Fic: Community Rules for Hauntings AU 2/6
Apr. 11th, 2010 11:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
samanthahirrTitle: Covington Marshes Bylaws, Section 13.D: Community Rules for Hauntings
Fandom: American Idol
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 50,000 [complete]
Warning: Horror
Disclaimer: Total fiction. No infringement on the rights of real people intended. Not profiting in any way.
Playlist: Read and download the playlist.
Summary: "You're sleeping in your car."
"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.
"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."
"Yeah."
"You really don't have any place to go, do you?"
"No, I do, I just. I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, unable to meet Adam's eyes.
Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
Kris leaves the motor running because he doesn't plan on taking long; not because he plans on running out of the building with the devil on his heels. When he opens the front door, he's greeted by nothing. The faucet is dripping in the kitchen sink, same as it always does, and the rotating fan is blowing, but everything else is quiet. There's no presence. Kris breathes easier and slips inside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. Just in case.
He hurries to the bedroom and digs out his old backpack, throws in a couple pairs of jeans and t-shirts, pajamas, even a plaid button-down in case he gets a chance to work in the next few days. His toothbrush, deodorant, shaving kit—he's got almost three days of stubble on him and it's itchy as hell. He's got everything he needs for a short motel stay and he's heading for the door with his guitar in hand when he turns back and notices the perfect row of cracked picture frames propped against the bedroom wall, glass chips shimmering on the carpet.
Seconds later, Kris is out in the parking lot and he doesn't even remember if he closed the door behind him or not, is pretty sure he doesn't care. He rips open the back door of the Toyota and shoves his guitar case and backpack inside, slams the door and throws himself into the front seat, fighting to suppress the panic attack he doesn't wanna have in front of Adam. He forces himself to take long, slow breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth until he thinks he's calm enough to turn and acknowledge the other man in the car.
Who is looking politely away. Great. Kris thumps his skull against the headrest in frustration before remembering what he'd meant to do before he saw the latest damage. He twists around and thrashes his hips a little to squeeze between the two seats, reaching into the back to spring a clean Henley from his backpack. He peels off the nasty t-shirt and tosses it into the backseat, pulls on the new white shirt.
With both hands on the wheel once more, Kris turns the keys and starts them back to the highway. Adam is the first one to speak. "Almost dinnertime. You wanna stop somewhere? It's my night off."
It's a relief to not be alone yet. Kris takes them to an outdoor retail/restaurant development he likes, down by the lake. He watches nervously for people's reactions to his companion, because Adam had added two shades of purple eye shadow and black mascara to his already lined eyes before they left the costume shop. And now, instead of looking like he's in a punk band, or a little emo or something, his eyes look feminine, bright and obvious. No one seems to spare Adam a second glance, though. Kris sorts through how he feels about that and ends up with relief that he's not in Arkansas anymore.
They sit at one of the retro diner's outdoor tables and eat hamburgers and greasy fries while Kris tries to fix the balance in their relationship. He tries to get Adam to talk about himself, starting with how he got the gigs at the Wyndham and Simon's.
Adam shrugs and explains his Thursday through Monday schedule at Simon's, Tuesdays-only at the lounge, and how he's angling to pick up extra nights at the high-paying Wyndham when any of their other performers miss a night. He's talking around the details Kris wants, dishing about the people he works with, the commitments he has, but not how they've shaped his life, or what his life was like before he met them.
And when Kris can't take the runaround any longer, he stops pressing, lets Adam coax out of him all the details of his own musical career in New Orleans, from the song writing to the session gigs to the busking for extra income.
Adam looks around when Kris explains he's had good success here—it's a prime neighborhood for busking; lots of people, lots of outdoor dining this time of night. Adam finishes his soda and suggests that Kris give it a go right now. "I gave you a command performance last night. It's time to show me what you've got."
The sun is behind Adam, making it hard for Kris to read his eyes. Given how quiet Adam's been for the past hour, Kris isn't sure if Adam's just encouraging his plan to make money for a motel to be rid of him faster, or if he actually wants to hear something.
But he decides not to care and goes and gets his guitar out of the car, setting up in his favorite spot near the mouth of the restaurant courtyard. Adam pays the tab—his contribution to the day's gas expense—and eventually comes over to sit on the opposite benches to watch.
Kris is uncharacteristically nervous. He's sung in front of dozens of people at a time, hundreds back at school. Singing to an oblivious stream of passersby should be no big deal. But he remembers the look on Adam's face after the lipstick kiss, and he's so afraid he's gonna disappoint. He starts with a Tom Petty song cause he could use a little bravado and watches Adam watching him as he starts to sing. Adam's face isn't giving him any feedback, and he knows he doesn't have a voice like Adam's, or that stage presence, but he tries harder, he tries his best, putting his whole heart into it.
The music gradually lightens his mood, erases the tension from visiting the condo. Adam is there for part of it and then disappears, reappearing during the next song with a Starbucks cup. He continues watching and listening. Night falls and Kris doesn't even notice. He sings for three hours straight without a break, without sitting down. He stops worrying about being Adam's ride and keeping Adam there so late, even forgets about Adam entirely toward the end, until Adam is putting a hand over the frets before he can start another song, bringing Kris back down to earth, to the pain in his feet, the aching dryness in his throat.
"That's enough tonight, sweetheart," Adam says gently.
He helps Kris unshoulder the guitar and collect the money from his case. Almost $145, one of his best hauls yet. Kris is physically exhausted but emotionally recharged and ready to get himself a motel room for the night. But when they get back to the car, Kris slides the guitar into the backseat and then Adam is pressing him up against the driver's door, hand sliding under Kris's clean shirt, mouth on Kris's ear, hips and thighs pressing him against the warm steel frame.
"Fuck the motel, you're coming home with me," he says roughly, lips finding Kris's.
Adam isn't there when he wakes up. Not that Kris reached for him before he'd even opened his eyes, his body somehow remembering the long-broken habit of falling asleep with someone next to him. No, Kris didn't consciously remember Adam until he'd recognized the black sheets and long windows with vertical blinds, sunlight giving the big bedroom a warm glow. He leaves his hand on Adam's cold pillow for a few seconds, lies to himself that he'd just been reaching to smooth the fabric.
He pulls his pajamas back on and sticks his head out of the bedroom looking for Adam, but he isn't in the kitchen or the living room. Kris knocks on the bathroom door, expecting to hear Adam's voice, but he doesn't answer. When he tries the knob, the unlocked door swings open on dark tiles. Kris frowns and looks over his shoulder, surprised that Adam would leave him alone in his apartment. He'd mentioned using the fitness center sometimes....
Kris flips on the light and takes a shower, using only the minimum of hot water in case Adam wants a shower when he gets back from wherever. Clean pants should never be a luxury, but Kris takes a moment to appreciate them anyway as he tugs them on. And then he takes another moment to wonder where Adam's gone again. And whether he would mind if Kris helped himself to his bread.
Kris pushes yesterday's groceries around to clear a small corner of the kitchen table and eats two slices of toast and blackberry jam while he checks his voice mails. It's only 7 a.m., maybe the studio will have something for him today....
There's been no word from the studio, but there's an upset message that his mom left last night. Kris rolls his eyes and calls her back, apologizes for missing their last two weekly calls. No, he isn't dead in a ditch somewhere, he's just been...busy. He's been getting out a lot more. Yes, out with people. His mom can't bring herself to ask if he means men or women, and Kris doesn't want to push her boundaries, not after his divorce and coming out almost got her kicked out of their church. And he can't bring himself to tell her what's been happening at the condo. He finally convinces her that he's good, he's happy...and maybe he actually is, because it's so easy not to think about the hard stuff at Adam's place.
He cleans up after breakfast and relocates to the couch, skimming through Adam's copy of Rolling Stone for a few minutes until the door opens. Kris looks up with a smile on his face and a "Hi!" for Adam.
But Adam pushes the door open and pauses a moment like he hadn't expected to see him there, shoves the door shut behind him, clomps over in big shitkicker boots to look down at him, just the other side of the coffee table. He looks pissed off. Kris jerks his bare feet off the table and closes the magazine in case he's overstepped.
Adam says, "You're up early. Good," and drops something on the table with a loud thunk. Two somethings. Kris's wallet and car keys.
Kris stares at them and then back up at Adam, and then back at the keys and wallet on the table. Had he left them in the way? Had Adam had to move his car? "Is there a problem?"
"Yeah, a big one," Adam agrees, hands on his hips. "And it's time you tell me what it is."
Kris hates this kind of game. This is the way Katy would start their fights. "Why don't you tell me what you're talking about, cause I have no clue where you're coming from."
"Your place," Adam says bluntly. "I just came from your place."
"What?" That's the instinctive thing to blurt, while his brain takes an extra two seconds to catch up. Because he must have heard wrong, Adam hadn't said- "You went to my place?"
"Yeah. I thought it was time to have a look around. Find out what was so scary about your home." Adam uses air quotes and all the sarcasm in his well-stocked, drag queen arsenal.
Kris stares up at him in growing horror, his mind simply refusing to accept what he's hearing.
"And you know what? I still have no fucking clue. I went all over in there. I looked in your closets, your bathroom, your kitchen...it's a nice place, Kris!"
"No," he says weakly, shaking his head.
"Yeah, and you know what? You own it. Yeah! You didn't tell me that! Here," he pulls a folded envelope out of his back pocket and throws it on top of the keys. This month's mortgage bill. "So why don't you tell me what the fuck you're doing on my couch, when you own a nice fucking place! Huh?"
And Kris shouldn't say, "You invited me," but that's exactly what comes out of his mouth, because his brain has checked out and curled up into a little ball of denial now that this conversation is finally happening.
Adam actually freezes for a few seconds, staring at him like he's grown another head, his eyes bugging out a little. "You did not," he sputters. "I have not been letting you crash at my place just so you can.... God, I don't even know you!"
"I wasn't," Kris protests, not sure what he's denying.
"I thought, you know, maybe it's dangerous at your place. Bad neighborhood or something. Or maybe you had a scary roommate. Or were hiding from somebody, an ex-boyfriend, loan shark, whatever. But there's nobody there, Kris. The place is empty, it's all yours. So why the fuck aren't you there right now?"
Kris looks anywhere but at Adam and notices the sunlight on the windowsill. "You went in the morning-"
"No," Adam cuts him off, shifting his weight back and forth like he's too angry to stand still. "You said you couldn't go back there at night. So I went at night. And aside from a creepy neighbor with really bad taste in lipstick, there was nothing wrong."
"No, you must've. It must not've..." Kris's world is turning upside down. Adam was in there at night and nothing happened? But there have been nights when Kris was there and nothing happened. "It wasn't active, you didn't see it."
Adam flails his arms and grabs his hair, and Kris can practically see the migraine he's causing him. But Adam overcomes, drops his hands and calms himself down. He crouches down on the carpet, then kneels, sits on his boot heels looking up at Kris earnestly. "Okay, let's. I'm sorry. Let's start over. Okay? I took your car and went to your place last night because I wanted to know what was scaring you so badly. I don't want you to be scared. That's all. So. How about you just...tell me why you think you can't be there at night."
And oh my god, Kris suddenly wants to cry. Nobody'd asked him that before now, not even Adam, so he hadn't had to say it, but. Adam asked. "I." He takes a deep breath, locks his core to stop the trembling. "It's...haunted."
Adam looks at him for a long time, probably expecting him to be joking. "Haunted," he eventually repeats.
Kris nods, shakes his head, miserable. "Yes. I don't know. I don't know what it is, but it's in there and it wants to kill me. It moves things at night and...and when it starts I can't move, and I can't fight it, and I..." He forces another breath into his lungs. "I can't be there."
Adam is just watching him now, no sympathy and no anger. "You think your condo is haunted," he says slowly. "And that's why you've been sleeping in your car, crashing on my couch..."
"It's," Kris protests, "it's real. And does things. It breaks dishes. It broke all my picture frames while I was away."
"Let me tell you what I saw," Adam says, totally cool. "I saw a mess. Food everywhere. Clothes on the floor. Broken furniture. Smashed photos. D'you know what that looked like to me?" He looks hard at Kris, demanding his full attention. "That looked like anger. You're lashing out at someone and you're taking it out on everything around you."
"No," Kris shakes his head vigorously because he needs Adam to believe him. Adam's the first person he's told, and he doesn't want to be alone with this secret any longer.
"Who's making you this mad? Is it your wife? Has she been calling you? Or did somebody hurt you-"
"No, stop! It isn't me."
"Kris, you need to talk about this. I can't deal with...I can't help you if you're gonna keep hiding from it. No matter what you believe, there's something else going on here."
"Fuck you, I'm telling you the truth! I'm not having some kind of delusion; there's something in there and it does things at night and it's scaring me to death!"
Adam rocks back on his heels, his face a blank even beyond the lack of makeup. And Kris finally notices what Adam looks like. There's no glamour, no effort, his appearance as plain as any straight man on the street. He looks exhausted, nothing more.
Adam doesn't believe him.
"You shouldn't have gone there," is all Kris can say, pathetic, giving up already. Adam's never going to believe him. All he can do is try to protect him. "It's dangerous, even if you think I'm crazy or paranoid or delusional. You can never go back there at night."
"Trust me, I don't plan to," Adam says, flat.
Adam's disappointment cuts through him sharp as claws. Kris stands up, unable to bear that look in Adam's eyes. "I'm. I'll go."
I'm sorry. Thank you.
He can't bring himself to say either.
Adam stands and moves to the windows, giving Kris space to move around the apartment, to collect what he needs. Kris tries not to look at Adam, arms crossed in the sunlight, freckles on his nose and cheeks, completely closed off.
It's only when he's at the door, backpack on his hunched shoulder, that Adam says, "If you need to talk..." He doesn't finish the offer.
Kris bites back the pleading, the desperate need to be believed. He opens the door and walks out.
Kris drives west until he's near the airport's crop of motels. He picks a Red Roof Inn with a flashing $55 sign and pays for two nights up front. He's got a place to stay. He's got time to think. He's got the space he thought he needed to clear his head, come up with a plan. That's what he'd wanted, so he should be happy. He orders himself to cheer up and think positively, but ends up lying by the pool in his pajamas pants, listening to his iPod and sulking all day. He stays in that night, falling asleep exhausted on the scratchy sheets.
The studio wakes him up at 6:30 a.m. with a call for a day-long session. It's his first session gig in a week, and Kris is beyond grateful. He puts on his last clean set of clothes and hustles downtown before rush hour to study up.
Today's amateur musician is a Moroccan girl doing some kind of African-Pop fusion crap that doesn't hold together. The real problem is her lack of song structure. Kris tries to make a few suggestions after the first two hours, but the little 19-year old rich girl cuts him with the nastiest glare and tells the studio producer that she didn't book this time to have to talk to no-talent wash-ups. Kris takes the producer's head jerk to heart and shuts up for the rest of the day, does his best to make her awkward chording sound good with her uninspired vocals and, unbelievably, the silly bongo samples she brought in.
Kris catches himself smiling at the thought of explaining this nightmare "musician" to Adam, and his stomach and smile sour.
Shit. Even though he knows he can't go back, he can't stop thinking about Adam. He knows this feeling. And he hadn't realized how much he'd missed it these last three years.
Kris gets off work, cashes his studio check, and stays downtown to get a po'boy for dinner. He eats on a bench overlooking the Mississippi, delaying the inevitable for a few hours. He even pulls his guitar out and plays for a little bit, quiet, not for anyone else. The chord pattern for a new song runs through his head but he resists the urge to start writing lyrics just yet—he'll need something to occupy his mind later when this all falls apart.
Just before 9 p.m. he drives over to Simon's in time for the early bird drink specials and buys three bottles that he takes over to the side counter and starts nursing. The place is already pretty crowded and dark, and he doesn't see Adam wandering around before the show. But at 10 p.m. the DJ calls everyone's attention to the stage, the lights go crazy, and Adam struts out in gold glitter spandex pants, a white tunic belted closed at the waist—the one they'd bought together two days ago—white platform boots, glitter in his hair, and eyes sparkling a rainbow of colors.
Kris shifts his remaining two bottles closer to the front of the club so he can watch Adam swivel his hips and shimmy his shoulders as he sings with no voice again... And if Kris is here to be masochistic, he wants to feel the full hurt, so he drains his second beer in one go and stalks back to the sound board where some tall guy with bleach blond gelled hair and tight leather pants is nodding his head to the Kylie Minogue remix he's blasting, hands roving over the soundboard and completely ignoring Adam's mute strutting.
Kris slams his empty bottle down next to the board, spilling the guy's girlie-drink over the wooden table. The sound guy looks up and flails before attempting to sweep the pink frozen cocktail off the table with his bare hands. He leans over Kris and yells at him to keep his drunk ass away from the sound board. Kris grins meanly up at him and deliberately tips the beer bottle over. Nothing comes out, but the way the guy jumps and tries to stop him makes him laugh a little.
The sound tech puts a solid bitch face on and leans over Kris again, shoves at one of his shoulders.
And that's what Kris was waiting for. Kris grabs that arm and yanks the guy down to his level so he can growl "If you don't make him fucking sing, I'm telling the cops you're selling weed to minors back here." And then he lets go, turns his back, and returns to his spot on the side rail to watch the show.
Adam's vocal levels suddenly pop, and heads that were oblivious to the physical presence on the stage turn at the sound of a high, effortless voice wailing about becoming a stronger woman without you. Kris smiles around the growing lump in his throat and sips off his third bottle, watching Adam shine like he was supposed to. Jesus Christ he's gonna miss him. Touching him. That kiss. Fuck.
Kris ditches his unfinished beer and switches to Jack.
It's a different experience, being in this club without the pressure of needing to hookup, needing to find a place to spend the night. That motel key in his pocket feels like a winning lottery ticket—at least a temporary one. Kris loses interest when the other singers perform—to his mind, they've got nothing on Adam when his levels are done right. He's thinking about maybe trying to get backstage to say hi, hoping Adam won't have him thrown out, but he figures the odds on either count aren't too good.
So he stays where he is and drinks his drink and watches the people around him. But for all his watching, he didn't see the guy coming who slides a hand along the bar behind Kris's back and has an arm around his shoulders before Kris even knows he's there. "What's your pleasure," he rumbles in Kris's ear, beard scratching his skin.
Kris stiffens and glances up but the guy has a white smile and high cheekbones and that Nawlins drawl and he's tipping his bottle against Kris's shot glass and raising his eyebrows over warm, dark eyes. And it's easy to smile back, duck his head a little and say "Jack Daniels" and let the guy buy him another round.
Adam comes back onstage for his second set and Kris gets distracted, so the guy—Ben—maneuvers them to a table, putting Kris's back to the stage. Kris lets it happen, is actually grateful when Ben puts his hand on Kris's forearm and squeezes when Kris starts to look at the stage over his shoulder. Kris tries to tune out Adam's voice doing an over the top Freddie Mercury scream and listens to Ben compliment his eyes. Kris throws the compliment right back, admiring the uptilt at the corners, the sweep of long lashes without mascara or liner. He's traditionally handsome. Totally masculine. The kind of guy Kris was interested in before he met Adam.
Ben smiles wider and tilts his head, gaze never straying, and his hand stays warm on Kris's skin. It's flattering and uncomplicated and it makes Kris feel so normal. And when the last performer is singing his last few numbers of the night, Kris leans forward and asks if Ben wants to get out of there.
Ben practically leaps out of his chair, pulling out his wallet to pay his tab, and Kris stands up and grins, tugging on his jacket and adjusting himself in his jeans. The club is packed with tourists and locals crammed around them, and two girls are already sliding into their abandoned seats before Ben's managed to flag down the overworked waiter. Ben puts a hand on his arm again, leans in close and says, "I'm gonna pay at the bar, meet me at the door."
Kris watches Ben's ass in his baggy jeans until Ben disappears into the crowd, and then makes for the cooler air by the entrance. He doesn't expect the hand on his shoulder, turning him back. "Change your mind?" he's saying as he turns, an arm already reaching up to pull Ben in for a persuasive kiss, but rainbow eyes bring him up short. "Adam," he says, unprepared for the very meeting he'd been hoping for when he came to Simon's four hours ago.
Adam is still in his stage makeup, but there's a black-and-red striped beanie pulled over the glitter in his hair, and he's changed to a blue t-shirt and jeans. "That guy. Stay away from him," Adam shouts over the music.
The reflective rainbows and glitter pulse hypnotically in the flashing lights, but those aren't the words Kris wanted to hear. "It's none of your business," Kris snaps, knocking Adam's hand away and heading for the door, because Adam is everything complicated he wants but can't handle right now and Ben is easy and comfortable and that's good enough.
Adam pursues, stops him again just outside the door. "I know. I know it isn't my business, but you don't need to do this just for a place to-"
There are people all around them, a few couples hanging out on the porch steps, the bouncers, giggling tourists snapping photos of New Orleans's most famous gay bar, the bass is thudding through the walls behind them, and Kris does not need his personal psychotic break shouted around in the god damn street. "No, no, shut up! This isn't about that. I have a place, a motel. This is just for me, this is what I want-"
"Then not him."
"Why not? You'd rather I went home with you?"
"Kris," Adam hisses, crowding him against the brick wall. "He'll hold you down!"
That hits like a cold splash of water to his face. It must show, because Adam's frown softens and he reaches out a big hand and Kris can't breathe, the fear is back and he buries his face in Adam's chest and gasps for air.
Adam is stroking his hair when someone says, "Adam...you know Kris."
"Yeah, he's with me," Adam tells him firmly.
Kris lifts his head, having to resist Adam's possessive grip until it eases, and sees Ben staring. Kris can't help but visualize what it would've looked like, staring up at Ben as he pinned him, so he shakes his head and looks away, hands fisted in Adam's t-shirt.
"You're okay, nobody's gonna hurt you," Adam says, pulling him back in, and Kris allows it, clings to Adam's well-intentioned comfort for a few needy minutes longer than he knows he should; they don't have this between them, Adam doesn't believe him, he's still on his own with his private nightmare...
Kris finally gets over the worst of it and pushes against Adam's stomach, clears a few inches between them. Eyes closed, he says, aiming for a casual conversation, "You and Ben, huh?"
"Yeah," Adam sounds a little guilty.
The brown eyes, tan skin. "Your type," Kris realizes.
"To a point. He wasn't sweet."
"I guess not." He lets out a shaky breath. "Thanks, then."
"It was-" Adam stops. "Kris."
Kris opens his eyes and looks up. Now it's Adam who has his eyes closed, arm braced over him. The rainbow appliqués are beautiful, but Kris can see where sweat cut through his makeup, loosened the adhesive at the edges so the sequined corners are peeling off.
"I'm sorry about yesterday. You have a problem and I just...couldn't understand." Adam scrunches one of his eyes closed tighter like the big rainbow patch itches and Kris itches to peel it off for him, to see the black eyebrow underneath. "You were telling me you need help and..."
He shoves Adam away and steps out onto the street, not liking where Adam's persisting concern is going. "I'm not a head case," he insists to the man he knows is following him. "At least, I'm pretty sure I'm not," he adds quietly, to himself. Saying that aloud doesn't hurt as much as he'd expected; god, he's come such a very long way from normal. "I don't need you or some psychiatrist telling me it's all in my head, because it's not."
"Okay," Adam agrees, falling into step with him.
Kris digs his hands into his jacket pockets and stares at the ground in front of him so he doesn't have to see Adam looking down at him with so much compassion. "I'm not gonna end up in a fucking loony bin for the criminally insane just cause I bought the wrong house."
"Totally not. No shrinks, that's cool." Adam kicks at a plastic Budweiser bottle. They watch it roll down the street, following in its wake. "Um. So, do you have a plan? For dealing with your ghost?"
Kris is 95% sure Adam's just humoring him, but fuck if the other 5% isn't appealing. "Not yet. I was supposed to be concentrating on that, but I ended up at the studio all day so..."
"Hey, that's good," Adam says, focusing too much on the last part of the sentence. "But not good about the plan thing," he amends. "So um. I did some thinking, after you left. Now, don't laugh okay? Because I'm serious. Have you considered those paranormal reality shows? You know, you could like, call up their producers, sell them your story. They make you a celebrity and maybe even kill your ghosts?"
Kris stops and glares up at Adam's shining, earnest face.
"You could even put some of your stuff on the soundtrack, sell some records. What do you think?"
He glares and glares and finally Adam cracks and starts laughing, and Kris is a little pissed, yeah, but it's so completely ridiculous it's refreshing, breaks him out of his sulk.
Adam throws an arm around his neck, pokes him in the ribs. "Man, your face."
"Ha ha, not funny," he tries to sound severe but it's a struggle.
Adam pokes him again and says, turning them back toward the club, "It was my idea, so I want a piece of your end."
"You want a piece of my end," Kris repeats, half innuendo, half relief that Adam isn't running away from him in terror.
"Well, now that you mention it..."
Kris follows Adam through the backstage entrance and tries to stand out of the way in the small dressing room as Adam hangs up the discarded tunic and leggings in a big storage locker. He tosses the boots onto the pile of footwear at the bottom and shuts the door, closes the combination lock. Makeup case in hand, Adam gestures to the exit again and when they're in the parking lot it's natural for Kris to offer Adam a ride home, since Metairie is on his way to the airport.
But in the car, Adam pulls his seat forward a little and doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's staring at Kris's face. When they pull up at his apartment building, Adam reaches his hand out, hovers it over Kris's clenched fist on the wheel. "I don't want you to be out there alone," he says.
Kris twitches.
"I just. I need to know you're okay, and if you're alone out there I'll worry."
It's not a convincing argument, especially when Kris sees the guarded look in Adam's eyes. But it's Adam who is—isn't—asking, and even though Kris put $55 of hard earned cash into that motel room for tonight, he doesn't want to be alone either.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admits, leaves himself open to persuasion.
"We're gonna figure that out together." Adam's hand moves, lands on his arm instead of his fist. "That's what friends do. Okay?"
And there it is: friendship. The prettiest joke Kris has heard since 'til death do us part. He says, "My stuff is at the motel."
Adam settles back against the seat. "Then let's go get it."
Kris puts the car in drive and doesn't look at his passenger.
He carries his backpack and Adam carries his guitar and when his things are all in Adam's living room, Kris takes another moment to wonder what the hell they're doing. Why is Adam letting his life get tangled up with Kris's like this? He knows, deep down, that Adam doesn't believe him, yet Adam's still looking out for him. God, if he'd gone off with Ben, if something had happened... What are the odds that Ben would've been as understanding as Adam?
Kris spreads a blanket out on the familiar couch and pulls out his pajamas, sits and waits his turn in the bathroom. Adam has the water running, the door mostly closed, and then Kris hears a gasp, a soft, "Shit, shit, ow you fucker, shit," and he stands up to investigate.
Through the crack in the door he glimpses Adam bent over the sink in just his boxers, face inches from the mirror, pulling the second appliqué off his eyebrow with both hands, wincing and going ridiculously slow.
Kris grins a little despite himself and says, loud enough to be heard, "Didn't your momma teach you—you gotta yank 'em off fast."
Adam yelps and his eyes shoot up to see him in the mirror. He rolls his eyes and bats at the door with one hand, tugging it open so they can talk. "Yeah, well, yanking loses eyebrows. Slow and steady is the path to true beauty." He leans back to the mirror, lifting up the edge of the sequined piece again.
Kris doesn't know why he keeps watching. He'd wanted to do this earlier; take the fake stuff off so he could see the real Adam underneath, but that isn't accurate. Adam is Adam, no matter what accessories he wears. Adam makes another pitiful sound and dances a little with his feet as he renews his tugging. Kris smiles and leans against the doorframe to watch. It takes another fifteen seconds of squirming torture before the last corner lets go and Adam flicks the rainbow onto the sink with a look of pure loathing. And then he sighs and turns the pair upside down, dabs the backs with a damp towel.
"You're keeping them?"
"Probably. Hurt like a son of a bitch but they look fucking fabulous." Adam lays them down on the towel and pats them flat, then scoops up some cold water to rub over his face. The skin is red and glowing around his eyes. Kris thinks he should get him some ice, but he's held there by Adam's gaze, brilliant blue against the red when he wipes away the drops and sees Kris still there.
The moment stretches and Kris is stepping forward without thinking, approaching the mirror. If he looked to Adam's left, he would see his own face, would know what he was saying with it. He moves to a point just behind Adam's stooped shoulders, where he can see Adam's reflection head on.
Adam watches him, hands poised against his temples, breathing hard. And then he says, "Fuck it," and turns, pulls Kris against him and kisses him steady and slow, fingers roving over eyebrows, ears, cheeks, and curling at the nape of his neck.
It takes him apart, that much attention and care, just like at the costume shop. Every vulnerability Kris has is suddenly ripped open and bleeding in front of someone who knows the worst of him. He whimpers and tries to keep his knees strong as Adam sucks on his lower lip, tilting Kris's chin up for a better angle.
He can't have this, he brutally reminds himself. He can't fall in love like this, not with a complete stranger. Adam knows him, but Kris doesn't know Adam. He tries to take over the kiss, step up the pace, change the mood, but Adam won't be rushed. He flirts with Kris's tongue, licking and sucking slowly, frustrating Kris's attempts to hide behind lust.
Until Kris stops fighting and lets Adam give all he wants. Lets Adam guide him to the bedroom, strip the clothes off him and lay down beside him, stroke him until they're both shuddering, and Kris comes arching and moaning into Adam's mouth, gasping out half-formed words that Adam licks away.
After their 2 p.m. breakfast, Adam lifts his legs so Kris can sit on the couch and then stretches out again, legs draped over Kris's thighs.
Kris stabs his last piece of cantaloupe and bites it off the fork, careful not to drip on Adam's baby-blue pajama bottoms. And then he says, "Tell me what you're thinking about," because he feels like they've gotten to the point where he can at least ask that, even if Adam doesn't have to answer him yet.
But Adam says, "You," without hesitating.
Kris's heart beats a little faster in response. "What about me?"
Adam's face shifts from thoughtful to frowning. "I'm trying to believe you."
Kris swallows the cantaloupe and drops his fork in the bowl. "Oh."
"See, I believe that you believe there's a ghost, but I just...I can't make that leap."
"I know," Kris agrees, trying not to take it personally. "I didn't believe it for the first few weeks either. And I'm the one it was happening to."
"If you had some kind of proof..."
"I know!" Kris agrees again, more sharply. "But if I had proof, I'd be selling the documentary rights. There's just me, and the things I know I saw. That's all I've got."
Adam digs his heel into Kris's thigh for a second. "I wanna believe you, I really do. So I was thinking. If I spent the whole night at your place, would I-"
"No!" Kris says, one hand grabbing the bowl harder, the other squeezing Adam's ankle.
Adam slaps on an innocent expression as he rotates his ankle slightly in Kris's grip. "Huh. I don't recall giving you this hard a time scoring an invite to my place..."
Kris is deadly serious, though. "You're not going in there again. If it hurt you.... I can't let that happen."
"So far it's just scared you, right? Moved things around? So what makes you think it'll hurt me? It left me alone last time-"
Kris shakes his head, getting angry at the fright Adam had caused him. "I can't believe you went there alone. That was so stupid, Adam."
"Tell you what," Adam squirms on the couch, pulling himself upright so he can reach Kris's cheek with his fingertips. "What if I don't go alone?" Kris jerks back at the harmless words that feel like a knife attack. Adam bites his lip but doesn't drop his hand, leaves it out there. "I don't know what else to do here, sweetie. How are we supposed to beat this thing if you won't even let me see it?"
"I don't wanna go back there," Kris begs, even though he knows it's inevitable—he'll have to go back for all his belongings, at least in the daylight.
"I won't let anything happen to you, baby, I promise." Adam is looking at him like he wants to wrap him in cotton wool and protect him from the world and Kris closes his eyes and lets himself lean back toward that outstretched hand.
It's a selfish hope, lying to himself that it could possibly be okay to do that to Adam, to let Adam bring it on himself. He shakes his head, but that slides Adam's fingers against his skin in a caress. Words; he needs to tell him no with words.
"And if you're worried about your boyfriend finding your porn stash, forget it. I already know it's under the jeans in your bottom drawer."
The crack makes Kris laugh and the word makes the knife twist sharply and he bends over and wraps his arms around Adam's knees and holds on.
It has to be that night, because once he gave Adam permission, the man couldn't be stopped. He's on a mission to save Kris from whatever demon Kris's mind has cooked up—despite Adam's protests that he's willing to be open-minded about the supernatural, Kris doesn't think Adam's actually trying all that hard to hide his disbelief—and the sooner he can get Kris straightened out, the better. Kris feels guilty when Adam calls out sick from his Saturday night show at Simon's, making up a gruesome story about one of the rainbow-sequin patches slicing into his cornea, necessitating at least 24 hours in a dark room without movement, but no need to worry; he should be fine in time for Sunday's show.
Adam provides the energy for Kris's day, smiling and telling him how awesome everything is going to be, not showing the least bit of nervousness. So Kris pretends that Adam's right and goes through the motions of a day: flips through the songbooks in Adam's bookcase; watches TV for an hour; eats the avocado salad Adam lovingly prepares. And then Adam packs an overnight bag, a couple sandwiches, a few beers, and Kris, and puts them all in the car an hour before sunset.
Kris drives them back to the condo, singing along to the pop station and losing himself in harmony with Adam's amazing voice until the exit sign comes up and he can see the roofs of his development over to the west. The sun is near the tops of the trees when they get out of the car and Kris looks up those steps, instinct telling him to get back in his car and drive away. Adam stands at his shoulder, though, and Kris isn't going to chicken out in front of him. So he straightens his spine and leads the way.
When he gets halfway up the stairs he spots Mrs. Mitchell standing in her open doorway looking the two of them over. "Evening, Mrs. Mitchell," he says, smile tight.
"Allen," she says dispassionately, her eyes focused on the man behind him.
"This is my friend Adam," Kris volunteers, but when he glances over his shoulder, Adam is staring at her just as suspiciously.
"We've met," Adam mutters.
Mrs. Mitchell frowns at the singer and then slams her door shut as Adam reaches the top of the stairs.
"She gives me the creeps," Adam whispers as Kris fumbles out his keys. "I think she watches your door or something. 4 a.m., she's standing in that doorway in green velour sweats and full Tammy Faye makeup. What the hell."
"Don't be ridiculous," Kris reasons. "She's just bored. Or lonely."
"Or creepy."
Kris gets the lock to turn and the door swings open and he catches his breath, standing on the threshold of his fears.
And then Adam steps around him, walks right through the door into the condo like it's just an ordinary doorway. Kris follows, drawn after him by an invisible tether, enters his home and lets the door close behind him. It looks the same as last Wednesday, at least in the living room where there was nothing to move around. But in the kitchen...
"What's her deal?"
It takes Kris a second to pull his eyes away from the cereal exploded all over the linoleum and counters, to focus on the conversation Adam wants him to have. "Uh. I don't know. I heard she's been here since it was built. She never leaves her place, not that I've seen. The mailman thinks she's agoraphobic."
Adam sets the bags down on the counter, sending Lucky Charms cascading onto the floor with a casual sweep of his hand. "An agoraphobe who opens her door every time she hears you coming?" He shakes his head and turns his back to crunch over to the refrigerator to chill the 6-pack.
Kris is trying to keep it together, but it's exactly as hard as he'd expected. His abs are trembling, his stomach threatening upheaval.
Adam looks up when he doesn't answer, a frown on his face. "It's gonna be okay, babe. Trust me. Now, which way is your dustpan?"
Adam shoos Kris out to sit on one of the couches while he cleans the kitchen, keeping Kris talking the whole time he sweeps, shoves things into trash bags. Kris talks about whatever Adam wants him to, from the people he's hooked up with since he moved here, to his strategies for recording demos to sell his music. The tension doesn't leave him; he sits with his hands in fists, staring at the blank TV screen as it throws his reflection back at him in the dying sunlight. And then Adam switches on the lamps and draws the curtains closed and hands him a beer and sits next to him on the couch and says, "What's in the violin case?"
"Viola," Kris corrects, answering his question by accident.
Adam grins. "You play the viola. What's up with that?"
"Bluegrass; pretty standard stuff in Arkansas. Just cause you grew up on some beach in California and can't relate to us Southerners..."
Adam's smile dims and Kris notices, coming out of himself enough to see what he did just by referencing Adam's past. He opens his mouth to ask about it but Adam says, perking back up, "You have hidden depths, Southern boy!"
Kris ignores that diversion attempt. "You don't talk about yourself," he says to the beer in Adam's hands. When he flicks his eyes up, Adam looks caught and nervous.
"I talk all the time," he deflects.
"About things and other people. Not about you," Kris insists.
"I disagree-"
"Adam, you're going to a lot of trouble to fix me here," Kris says, his tension finally finding an outlet, a target. "But I don't know what's going on with you. What are you getting out of this?"
"I'm not getting- This is for you, Kris."
Kris can't help the skeptical look.
Adam squirms and amends, "Okay, maybe I get a normal boyfriend out of it."
Kris shakes his head, frustrated. "I get that, but it's... I wanna know where you're coming from. Why won't you talk about your past? What's so bad that you-"
"My life is not open for discussion tonight," Adam says stiffly, a wall between them now.
"Says who? You've got me spilling my guts about everything. It's not fair that you're holding everything back."
"Life isn't fair."
"You did not just use that platitude on me." Kris is really warming to this fight. It feels good to be something other than afraid here.
Adam looks momentarily embarrassed. "Crap, I didn't mean to say that."
"But you did. It's important to you, isn't it; your life isn't fair?"
"No, my life's been-" Adam stops short and turns his head away.
"Come on, spit it out! You think I'm crazy already. So what's so awful you can't talk about it with a crazy person?"
Adam stands up and paces and it finally occurs to Kris that if he presses much harder, Adam might leave. Oh shit.
"I'm sorry," Kris blurts, "I shouldn't have-"
Adam looks at him, surprised by his apology. "What?"
"I'm sorry," he repeats, wishing he could take it back. "I shouldn't have said that. It's none of my business. You've been awesome, and I-" Adam blanches and Kris stops talking, lets Adam see how much he regrets pushing his boundaries.
"You have a right to know," Adam says, like it's painful to admit. "But I'm just not ready to...go there."
Kris moves his hand against the back of the couch, the slightest signal. Adam sees it, knows what it means. He comes back to the couch and sits down awkwardly. Kris doesn't touch him, gives him space.
Adam says softly, "I'll talk about my...issues, but not tonight. Okay?"
"Yeah," Kris accepts, and they look at each other and at the beers in their laps until Kris can feel the silence start gnawing at him again, reminding him that he's not in a safe place. It has to be filled somehow, so Kris offers a do over: "So yeah. I play the viola."
"Yeah," Adam says eagerly.
"I started it in school, but I had a private tutor, too. I was never gonna be winning competitions with it, but you know, it fit into my plan of making it big in Nashville..."
"Nashville," Adam glowers, clearly remembering their first conversation at his apartment.
"Yeah. But down here, nobody's doing bluegrass. At least, not that they're booking session work for. So she's been boxed up for a long while."
"You don't practice?"
"Not here. The bylaws are really strict about noise, 'specially at night."
"Well," Adam pulls his cell phone out to check the time, "it's 9:30 on a Saturday. That's not night, right?"
"You're not serious," he protests, although he should have seen it coming.
So Kris ends up pulling the case from the bottom of his closet, unpacking the viola and tuning off of the pitch pipe in the side pocket. He stands in his living room, trying to clear his head of all the bad things this place represents. He looks down the strings at Adam's face, open with expectation, and says, "This is one of my favorites. Not many people know it, though," and he starts to play Return to the Brandywine.
Adam is watching him, his eyes big and smile broad, and Kris can't tell if he's laughing on the inside or not, so he closes his eyes and just lets the melody flow, sweet and nostalgic. When he opens his eyes on the last note, Adam's smile is soft. "Beautiful," he says, and Kris thinks he means it. "Play another."
Kris starts the Lovers Waltz next, giving Adam one he'll recognize. Adam's expression doesn't change, though; there's no sign he knows this piece. When he finishes, Kris lowers the viola and says, "You really don't know any bluegrass, do you," incredulous.
"Nope, none," Adam says cheerfully. "And until today, I've been loud and proud about it. But I think I could watch you play that thing for years and not get bored."
It's just flirting, but Kris has realized how much he's missed playing his girl, so he takes Adam's words at face value and tells him, "Then get yourself another beer, cause I'm not done yet."
He plays another dozen songs, getting himself back in tune with the strings and bow, the emotions he can express without words or vocal chords. But when he glances at the DVD clock and it shows 10:05, he wraps the song up just one verse and chorus shy and packs away the instrument before the neighbors start complaining.
Adam pulls out the chicken and avocado sandwiches and makes Kris eat all of his, even though he isn't hungry. They finish the beers over Adam's dirty and amusing stories about the people at Simon's, even though Kris can tell that Adam feels uncomfortable. Like he suspects Kris is gonna call him on the shallowness at any second. So Kris laughs recklessly, loud and deep, pretending nothing's wrong between or around them until he convinces himself that it's the truth.
It's well past midnight when Adam yawns and says, totally organically, "Time for bed?"
Kris yawns too and says, "Yeah," and then tenses up all over again. "I mean, no. Not yet."
"C'mon, sweetie," Adam overrides him, standing up and taking hold of Kris's shirt. "I'm tired. We're going to bed."
He pulls Kris to his feet by the sleeve of his cotton t and tows him toward the bedroom. As they pass the kitchen Adam's heel kicks one of the empty beer bottles and Kris flinches at the sound, wound tighter than ever as he remembers the things he's heard at night, the things he's felt.
Adam doesn't even try to reason with him, just stands Kris in front of the bed and orders him to remove his clothes, presses pajamas into his hands and threatens to help him dress himself when he doesn't immediately put them on. Kris makes his hands move, steps into the pants, pulls on the new t-shirt, not looking while Adam strips next to him. And then Adam walks him to the side of the bed, turns on the bedside lamp and pulls back the sheets, helps Kris climb in and get settled.
Adam walks around to the other side of the bed and slides under the covers, pulls Kris into his arms, against his bare chest. Kris is shaking; he's one loud sound away from chattering teeth. He tries to lay still, focuses on his muscles instead of what's making them shake. Adam runs his hand down the front of Kris's t-shirt, kisses the back of his neck. He shifts his hips closer, traces lower, over Kris's soft cock through the pajama bottoms. Kris follows the touches with his eyes closed, trying to let Adam distract him from his terror, but it isn't working.
After another moment, Adam kisses up into his hair and says, "I promise, everything's gonna be okay, baby."
Kris feels him squeeze tighter before Adam puts his head down on the pillow behind him and his arms stay warm and strong around him.
Part 3
Fandom: American Idol
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 50,000 [complete]
Warning: Horror
Disclaimer: Total fiction. No infringement on the rights of real people intended. Not profiting in any way.
Playlist: Read and download the playlist.
Summary: "You're sleeping in your car."
"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.
"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."
"Yeah."
"You really don't have any place to go, do you?"
"No, I do, I just. I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, unable to meet Adam's eyes.
Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
Kris leaves the motor running because he doesn't plan on taking long; not because he plans on running out of the building with the devil on his heels. When he opens the front door, he's greeted by nothing. The faucet is dripping in the kitchen sink, same as it always does, and the rotating fan is blowing, but everything else is quiet. There's no presence. Kris breathes easier and slips inside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. Just in case.
He hurries to the bedroom and digs out his old backpack, throws in a couple pairs of jeans and t-shirts, pajamas, even a plaid button-down in case he gets a chance to work in the next few days. His toothbrush, deodorant, shaving kit—he's got almost three days of stubble on him and it's itchy as hell. He's got everything he needs for a short motel stay and he's heading for the door with his guitar in hand when he turns back and notices the perfect row of cracked picture frames propped against the bedroom wall, glass chips shimmering on the carpet.
Seconds later, Kris is out in the parking lot and he doesn't even remember if he closed the door behind him or not, is pretty sure he doesn't care. He rips open the back door of the Toyota and shoves his guitar case and backpack inside, slams the door and throws himself into the front seat, fighting to suppress the panic attack he doesn't wanna have in front of Adam. He forces himself to take long, slow breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth until he thinks he's calm enough to turn and acknowledge the other man in the car.
Who is looking politely away. Great. Kris thumps his skull against the headrest in frustration before remembering what he'd meant to do before he saw the latest damage. He twists around and thrashes his hips a little to squeeze between the two seats, reaching into the back to spring a clean Henley from his backpack. He peels off the nasty t-shirt and tosses it into the backseat, pulls on the new white shirt.
With both hands on the wheel once more, Kris turns the keys and starts them back to the highway. Adam is the first one to speak. "Almost dinnertime. You wanna stop somewhere? It's my night off."
It's a relief to not be alone yet. Kris takes them to an outdoor retail/restaurant development he likes, down by the lake. He watches nervously for people's reactions to his companion, because Adam had added two shades of purple eye shadow and black mascara to his already lined eyes before they left the costume shop. And now, instead of looking like he's in a punk band, or a little emo or something, his eyes look feminine, bright and obvious. No one seems to spare Adam a second glance, though. Kris sorts through how he feels about that and ends up with relief that he's not in Arkansas anymore.
They sit at one of the retro diner's outdoor tables and eat hamburgers and greasy fries while Kris tries to fix the balance in their relationship. He tries to get Adam to talk about himself, starting with how he got the gigs at the Wyndham and Simon's.
Adam shrugs and explains his Thursday through Monday schedule at Simon's, Tuesdays-only at the lounge, and how he's angling to pick up extra nights at the high-paying Wyndham when any of their other performers miss a night. He's talking around the details Kris wants, dishing about the people he works with, the commitments he has, but not how they've shaped his life, or what his life was like before he met them.
And when Kris can't take the runaround any longer, he stops pressing, lets Adam coax out of him all the details of his own musical career in New Orleans, from the song writing to the session gigs to the busking for extra income.
Adam looks around when Kris explains he's had good success here—it's a prime neighborhood for busking; lots of people, lots of outdoor dining this time of night. Adam finishes his soda and suggests that Kris give it a go right now. "I gave you a command performance last night. It's time to show me what you've got."
The sun is behind Adam, making it hard for Kris to read his eyes. Given how quiet Adam's been for the past hour, Kris isn't sure if Adam's just encouraging his plan to make money for a motel to be rid of him faster, or if he actually wants to hear something.
But he decides not to care and goes and gets his guitar out of the car, setting up in his favorite spot near the mouth of the restaurant courtyard. Adam pays the tab—his contribution to the day's gas expense—and eventually comes over to sit on the opposite benches to watch.
Kris is uncharacteristically nervous. He's sung in front of dozens of people at a time, hundreds back at school. Singing to an oblivious stream of passersby should be no big deal. But he remembers the look on Adam's face after the lipstick kiss, and he's so afraid he's gonna disappoint. He starts with a Tom Petty song cause he could use a little bravado and watches Adam watching him as he starts to sing. Adam's face isn't giving him any feedback, and he knows he doesn't have a voice like Adam's, or that stage presence, but he tries harder, he tries his best, putting his whole heart into it.
The music gradually lightens his mood, erases the tension from visiting the condo. Adam is there for part of it and then disappears, reappearing during the next song with a Starbucks cup. He continues watching and listening. Night falls and Kris doesn't even notice. He sings for three hours straight without a break, without sitting down. He stops worrying about being Adam's ride and keeping Adam there so late, even forgets about Adam entirely toward the end, until Adam is putting a hand over the frets before he can start another song, bringing Kris back down to earth, to the pain in his feet, the aching dryness in his throat.
"That's enough tonight, sweetheart," Adam says gently.
He helps Kris unshoulder the guitar and collect the money from his case. Almost $145, one of his best hauls yet. Kris is physically exhausted but emotionally recharged and ready to get himself a motel room for the night. But when they get back to the car, Kris slides the guitar into the backseat and then Adam is pressing him up against the driver's door, hand sliding under Kris's clean shirt, mouth on Kris's ear, hips and thighs pressing him against the warm steel frame.
"Fuck the motel, you're coming home with me," he says roughly, lips finding Kris's.
Adam isn't there when he wakes up. Not that Kris reached for him before he'd even opened his eyes, his body somehow remembering the long-broken habit of falling asleep with someone next to him. No, Kris didn't consciously remember Adam until he'd recognized the black sheets and long windows with vertical blinds, sunlight giving the big bedroom a warm glow. He leaves his hand on Adam's cold pillow for a few seconds, lies to himself that he'd just been reaching to smooth the fabric.
He pulls his pajamas back on and sticks his head out of the bedroom looking for Adam, but he isn't in the kitchen or the living room. Kris knocks on the bathroom door, expecting to hear Adam's voice, but he doesn't answer. When he tries the knob, the unlocked door swings open on dark tiles. Kris frowns and looks over his shoulder, surprised that Adam would leave him alone in his apartment. He'd mentioned using the fitness center sometimes....
Kris flips on the light and takes a shower, using only the minimum of hot water in case Adam wants a shower when he gets back from wherever. Clean pants should never be a luxury, but Kris takes a moment to appreciate them anyway as he tugs them on. And then he takes another moment to wonder where Adam's gone again. And whether he would mind if Kris helped himself to his bread.
Kris pushes yesterday's groceries around to clear a small corner of the kitchen table and eats two slices of toast and blackberry jam while he checks his voice mails. It's only 7 a.m., maybe the studio will have something for him today....
There's been no word from the studio, but there's an upset message that his mom left last night. Kris rolls his eyes and calls her back, apologizes for missing their last two weekly calls. No, he isn't dead in a ditch somewhere, he's just been...busy. He's been getting out a lot more. Yes, out with people. His mom can't bring herself to ask if he means men or women, and Kris doesn't want to push her boundaries, not after his divorce and coming out almost got her kicked out of their church. And he can't bring himself to tell her what's been happening at the condo. He finally convinces her that he's good, he's happy...and maybe he actually is, because it's so easy not to think about the hard stuff at Adam's place.
He cleans up after breakfast and relocates to the couch, skimming through Adam's copy of Rolling Stone for a few minutes until the door opens. Kris looks up with a smile on his face and a "Hi!" for Adam.
But Adam pushes the door open and pauses a moment like he hadn't expected to see him there, shoves the door shut behind him, clomps over in big shitkicker boots to look down at him, just the other side of the coffee table. He looks pissed off. Kris jerks his bare feet off the table and closes the magazine in case he's overstepped.
Adam says, "You're up early. Good," and drops something on the table with a loud thunk. Two somethings. Kris's wallet and car keys.
Kris stares at them and then back up at Adam, and then back at the keys and wallet on the table. Had he left them in the way? Had Adam had to move his car? "Is there a problem?"
"Yeah, a big one," Adam agrees, hands on his hips. "And it's time you tell me what it is."
Kris hates this kind of game. This is the way Katy would start their fights. "Why don't you tell me what you're talking about, cause I have no clue where you're coming from."
"Your place," Adam says bluntly. "I just came from your place."
"What?" That's the instinctive thing to blurt, while his brain takes an extra two seconds to catch up. Because he must have heard wrong, Adam hadn't said- "You went to my place?"
"Yeah. I thought it was time to have a look around. Find out what was so scary about your home." Adam uses air quotes and all the sarcasm in his well-stocked, drag queen arsenal.
Kris stares up at him in growing horror, his mind simply refusing to accept what he's hearing.
"And you know what? I still have no fucking clue. I went all over in there. I looked in your closets, your bathroom, your kitchen...it's a nice place, Kris!"
"No," he says weakly, shaking his head.
"Yeah, and you know what? You own it. Yeah! You didn't tell me that! Here," he pulls a folded envelope out of his back pocket and throws it on top of the keys. This month's mortgage bill. "So why don't you tell me what the fuck you're doing on my couch, when you own a nice fucking place! Huh?"
And Kris shouldn't say, "You invited me," but that's exactly what comes out of his mouth, because his brain has checked out and curled up into a little ball of denial now that this conversation is finally happening.
Adam actually freezes for a few seconds, staring at him like he's grown another head, his eyes bugging out a little. "You did not," he sputters. "I have not been letting you crash at my place just so you can.... God, I don't even know you!"
"I wasn't," Kris protests, not sure what he's denying.
"I thought, you know, maybe it's dangerous at your place. Bad neighborhood or something. Or maybe you had a scary roommate. Or were hiding from somebody, an ex-boyfriend, loan shark, whatever. But there's nobody there, Kris. The place is empty, it's all yours. So why the fuck aren't you there right now?"
Kris looks anywhere but at Adam and notices the sunlight on the windowsill. "You went in the morning-"
"No," Adam cuts him off, shifting his weight back and forth like he's too angry to stand still. "You said you couldn't go back there at night. So I went at night. And aside from a creepy neighbor with really bad taste in lipstick, there was nothing wrong."
"No, you must've. It must not've..." Kris's world is turning upside down. Adam was in there at night and nothing happened? But there have been nights when Kris was there and nothing happened. "It wasn't active, you didn't see it."
Adam flails his arms and grabs his hair, and Kris can practically see the migraine he's causing him. But Adam overcomes, drops his hands and calms himself down. He crouches down on the carpet, then kneels, sits on his boot heels looking up at Kris earnestly. "Okay, let's. I'm sorry. Let's start over. Okay? I took your car and went to your place last night because I wanted to know what was scaring you so badly. I don't want you to be scared. That's all. So. How about you just...tell me why you think you can't be there at night."
And oh my god, Kris suddenly wants to cry. Nobody'd asked him that before now, not even Adam, so he hadn't had to say it, but. Adam asked. "I." He takes a deep breath, locks his core to stop the trembling. "It's...haunted."
Adam looks at him for a long time, probably expecting him to be joking. "Haunted," he eventually repeats.
Kris nods, shakes his head, miserable. "Yes. I don't know. I don't know what it is, but it's in there and it wants to kill me. It moves things at night and...and when it starts I can't move, and I can't fight it, and I..." He forces another breath into his lungs. "I can't be there."
Adam is just watching him now, no sympathy and no anger. "You think your condo is haunted," he says slowly. "And that's why you've been sleeping in your car, crashing on my couch..."
"It's," Kris protests, "it's real. And does things. It breaks dishes. It broke all my picture frames while I was away."
"Let me tell you what I saw," Adam says, totally cool. "I saw a mess. Food everywhere. Clothes on the floor. Broken furniture. Smashed photos. D'you know what that looked like to me?" He looks hard at Kris, demanding his full attention. "That looked like anger. You're lashing out at someone and you're taking it out on everything around you."
"No," Kris shakes his head vigorously because he needs Adam to believe him. Adam's the first person he's told, and he doesn't want to be alone with this secret any longer.
"Who's making you this mad? Is it your wife? Has she been calling you? Or did somebody hurt you-"
"No, stop! It isn't me."
"Kris, you need to talk about this. I can't deal with...I can't help you if you're gonna keep hiding from it. No matter what you believe, there's something else going on here."
"Fuck you, I'm telling you the truth! I'm not having some kind of delusion; there's something in there and it does things at night and it's scaring me to death!"
Adam rocks back on his heels, his face a blank even beyond the lack of makeup. And Kris finally notices what Adam looks like. There's no glamour, no effort, his appearance as plain as any straight man on the street. He looks exhausted, nothing more.
Adam doesn't believe him.
"You shouldn't have gone there," is all Kris can say, pathetic, giving up already. Adam's never going to believe him. All he can do is try to protect him. "It's dangerous, even if you think I'm crazy or paranoid or delusional. You can never go back there at night."
"Trust me, I don't plan to," Adam says, flat.
Adam's disappointment cuts through him sharp as claws. Kris stands up, unable to bear that look in Adam's eyes. "I'm. I'll go."
I'm sorry. Thank you.
He can't bring himself to say either.
Adam stands and moves to the windows, giving Kris space to move around the apartment, to collect what he needs. Kris tries not to look at Adam, arms crossed in the sunlight, freckles on his nose and cheeks, completely closed off.
It's only when he's at the door, backpack on his hunched shoulder, that Adam says, "If you need to talk..." He doesn't finish the offer.
Kris bites back the pleading, the desperate need to be believed. He opens the door and walks out.
Kris drives west until he's near the airport's crop of motels. He picks a Red Roof Inn with a flashing $55 sign and pays for two nights up front. He's got a place to stay. He's got time to think. He's got the space he thought he needed to clear his head, come up with a plan. That's what he'd wanted, so he should be happy. He orders himself to cheer up and think positively, but ends up lying by the pool in his pajamas pants, listening to his iPod and sulking all day. He stays in that night, falling asleep exhausted on the scratchy sheets.
The studio wakes him up at 6:30 a.m. with a call for a day-long session. It's his first session gig in a week, and Kris is beyond grateful. He puts on his last clean set of clothes and hustles downtown before rush hour to study up.
Today's amateur musician is a Moroccan girl doing some kind of African-Pop fusion crap that doesn't hold together. The real problem is her lack of song structure. Kris tries to make a few suggestions after the first two hours, but the little 19-year old rich girl cuts him with the nastiest glare and tells the studio producer that she didn't book this time to have to talk to no-talent wash-ups. Kris takes the producer's head jerk to heart and shuts up for the rest of the day, does his best to make her awkward chording sound good with her uninspired vocals and, unbelievably, the silly bongo samples she brought in.
Kris catches himself smiling at the thought of explaining this nightmare "musician" to Adam, and his stomach and smile sour.
Shit. Even though he knows he can't go back, he can't stop thinking about Adam. He knows this feeling. And he hadn't realized how much he'd missed it these last three years.
Kris gets off work, cashes his studio check, and stays downtown to get a po'boy for dinner. He eats on a bench overlooking the Mississippi, delaying the inevitable for a few hours. He even pulls his guitar out and plays for a little bit, quiet, not for anyone else. The chord pattern for a new song runs through his head but he resists the urge to start writing lyrics just yet—he'll need something to occupy his mind later when this all falls apart.
Just before 9 p.m. he drives over to Simon's in time for the early bird drink specials and buys three bottles that he takes over to the side counter and starts nursing. The place is already pretty crowded and dark, and he doesn't see Adam wandering around before the show. But at 10 p.m. the DJ calls everyone's attention to the stage, the lights go crazy, and Adam struts out in gold glitter spandex pants, a white tunic belted closed at the waist—the one they'd bought together two days ago—white platform boots, glitter in his hair, and eyes sparkling a rainbow of colors.
Kris shifts his remaining two bottles closer to the front of the club so he can watch Adam swivel his hips and shimmy his shoulders as he sings with no voice again... And if Kris is here to be masochistic, he wants to feel the full hurt, so he drains his second beer in one go and stalks back to the sound board where some tall guy with bleach blond gelled hair and tight leather pants is nodding his head to the Kylie Minogue remix he's blasting, hands roving over the soundboard and completely ignoring Adam's mute strutting.
Kris slams his empty bottle down next to the board, spilling the guy's girlie-drink over the wooden table. The sound guy looks up and flails before attempting to sweep the pink frozen cocktail off the table with his bare hands. He leans over Kris and yells at him to keep his drunk ass away from the sound board. Kris grins meanly up at him and deliberately tips the beer bottle over. Nothing comes out, but the way the guy jumps and tries to stop him makes him laugh a little.
The sound tech puts a solid bitch face on and leans over Kris again, shoves at one of his shoulders.
And that's what Kris was waiting for. Kris grabs that arm and yanks the guy down to his level so he can growl "If you don't make him fucking sing, I'm telling the cops you're selling weed to minors back here." And then he lets go, turns his back, and returns to his spot on the side rail to watch the show.
Adam's vocal levels suddenly pop, and heads that were oblivious to the physical presence on the stage turn at the sound of a high, effortless voice wailing about becoming a stronger woman without you. Kris smiles around the growing lump in his throat and sips off his third bottle, watching Adam shine like he was supposed to. Jesus Christ he's gonna miss him. Touching him. That kiss. Fuck.
Kris ditches his unfinished beer and switches to Jack.
It's a different experience, being in this club without the pressure of needing to hookup, needing to find a place to spend the night. That motel key in his pocket feels like a winning lottery ticket—at least a temporary one. Kris loses interest when the other singers perform—to his mind, they've got nothing on Adam when his levels are done right. He's thinking about maybe trying to get backstage to say hi, hoping Adam won't have him thrown out, but he figures the odds on either count aren't too good.
So he stays where he is and drinks his drink and watches the people around him. But for all his watching, he didn't see the guy coming who slides a hand along the bar behind Kris's back and has an arm around his shoulders before Kris even knows he's there. "What's your pleasure," he rumbles in Kris's ear, beard scratching his skin.
Kris stiffens and glances up but the guy has a white smile and high cheekbones and that Nawlins drawl and he's tipping his bottle against Kris's shot glass and raising his eyebrows over warm, dark eyes. And it's easy to smile back, duck his head a little and say "Jack Daniels" and let the guy buy him another round.
Adam comes back onstage for his second set and Kris gets distracted, so the guy—Ben—maneuvers them to a table, putting Kris's back to the stage. Kris lets it happen, is actually grateful when Ben puts his hand on Kris's forearm and squeezes when Kris starts to look at the stage over his shoulder. Kris tries to tune out Adam's voice doing an over the top Freddie Mercury scream and listens to Ben compliment his eyes. Kris throws the compliment right back, admiring the uptilt at the corners, the sweep of long lashes without mascara or liner. He's traditionally handsome. Totally masculine. The kind of guy Kris was interested in before he met Adam.
Ben smiles wider and tilts his head, gaze never straying, and his hand stays warm on Kris's skin. It's flattering and uncomplicated and it makes Kris feel so normal. And when the last performer is singing his last few numbers of the night, Kris leans forward and asks if Ben wants to get out of there.
Ben practically leaps out of his chair, pulling out his wallet to pay his tab, and Kris stands up and grins, tugging on his jacket and adjusting himself in his jeans. The club is packed with tourists and locals crammed around them, and two girls are already sliding into their abandoned seats before Ben's managed to flag down the overworked waiter. Ben puts a hand on his arm again, leans in close and says, "I'm gonna pay at the bar, meet me at the door."
Kris watches Ben's ass in his baggy jeans until Ben disappears into the crowd, and then makes for the cooler air by the entrance. He doesn't expect the hand on his shoulder, turning him back. "Change your mind?" he's saying as he turns, an arm already reaching up to pull Ben in for a persuasive kiss, but rainbow eyes bring him up short. "Adam," he says, unprepared for the very meeting he'd been hoping for when he came to Simon's four hours ago.
Adam is still in his stage makeup, but there's a black-and-red striped beanie pulled over the glitter in his hair, and he's changed to a blue t-shirt and jeans. "That guy. Stay away from him," Adam shouts over the music.
The reflective rainbows and glitter pulse hypnotically in the flashing lights, but those aren't the words Kris wanted to hear. "It's none of your business," Kris snaps, knocking Adam's hand away and heading for the door, because Adam is everything complicated he wants but can't handle right now and Ben is easy and comfortable and that's good enough.
Adam pursues, stops him again just outside the door. "I know. I know it isn't my business, but you don't need to do this just for a place to-"
There are people all around them, a few couples hanging out on the porch steps, the bouncers, giggling tourists snapping photos of New Orleans's most famous gay bar, the bass is thudding through the walls behind them, and Kris does not need his personal psychotic break shouted around in the god damn street. "No, no, shut up! This isn't about that. I have a place, a motel. This is just for me, this is what I want-"
"Then not him."
"Why not? You'd rather I went home with you?"
"Kris," Adam hisses, crowding him against the brick wall. "He'll hold you down!"
That hits like a cold splash of water to his face. It must show, because Adam's frown softens and he reaches out a big hand and Kris can't breathe, the fear is back and he buries his face in Adam's chest and gasps for air.
Adam is stroking his hair when someone says, "Adam...you know Kris."
"Yeah, he's with me," Adam tells him firmly.
Kris lifts his head, having to resist Adam's possessive grip until it eases, and sees Ben staring. Kris can't help but visualize what it would've looked like, staring up at Ben as he pinned him, so he shakes his head and looks away, hands fisted in Adam's t-shirt.
"You're okay, nobody's gonna hurt you," Adam says, pulling him back in, and Kris allows it, clings to Adam's well-intentioned comfort for a few needy minutes longer than he knows he should; they don't have this between them, Adam doesn't believe him, he's still on his own with his private nightmare...
Kris finally gets over the worst of it and pushes against Adam's stomach, clears a few inches between them. Eyes closed, he says, aiming for a casual conversation, "You and Ben, huh?"
"Yeah," Adam sounds a little guilty.
The brown eyes, tan skin. "Your type," Kris realizes.
"To a point. He wasn't sweet."
"I guess not." He lets out a shaky breath. "Thanks, then."
"It was-" Adam stops. "Kris."
Kris opens his eyes and looks up. Now it's Adam who has his eyes closed, arm braced over him. The rainbow appliqués are beautiful, but Kris can see where sweat cut through his makeup, loosened the adhesive at the edges so the sequined corners are peeling off.
"I'm sorry about yesterday. You have a problem and I just...couldn't understand." Adam scrunches one of his eyes closed tighter like the big rainbow patch itches and Kris itches to peel it off for him, to see the black eyebrow underneath. "You were telling me you need help and..."
He shoves Adam away and steps out onto the street, not liking where Adam's persisting concern is going. "I'm not a head case," he insists to the man he knows is following him. "At least, I'm pretty sure I'm not," he adds quietly, to himself. Saying that aloud doesn't hurt as much as he'd expected; god, he's come such a very long way from normal. "I don't need you or some psychiatrist telling me it's all in my head, because it's not."
"Okay," Adam agrees, falling into step with him.
Kris digs his hands into his jacket pockets and stares at the ground in front of him so he doesn't have to see Adam looking down at him with so much compassion. "I'm not gonna end up in a fucking loony bin for the criminally insane just cause I bought the wrong house."
"Totally not. No shrinks, that's cool." Adam kicks at a plastic Budweiser bottle. They watch it roll down the street, following in its wake. "Um. So, do you have a plan? For dealing with your ghost?"
Kris is 95% sure Adam's just humoring him, but fuck if the other 5% isn't appealing. "Not yet. I was supposed to be concentrating on that, but I ended up at the studio all day so..."
"Hey, that's good," Adam says, focusing too much on the last part of the sentence. "But not good about the plan thing," he amends. "So um. I did some thinking, after you left. Now, don't laugh okay? Because I'm serious. Have you considered those paranormal reality shows? You know, you could like, call up their producers, sell them your story. They make you a celebrity and maybe even kill your ghosts?"
Kris stops and glares up at Adam's shining, earnest face.
"You could even put some of your stuff on the soundtrack, sell some records. What do you think?"
He glares and glares and finally Adam cracks and starts laughing, and Kris is a little pissed, yeah, but it's so completely ridiculous it's refreshing, breaks him out of his sulk.
Adam throws an arm around his neck, pokes him in the ribs. "Man, your face."
"Ha ha, not funny," he tries to sound severe but it's a struggle.
Adam pokes him again and says, turning them back toward the club, "It was my idea, so I want a piece of your end."
"You want a piece of my end," Kris repeats, half innuendo, half relief that Adam isn't running away from him in terror.
"Well, now that you mention it..."
Kris follows Adam through the backstage entrance and tries to stand out of the way in the small dressing room as Adam hangs up the discarded tunic and leggings in a big storage locker. He tosses the boots onto the pile of footwear at the bottom and shuts the door, closes the combination lock. Makeup case in hand, Adam gestures to the exit again and when they're in the parking lot it's natural for Kris to offer Adam a ride home, since Metairie is on his way to the airport.
But in the car, Adam pulls his seat forward a little and doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's staring at Kris's face. When they pull up at his apartment building, Adam reaches his hand out, hovers it over Kris's clenched fist on the wheel. "I don't want you to be out there alone," he says.
Kris twitches.
"I just. I need to know you're okay, and if you're alone out there I'll worry."
It's not a convincing argument, especially when Kris sees the guarded look in Adam's eyes. But it's Adam who is—isn't—asking, and even though Kris put $55 of hard earned cash into that motel room for tonight, he doesn't want to be alone either.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admits, leaves himself open to persuasion.
"We're gonna figure that out together." Adam's hand moves, lands on his arm instead of his fist. "That's what friends do. Okay?"
And there it is: friendship. The prettiest joke Kris has heard since 'til death do us part. He says, "My stuff is at the motel."
Adam settles back against the seat. "Then let's go get it."
Kris puts the car in drive and doesn't look at his passenger.
He carries his backpack and Adam carries his guitar and when his things are all in Adam's living room, Kris takes another moment to wonder what the hell they're doing. Why is Adam letting his life get tangled up with Kris's like this? He knows, deep down, that Adam doesn't believe him, yet Adam's still looking out for him. God, if he'd gone off with Ben, if something had happened... What are the odds that Ben would've been as understanding as Adam?
Kris spreads a blanket out on the familiar couch and pulls out his pajamas, sits and waits his turn in the bathroom. Adam has the water running, the door mostly closed, and then Kris hears a gasp, a soft, "Shit, shit, ow you fucker, shit," and he stands up to investigate.
Through the crack in the door he glimpses Adam bent over the sink in just his boxers, face inches from the mirror, pulling the second appliqué off his eyebrow with both hands, wincing and going ridiculously slow.
Kris grins a little despite himself and says, loud enough to be heard, "Didn't your momma teach you—you gotta yank 'em off fast."
Adam yelps and his eyes shoot up to see him in the mirror. He rolls his eyes and bats at the door with one hand, tugging it open so they can talk. "Yeah, well, yanking loses eyebrows. Slow and steady is the path to true beauty." He leans back to the mirror, lifting up the edge of the sequined piece again.
Kris doesn't know why he keeps watching. He'd wanted to do this earlier; take the fake stuff off so he could see the real Adam underneath, but that isn't accurate. Adam is Adam, no matter what accessories he wears. Adam makes another pitiful sound and dances a little with his feet as he renews his tugging. Kris smiles and leans against the doorframe to watch. It takes another fifteen seconds of squirming torture before the last corner lets go and Adam flicks the rainbow onto the sink with a look of pure loathing. And then he sighs and turns the pair upside down, dabs the backs with a damp towel.
"You're keeping them?"
"Probably. Hurt like a son of a bitch but they look fucking fabulous." Adam lays them down on the towel and pats them flat, then scoops up some cold water to rub over his face. The skin is red and glowing around his eyes. Kris thinks he should get him some ice, but he's held there by Adam's gaze, brilliant blue against the red when he wipes away the drops and sees Kris still there.
The moment stretches and Kris is stepping forward without thinking, approaching the mirror. If he looked to Adam's left, he would see his own face, would know what he was saying with it. He moves to a point just behind Adam's stooped shoulders, where he can see Adam's reflection head on.
Adam watches him, hands poised against his temples, breathing hard. And then he says, "Fuck it," and turns, pulls Kris against him and kisses him steady and slow, fingers roving over eyebrows, ears, cheeks, and curling at the nape of his neck.
It takes him apart, that much attention and care, just like at the costume shop. Every vulnerability Kris has is suddenly ripped open and bleeding in front of someone who knows the worst of him. He whimpers and tries to keep his knees strong as Adam sucks on his lower lip, tilting Kris's chin up for a better angle.
He can't have this, he brutally reminds himself. He can't fall in love like this, not with a complete stranger. Adam knows him, but Kris doesn't know Adam. He tries to take over the kiss, step up the pace, change the mood, but Adam won't be rushed. He flirts with Kris's tongue, licking and sucking slowly, frustrating Kris's attempts to hide behind lust.
Until Kris stops fighting and lets Adam give all he wants. Lets Adam guide him to the bedroom, strip the clothes off him and lay down beside him, stroke him until they're both shuddering, and Kris comes arching and moaning into Adam's mouth, gasping out half-formed words that Adam licks away.
After their 2 p.m. breakfast, Adam lifts his legs so Kris can sit on the couch and then stretches out again, legs draped over Kris's thighs.
Kris stabs his last piece of cantaloupe and bites it off the fork, careful not to drip on Adam's baby-blue pajama bottoms. And then he says, "Tell me what you're thinking about," because he feels like they've gotten to the point where he can at least ask that, even if Adam doesn't have to answer him yet.
But Adam says, "You," without hesitating.
Kris's heart beats a little faster in response. "What about me?"
Adam's face shifts from thoughtful to frowning. "I'm trying to believe you."
Kris swallows the cantaloupe and drops his fork in the bowl. "Oh."
"See, I believe that you believe there's a ghost, but I just...I can't make that leap."
"I know," Kris agrees, trying not to take it personally. "I didn't believe it for the first few weeks either. And I'm the one it was happening to."
"If you had some kind of proof..."
"I know!" Kris agrees again, more sharply. "But if I had proof, I'd be selling the documentary rights. There's just me, and the things I know I saw. That's all I've got."
Adam digs his heel into Kris's thigh for a second. "I wanna believe you, I really do. So I was thinking. If I spent the whole night at your place, would I-"
"No!" Kris says, one hand grabbing the bowl harder, the other squeezing Adam's ankle.
Adam slaps on an innocent expression as he rotates his ankle slightly in Kris's grip. "Huh. I don't recall giving you this hard a time scoring an invite to my place..."
Kris is deadly serious, though. "You're not going in there again. If it hurt you.... I can't let that happen."
"So far it's just scared you, right? Moved things around? So what makes you think it'll hurt me? It left me alone last time-"
Kris shakes his head, getting angry at the fright Adam had caused him. "I can't believe you went there alone. That was so stupid, Adam."
"Tell you what," Adam squirms on the couch, pulling himself upright so he can reach Kris's cheek with his fingertips. "What if I don't go alone?" Kris jerks back at the harmless words that feel like a knife attack. Adam bites his lip but doesn't drop his hand, leaves it out there. "I don't know what else to do here, sweetie. How are we supposed to beat this thing if you won't even let me see it?"
"I don't wanna go back there," Kris begs, even though he knows it's inevitable—he'll have to go back for all his belongings, at least in the daylight.
"I won't let anything happen to you, baby, I promise." Adam is looking at him like he wants to wrap him in cotton wool and protect him from the world and Kris closes his eyes and lets himself lean back toward that outstretched hand.
It's a selfish hope, lying to himself that it could possibly be okay to do that to Adam, to let Adam bring it on himself. He shakes his head, but that slides Adam's fingers against his skin in a caress. Words; he needs to tell him no with words.
"And if you're worried about your boyfriend finding your porn stash, forget it. I already know it's under the jeans in your bottom drawer."
The crack makes Kris laugh and the word makes the knife twist sharply and he bends over and wraps his arms around Adam's knees and holds on.
It has to be that night, because once he gave Adam permission, the man couldn't be stopped. He's on a mission to save Kris from whatever demon Kris's mind has cooked up—despite Adam's protests that he's willing to be open-minded about the supernatural, Kris doesn't think Adam's actually trying all that hard to hide his disbelief—and the sooner he can get Kris straightened out, the better. Kris feels guilty when Adam calls out sick from his Saturday night show at Simon's, making up a gruesome story about one of the rainbow-sequin patches slicing into his cornea, necessitating at least 24 hours in a dark room without movement, but no need to worry; he should be fine in time for Sunday's show.
Adam provides the energy for Kris's day, smiling and telling him how awesome everything is going to be, not showing the least bit of nervousness. So Kris pretends that Adam's right and goes through the motions of a day: flips through the songbooks in Adam's bookcase; watches TV for an hour; eats the avocado salad Adam lovingly prepares. And then Adam packs an overnight bag, a couple sandwiches, a few beers, and Kris, and puts them all in the car an hour before sunset.
Kris drives them back to the condo, singing along to the pop station and losing himself in harmony with Adam's amazing voice until the exit sign comes up and he can see the roofs of his development over to the west. The sun is near the tops of the trees when they get out of the car and Kris looks up those steps, instinct telling him to get back in his car and drive away. Adam stands at his shoulder, though, and Kris isn't going to chicken out in front of him. So he straightens his spine and leads the way.
When he gets halfway up the stairs he spots Mrs. Mitchell standing in her open doorway looking the two of them over. "Evening, Mrs. Mitchell," he says, smile tight.
"Allen," she says dispassionately, her eyes focused on the man behind him.
"This is my friend Adam," Kris volunteers, but when he glances over his shoulder, Adam is staring at her just as suspiciously.
"We've met," Adam mutters.
Mrs. Mitchell frowns at the singer and then slams her door shut as Adam reaches the top of the stairs.
"She gives me the creeps," Adam whispers as Kris fumbles out his keys. "I think she watches your door or something. 4 a.m., she's standing in that doorway in green velour sweats and full Tammy Faye makeup. What the hell."
"Don't be ridiculous," Kris reasons. "She's just bored. Or lonely."
"Or creepy."
Kris gets the lock to turn and the door swings open and he catches his breath, standing on the threshold of his fears.
And then Adam steps around him, walks right through the door into the condo like it's just an ordinary doorway. Kris follows, drawn after him by an invisible tether, enters his home and lets the door close behind him. It looks the same as last Wednesday, at least in the living room where there was nothing to move around. But in the kitchen...
"What's her deal?"
It takes Kris a second to pull his eyes away from the cereal exploded all over the linoleum and counters, to focus on the conversation Adam wants him to have. "Uh. I don't know. I heard she's been here since it was built. She never leaves her place, not that I've seen. The mailman thinks she's agoraphobic."
Adam sets the bags down on the counter, sending Lucky Charms cascading onto the floor with a casual sweep of his hand. "An agoraphobe who opens her door every time she hears you coming?" He shakes his head and turns his back to crunch over to the refrigerator to chill the 6-pack.
Kris is trying to keep it together, but it's exactly as hard as he'd expected. His abs are trembling, his stomach threatening upheaval.
Adam looks up when he doesn't answer, a frown on his face. "It's gonna be okay, babe. Trust me. Now, which way is your dustpan?"
Adam shoos Kris out to sit on one of the couches while he cleans the kitchen, keeping Kris talking the whole time he sweeps, shoves things into trash bags. Kris talks about whatever Adam wants him to, from the people he's hooked up with since he moved here, to his strategies for recording demos to sell his music. The tension doesn't leave him; he sits with his hands in fists, staring at the blank TV screen as it throws his reflection back at him in the dying sunlight. And then Adam switches on the lamps and draws the curtains closed and hands him a beer and sits next to him on the couch and says, "What's in the violin case?"
"Viola," Kris corrects, answering his question by accident.
Adam grins. "You play the viola. What's up with that?"
"Bluegrass; pretty standard stuff in Arkansas. Just cause you grew up on some beach in California and can't relate to us Southerners..."
Adam's smile dims and Kris notices, coming out of himself enough to see what he did just by referencing Adam's past. He opens his mouth to ask about it but Adam says, perking back up, "You have hidden depths, Southern boy!"
Kris ignores that diversion attempt. "You don't talk about yourself," he says to the beer in Adam's hands. When he flicks his eyes up, Adam looks caught and nervous.
"I talk all the time," he deflects.
"About things and other people. Not about you," Kris insists.
"I disagree-"
"Adam, you're going to a lot of trouble to fix me here," Kris says, his tension finally finding an outlet, a target. "But I don't know what's going on with you. What are you getting out of this?"
"I'm not getting- This is for you, Kris."
Kris can't help the skeptical look.
Adam squirms and amends, "Okay, maybe I get a normal boyfriend out of it."
Kris shakes his head, frustrated. "I get that, but it's... I wanna know where you're coming from. Why won't you talk about your past? What's so bad that you-"
"My life is not open for discussion tonight," Adam says stiffly, a wall between them now.
"Says who? You've got me spilling my guts about everything. It's not fair that you're holding everything back."
"Life isn't fair."
"You did not just use that platitude on me." Kris is really warming to this fight. It feels good to be something other than afraid here.
Adam looks momentarily embarrassed. "Crap, I didn't mean to say that."
"But you did. It's important to you, isn't it; your life isn't fair?"
"No, my life's been-" Adam stops short and turns his head away.
"Come on, spit it out! You think I'm crazy already. So what's so awful you can't talk about it with a crazy person?"
Adam stands up and paces and it finally occurs to Kris that if he presses much harder, Adam might leave. Oh shit.
"I'm sorry," Kris blurts, "I shouldn't have-"
Adam looks at him, surprised by his apology. "What?"
"I'm sorry," he repeats, wishing he could take it back. "I shouldn't have said that. It's none of my business. You've been awesome, and I-" Adam blanches and Kris stops talking, lets Adam see how much he regrets pushing his boundaries.
"You have a right to know," Adam says, like it's painful to admit. "But I'm just not ready to...go there."
Kris moves his hand against the back of the couch, the slightest signal. Adam sees it, knows what it means. He comes back to the couch and sits down awkwardly. Kris doesn't touch him, gives him space.
Adam says softly, "I'll talk about my...issues, but not tonight. Okay?"
"Yeah," Kris accepts, and they look at each other and at the beers in their laps until Kris can feel the silence start gnawing at him again, reminding him that he's not in a safe place. It has to be filled somehow, so Kris offers a do over: "So yeah. I play the viola."
"Yeah," Adam says eagerly.
"I started it in school, but I had a private tutor, too. I was never gonna be winning competitions with it, but you know, it fit into my plan of making it big in Nashville..."
"Nashville," Adam glowers, clearly remembering their first conversation at his apartment.
"Yeah. But down here, nobody's doing bluegrass. At least, not that they're booking session work for. So she's been boxed up for a long while."
"You don't practice?"
"Not here. The bylaws are really strict about noise, 'specially at night."
"Well," Adam pulls his cell phone out to check the time, "it's 9:30 on a Saturday. That's not night, right?"
"You're not serious," he protests, although he should have seen it coming.
So Kris ends up pulling the case from the bottom of his closet, unpacking the viola and tuning off of the pitch pipe in the side pocket. He stands in his living room, trying to clear his head of all the bad things this place represents. He looks down the strings at Adam's face, open with expectation, and says, "This is one of my favorites. Not many people know it, though," and he starts to play Return to the Brandywine.
Adam is watching him, his eyes big and smile broad, and Kris can't tell if he's laughing on the inside or not, so he closes his eyes and just lets the melody flow, sweet and nostalgic. When he opens his eyes on the last note, Adam's smile is soft. "Beautiful," he says, and Kris thinks he means it. "Play another."
Kris starts the Lovers Waltz next, giving Adam one he'll recognize. Adam's expression doesn't change, though; there's no sign he knows this piece. When he finishes, Kris lowers the viola and says, "You really don't know any bluegrass, do you," incredulous.
"Nope, none," Adam says cheerfully. "And until today, I've been loud and proud about it. But I think I could watch you play that thing for years and not get bored."
It's just flirting, but Kris has realized how much he's missed playing his girl, so he takes Adam's words at face value and tells him, "Then get yourself another beer, cause I'm not done yet."
He plays another dozen songs, getting himself back in tune with the strings and bow, the emotions he can express without words or vocal chords. But when he glances at the DVD clock and it shows 10:05, he wraps the song up just one verse and chorus shy and packs away the instrument before the neighbors start complaining.
Adam pulls out the chicken and avocado sandwiches and makes Kris eat all of his, even though he isn't hungry. They finish the beers over Adam's dirty and amusing stories about the people at Simon's, even though Kris can tell that Adam feels uncomfortable. Like he suspects Kris is gonna call him on the shallowness at any second. So Kris laughs recklessly, loud and deep, pretending nothing's wrong between or around them until he convinces himself that it's the truth.
It's well past midnight when Adam yawns and says, totally organically, "Time for bed?"
Kris yawns too and says, "Yeah," and then tenses up all over again. "I mean, no. Not yet."
"C'mon, sweetie," Adam overrides him, standing up and taking hold of Kris's shirt. "I'm tired. We're going to bed."
He pulls Kris to his feet by the sleeve of his cotton t and tows him toward the bedroom. As they pass the kitchen Adam's heel kicks one of the empty beer bottles and Kris flinches at the sound, wound tighter than ever as he remembers the things he's heard at night, the things he's felt.
Adam doesn't even try to reason with him, just stands Kris in front of the bed and orders him to remove his clothes, presses pajamas into his hands and threatens to help him dress himself when he doesn't immediately put them on. Kris makes his hands move, steps into the pants, pulls on the new t-shirt, not looking while Adam strips next to him. And then Adam walks him to the side of the bed, turns on the bedside lamp and pulls back the sheets, helps Kris climb in and get settled.
Adam walks around to the other side of the bed and slides under the covers, pulls Kris into his arms, against his bare chest. Kris is shaking; he's one loud sound away from chattering teeth. He tries to lay still, focuses on his muscles instead of what's making them shake. Adam runs his hand down the front of Kris's t-shirt, kisses the back of his neck. He shifts his hips closer, traces lower, over Kris's soft cock through the pajama bottoms. Kris follows the touches with his eyes closed, trying to let Adam distract him from his terror, but it isn't working.
After another moment, Adam kisses up into his hair and says, "I promise, everything's gonna be okay, baby."
Kris feels him squeeze tighter before Adam puts his head down on the pillow behind him and his arms stay warm and strong around him.
Part 3