against Adam's body, pushing them back into the wall. Adam's arms loosen a notch but Kris tugs him closer, letting one hand settle at the base of Adam's spine where his jacket is riding up. His skin is hot against Kris' fingertips and Adam's hair flutters when Kris exhales.
Their hips are pressed together, too, and their thighs. This isn't how they usually hug but Kris doesn't want to pull away, isn't even sure he can fight gravity that convincingly. He thinks of Brad's tongue pushing into Adam's mouth, of Adam lazily letting him.
He tilts his head back and his legs forward and when Adam's head comes up Kris kisses him, or tries to. He gets about half of Adam's mouth, wet and cool, and then his lips slide across rough skin and down the side of Adam's jaw.
"Kris," Adam says, carefully, and Kris hides his face in Adam's throat, cheeks burning.
"I don't know," he mumbles, but it's hard to feel Adam everywhere and not want to try again.
He doesn't know what he's doing but he presses his lips to Adam's jugular and sucks at it, just a little, just enough that Adam groans and grabs at Kris' neck before pushing him back.
"I don't know," he says again, and Adam keeps a hand at Kris' waist, knuckles brushing his stomach.
"You're drunk," Adam says, a hoarse whisper, "and confused, and you don't know --"
"I'm drunk. I don't know --" Kris knows he should be quiet, he knows Katy's sleeping a few feet away, but he can't say this if he says it in a whisper. "I don't know what else."
"Okay," Adam says, and then he's gathering Kris up in another hug, a gentler one with a little more breathing room between them. "You're okay," he says against Kris' ear.
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thx to disarm_d.
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Way down inside
American Idol, Kris/Adam
~3500 words
For reference, this is how Kris and Adam hug. Gay bar via the Abbey, which proclaims itself the #1 spot to take your straight friends.
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"I don't think they put ice machines on floors this high up," Adam says from behind him.
Kris holds up the chrome bucket. "Then why..."
"You can call the desk, I'm sure they'd --"
"Nah, Katy's crashed out on the couch. I don't want to -- to make a big deal."
Adam fiddles with the zipper on a soft leather jacket. "Yeah," he says. They've both figured out already it's worth saving a real argument for a situation that deserves it.
"Yeah," Kris says, and then they just stand there on opposite sides of the hall.
It's so weird to be in a hotel instead of the house, to be in identical self-contained suites with enough room for Adam's family to stay with him and for Katy to spread her makeup all over the bathroom counter just like Adam had.
Kris is barefoot, still in the same jeans and t-shirt he'd worn for rehearsal all day. Adam is all gussied up, though.
"You going out?"
Adam shakes out his shoulders. "Yeah, I just need -- just a break, right? I'm going to meet some friends for a drink."
Kris can feel his eyebrows rise, just like his mom.
"Just one," Adam laughs, "I swear."
Kris knows he doesn't have to worry about Adam, about what Adam'll do, whether he'll be ready the next day when it all starts again. Of all the things he's worried about in this competition, whether Adam will do what needs to be done and then some has never kept him up at night.
"Sounds good," he says. He rattles the ice bucket. "Me and the minibar are right behind you."
"I can stop, on my way out -- ask them to send up --"
"I can drink it straight, I'll live."
"Yeah," Adam says. "Or you can come with me. We'll be back by two, latest."
Adam smiles, soft and tired in that way neither of them can shake. On Adam it looks like weary determination. When Kris catches himself in the mirror it seems more like resignation. He doesn't know what it'll look like when he's back in Arkansas on his own again, with no one who really gets what the last few months have felt like right there staring back at him.
"Okay," he says, "just gimme a minute."
Katy's snoring and doesn't move a muscle when he drops a blanket over her. He scratches out a note on hotel stationary -- out with adam, call if you wake up -- and slips on his shoes. He closes the door as quietly as he can and when he turns around Adam's taking a quick step back, away, turning towards the elevators. Kris follows him.
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They get into and out of the cab without any hassle, but Adam grabs his elbow as soon as they step into the bar's patio. "Back here," he says, and shoves through the crowd.
There are big booths with curtains billowing around them, and Adam waves at some people spilling out of the one at the end.
A few feet away, Adam stops. "My friends are --" He almost looks bashful.
Kris isn't an idiot, he knows what kind of bar this is. "It's cool," he says.
"They're totally cool," Adam says. "They keep me in my place. With, like, a lot of mocking."
"Oh," Kris says, "okay," and then a girl is climbing over someone's lap and throwing herself at Adam for a hug.
Kris lets himself get pushed into the booth between Adam and a skinny guy with shaggy blond hair. He looks like a surfer but says hello with a broad Southern accent. "Kentucky," he says, when Kris asks, "born, bred and pumped full of bourbon." He blinks widely. "I'm drunk," he adds. "Not as a matter of principle, just tonight."
There are tall, heavy glasses filling the table and Kris pokes a finger at one. "What should I have?"
A flurry of arguments follows, debating drinks Kris has heard of and ones he hasn't, something that sounds maybe Brazilian. Then comes a round of complaints about how long it's going to take to flag down another waiter. By the time they all have a fresh glass in hand Kris hasn't learned anybody's name but no one's asked his, either, and it's by far the most relaxed he's been in a long time.
Adam's leg is warm against his, big boots knocking into Kris' ankles every time anybody moves. His drink tastes like fruit punch with just the hint of a dark edge, probably rum. It's warm out and big fans circle lazily overhead. Amped up dance music pumps out of the other end of the bar and Adam drums his fingers on the table in time with the beat.
Kris chews on the slice of sugarcane that came in his drink and barely startles when Mr. Kentucky grabs his hand, pulling it over and turning it palm down on the table. He flicks at Kris' half-painted fingernail and says, "Now tell me about this. Adam get ahold of you when you were sleeping or something?"
The music quiets for just that last bit, and Kris feels a flush rise on his cheeks. Adam flashes both hands at them, like a dance move, then goes back to whatever conversation he's having.
Kentucky waits, skeptical.
"No," Kris says, "it's -- my niece, she's been bugging me every week, about how Adam paints his nails and someone -- I don't know where she got it, school or something, somehow she decided Adam was doing so well 'cause of his nails. She kept asking me when I was gonna do mine. For good luck, I guess, and --"
Adam bumps their shoulders together. "So we decided before doing the whole homecoming thing he should take a little with him."
"A little of that Adam magic," Kentucky says dryly. Adam's already moved on, something about somebody named Charlie and his crazy sister the other half of the table has been stuck on all night.
Kris says, "Yeah, you know," and adds, lamely, "kids." He's not sure how a hundred confused questions about it back home slid right off his back and this guy has made him feel like a 10-year-old girl with a glitter sign. No one's asked him who he is, or pretended they don't already know. All this and he's as famous as a twice-removed cousin.
"Another round?" the waiter offers, and Kris says, "yeah, something stronger," but waves off any further specifics.
Adam puts one arm up on the back of the seat, his sleeve brushing Kris' neck. "You okay?" he asks low, near Kris' ear and Kris nods. "One more and we'll go?"
Kris says sure and Adam takes his arm away. Kris turns back to Kentucky, who's been watching them. Kris swallows and asks, "What's your name?" He throws a grin behind it like he's singing.
Doug is from a farm town two hours outside Louisville. His best girlfriend growing up won Miss Kentucky only to be dethroned, or decrowned, or whatever it's called, after they caught her messing around with one of the judge's daughters. Doug and the beauty queen moved out to LA, where she did some soft-core porn and used the money to buy a smoothie franchise in the Valley.
He did some acting, did some bullshit LA work chauffeuring stars around town, then fell into costume design mostly by accident after helping some friends all dress up for Halloween as the cast of the Love Boat. Now he makes whatever small amount of clothing gets worn by Hustler centerfolds. "It's wasted on me, I know," he says.
Doug is a cautionary tale come to life, straight out of Bible study. He also agrees with Kris that there is no point in ordering sweet tea anywhere in California unless you are looking to be disappointed and that no single malt scotch can ever come close to small batch bourbon. Kris likes him. Maybe it should be more complicated than that, but it's not.
He's got his drink halfway to his mouth when something slams into Adam. The heel of one of Adam's boots skids up Kris' shin, and his elbow catches Kris in the ribs. The sharp spike of pain cuts through the rum haze and Kris opens his mouth to complain when he recognizes the pile of limbs in Adam's lap as a person. A guy. That guy Brad who Adam had at the show last week.
"Hi, hi, hi," Brad says as he straddles Adam's legs, turning him until he's facing out of the booth and Brad can wrap one arm around Adam's neck.
Adam laughs, low, and his "hello" back is dark, almost a purr.
"Everything I've done for you and all I get is 'hello'?" Brad grabs Adam's jaw, tilts it up and kisses him, messy and wet.
Brad's tongue pushes into Adam's half-open mouth, and Adam's head falls back an inch, not exactly giving as good as he's getting but not fighting it either. It only seems to stop because Brad gets bored, sitting back and licking his lips with a smirk and roll of his eyes.
"You've been locked up in that convent too long, boy," he says. "You're losing your touch."
Adam laughs at that, hard and real, and shoves at Brad until he clambers off Adam and into the seat across from them. Kris finally sets his drink down on the table, harder than he meant to.
"Oh," Brad says, cocking his head at Kris. "Hello to you too."
Kris manages a nod and Doug snickers. "What, no kisses for the rest of the table?" Doug demands.
"No, not tonight. Tonight I'm only willing to demand affection from those who owe me for ruining my life."
Adam sighs dramatically. "Please, tell me my sins again."
"Some chick from the National Enquirer came knocking on my door today." Brad leans in, and he's not kidding around. Kris can't tell if he's mad or scared or making a joke, but Adam takes it seriously.
"The same?" he asks.
"Yup," Brad nods. "Knock, knock, who's there." He winks, at Kris or Adam or the table at large, Kris can't tell. "I said it had always been my dream to be a spokesmodel for Avon but that the timing just wasn't right."
"Please," Doug says. "Mary Kaye or bust."
Adam shakes his head. "Did she come back?"
"Not yet."
They stare at each other a while, carrying on whatever conversation they've clearly had before in silence as Doug turns his attention back to the other half of the table.
Kris shifts in his seat and the vague need to piss suddenly becomes a solid pressure in his groin. "I gotta," he starts, and nudges Adam's shoulder. "Lemme out."
Adam stands beside the booth, his hand warm and dry on Kris' as he pulls him to his feet.
"Men's room back there?"
"Yeah," Adam says, "but --"
"Cool," Kris says, heading off.
He makes it down a short set of steps without falling before a hand on his back makes him spin around. It's Adam.
"I'm fine," he insists. "I don't need a chaperon to take a leak."
Adam looks down at him. "Believe me, you'll get better offers than that."
Kris rocks back on his heels, shoes sticky on the grimy floor. Adam holds his shoulder and Kris just stares up, no idea what he's supposed to say about that, about this whole night. His dad always said he didn't have a poker face to save his life and he wonders what it's saying now, what Adam sees.
"Come on," Adam says. "Let's do this and get out of here."
Adam steers him to a urinal, leaves him there with a pat on the back, and comes around the other side. Kris has never seen a bathroom set up like this, an island in the middle with troughs on both sides. He fumbles his dick out of his pants, eyes trained downward on his Chucks even though all he can see is Adam from the chest up.
It takes a minute, long enough that Adam has turned away and gone to wash his hands by the time Kris gets started. It feels good to piss, the way it only does when he's drunker than he planned on. It feels good to be drunk but not wasted, almost like a normal night out instead of a couple of stolen hours in the middle of insanity. No matter what happens next week things aren't going back to normal. Whatever normal even means.
He fights his zipper until it finally pulls up, splashes a little water on his face. Adam is leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Better?" he asks, and Kris says, "Yeah, I -- I feel good."
He walks at Adam's side, a half-step behind, and Adam heads right for the street.
"Your friends, you don't want to say --"
Adam shakes his head no. "They know where to find me."
A guy sitting at one of the front bars yells Adam's name as they pass. "Win big, rockstar," he calls, and Adam grins and flashes him a peace sign and shouts back a thanks, not even breaking stride.
They stand behind some other men in line for a cab and Kris says, "How come," but swallows the end of it. It's none of his business.
"How come what?" Adam kicks the toe of his boot against Kris' foot. "What?"
"How come everyone here -- shouldn't this be your, another homecoming for you. You know what I mean?"
"You mean why West Hollywood isn't throwing me a parade?"
"Yeah," Kris says.
"The gays, they are a fickle people," he says, but the lightness sounds forced and Adam even shakes his own head at it. "It's -- it's complicated, I guess. It's not like everybody all likes the same thing just because we're gay --"
"No, I didn't --" He didn't mean that, he knows that much.
"-- and I'm not, I'm maybe not what all of them want out there representing them. So everybody, you know, everybody gets all catty about what I wear, about my skin, who I slept with. Like they can be twice as bitchy about me because I'm one of theirs."
Adam opens the back door of a taxi, and Kris pauses before he steps off the curb. Adam's in the street, car door between them, and they're closer to the same height like this. Kris says, "Sounds a lot like living in a small town."
He thinks Adam might laugh at that, but he just looks long and hard at Kris and says, "Yeah, I guess so."
In the cab, Adam's cheek is turned toward the window, lights and cars passing by in a blurry reflection. They should do a commercial that feels like this, like coming home on a late night, familiar and easy.
He's tired and when the driver brakes hard for a light, he lets his head fall onto Adam's shoulder. "This week --" he says, and when Adam shushes him, Kris knows exactly why.
This week they do it all again, rehearsal, recording, wardrobe, rehearsal, rehearsal, photo shoot, rehearsal, performance, performance, performance, the end. Even if it's a competition Kris is sure he hasn't got a shot of winning, he's not going out with anything less than the best he can do. And he knows Adam won't take anything for granted even once it's his for real. Adam's right. It's better not to talk about it.
Adam sits up straighter and curls his arm around Kris' shoulder, pulling Kris' head down onto his chest. Adam's jacket smells expensive, and the spiky edge of a zipper bites at Kris' bottom lip. Kris closes his eyes and breathes in and out in time with Adam. This is what it should feel like, their song together for the finale.
Everything soothes into a hum. Adam's hand is draped warmly over Kris' neck, and Kris lets the arm not pinned into Adam's side fall over Adam's stomach, spreading his fingers over the hem of Adam's shirt. Adam hisses in, bites down on a gasp, and then slowly, steadily exhales in one long whoosh. His diaphragm trembles and Kris feels it in his wristbone, his elbow, the back of his biceps.
This is how it always is now, equal parts exhaustion and nerves, fatigue and anticipation, and when the cab slides into the hotel loading zone he lets Adam's momentum propel them both through the lobby and into the elevator. Adam yawns loudly, only barely covering his mouth with a fist that he giggles into.
Kris smiles and falls into a yawn, too, face stretching pleasantly. "I feel like a clown," he says, and Adam laughs so hard he has to brace himself on one mirrored wall.
"You're drunk," he manages to spit out, and Kris nods.
"You too," he says.
Adam runs his hands through his hair. "Fuck, kind of, yeah. Their drinks sneak up on you."
The elevator dings, which only sets them both off giggling again. This time Kris is the one to shush them as they clomp down the hall. Adam tiptoes the few feet down to Kris' door, then lands heavily back on his heels.
"Here," Adam says, and Kris nods, repeating the word softly, drawing it out like a closing note.
"Thanks," Kris says finally, "for taking me out tonight."
It seems like the right thing to say, like he's been taken out on a date, even though that's kind of weird. Adam's staring at the floor but he nods slightly, and Kris takes a step forward, putting a hand on Adam's sleeve.
"Thanks," he says again, and rises up on his toes to hug Adam goodnight. Adam bends down and squeezes him back. They do this a lot, on stage, backstage before a show, at the end of a long day in the studio.
Adam's a good hugger, solid and steady, and Kris sways into him. Adam holds him tighter, his mouth damp against Kris' neck, and Kris lets all his weight fall against Adam's body, pushing them back into the wall. Adam's arms loosen a notch but Kris tugs him closer, letting one hand settle at the base of Adam's spine where his jacket is riding up. His skin is hot against Kris' fingertips and Adam's hair flutters when Kris exhales.
Their hips are pressed together, too, and their thighs. This isn't how they usually hug but Kris doesn't want to pull away, isn't even sure he can fight gravity that convincingly. He thinks of Brad's tongue pushing into Adam's mouth, of Adam lazily letting him.
He tilts his head back and his legs forward and when Adam's head comes up Kris kisses him, or tries to. He gets about half of Adam's mouth, wet and cool, and then his lips slide across rough skin and down the side of Adam's jaw.
"Kris," Adam says, carefully, and Kris hides his face in Adam's throat, cheeks burning.
"I don't know," he mumbles, but it's hard to feel Adam everywhere and not want to try again.
He doesn't know what he's doing but he presses his lips to Adam's jugular and sucks at it, just a little, just enough that Adam groans and grabs at Kris' neck before pushing him back.
"I don't know," he says again, and Adam keeps a hand at Kris' waist, knuckles brushing his stomach.
"You're drunk," Adam says, a hoarse whisper, "and confused, and you don't know --"
"I'm drunk. I don't know --" Kris knows he should be quiet, he knows Katy's sleeping a few feet away, but he can't say this if he says it in a whisper. "I don't know what else."
"Okay," Adam says, and then he's gathering Kris up in another hug, a gentler one with a little more breathing room between them. "You're okay," he says against Kris' ear.
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thx to disarm_d.