Fic: Community Rules for Hauntings AU 3/6

[samanthahirr]

Title: Covington Marshes Bylaws, Section 13.D: Community Rules for Hauntings
Fandom: American Idol
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 50,000 [complete]
Warning: Horror
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 wakes up to the sound of the living room curtains being drawn. His stomach clenches in the familiar fear until he remembers he isn't alone, realizes it's bright in the room; did he really make it to dawn?

"Adam?" he calls. He starts to sit up, blinking against the light, but he's suddenly slammed down onto the mattress and held there. He can feel it sitting on his chest, snarling down at him, and he tries to scream, tries to struggle.

"Kris, what-" Adam says right beside him and oh god Kris never should have brought Adam here, he's in danger and-

Something shatters out in the living room and Adam gasps, leans over him saying, "What the hell was that, Kris! Kris!" Adam looks panicked. The lights flicker, all of them at once like a brown out, and Kris can't tell Adam to get out, can't even turn his head to look as Adam grunts next to him, saying, "Kris, move damn it!" because it's right there in the room, and also in the living room, and even in the bathroom, and he'd once thought that was a safe place. It's everywhere and moving and so angry, so full of hate. It wants to bite into his stomach and rip out his guts, but it doesn't have teeth, doesn't have claws, not yet, and Kris is making high, whimpering sounds in his throat because it's just a matter of time, it's getting stronger every night, it's going to get its teeth and it'll-

"I'm here, Kris, I'm right here. Breathe, baby. It's gonna be okay, I promise, everything's gonna be fine. Shh, just stay calm, keep breathing, everything's fine." The shadows on the ceiling go crazy as a lamp flies across the room. "Shit!" Adam yells. "Holy fucking shit! This isn't happening. Leave him the hell alone!"

And Adam is standing on the bed trying to face it and something bangs impossibly loud in Kris's ears and Adam falls out of his line of sight and Kris is screaming past his frozen vocal cords, something keening and awful, because Adam isn't talking anymore, Adam is hurt or dead, he's dead and it's Kris's fault, he was the one who knew this thing, knew what it could do, and he'd wanted to convince Adam so badly.

Kris stares at the ceiling, his eyes locked open, but he can't see anything, can only go by what his ears are telling him, and what that thing is telling him, whispering to every cell in his body.

It's so quiet where Adam should be. And it's quiet in the other rooms now. And the hatred is lessening, the presence fading away, but not the paralysis. Not yet. That always lasts the longest.

At last, with a gasp that burns like unfiltered cigarettes, the weight is gone and he can move, there's nothing on him, there's nothing-

There's something on his wrist and he whips his head over to see Adam half on the bed, squeezing his wrist in a death grip, his face white, hair a mess. "Adam," Kris croaks.

Adam makes a noise and pulls hard, drags him off the bed and into his arms on the floor, clutches him for a few seconds and then orders, "Grab anything you need, we're leaving now."

Kris can't stop crying—has been crying for minutes, it seems—but he makes himself let go of Adam and grabs up shoes, jeans, a few more shirts from his closet, his music notebooks, cell phone charger, old laptop, and shoves them all into a suitcase. Adam has his own jeans on, if not closed, and he throws his shoes into Kris's suitcase too, grabs a fistful of boxers from the top drawer, an armful of photos from the floor, and throws those in to top it off. Kris zips up the suitcase, Adam grabs jackets, keys, and viola case from the living room, and they're stumbling out the door barefoot, past the shadow that moves through the light shining under Mrs. Mitchell's door, down the covered stairway to the car in under 90 seconds.

Kris throws the luggage in the backseat. Adam runs around the car and folds himself to fit behind the wheel, sticks the keys in the ignition. He barely waits for Kris to get the passenger side door closed before they're rolling, tires squealing and automatic transmission revving up to 4,000 RPMs before they're out of the cul-de-sac.

As the distance grows between the condo and them, Kris starts to feel better. He can reach out and touch Adam if he wants to, he can look at Adam hunched over the steering wheel and know that he's alive, they're both alive, they made it.

"You okay?" Adam asks, catching Kris's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"I think so," Kris says, taking a quick mental inventory. He's definitely alive. He can finally tell that the torn open feeling in his gut isn't actually a wound, just the ache of the adrenaline rush and panic wearing off. His pulse has slowed and he can breathe again even if his throat is still swollen from tears. But there's an actual physical pain he can't explain and that's new, makes him need to remember the details he would rather forget. "My shoulder hurts. I don't know what..."

"I tried to get you off the bed," Adam says softly. "You were lying there and I kept pulling and I couldn't move you. Something was keeping you there..."

Move damn it. His whole body jerks in response to the remembered command and he clutches the growing bruise around his wrist.

Adam shudders next to him and the engine revs louder. Kris tries to concentrate on the street lights flashing ahead and above them, and not on the hollow blackness that closes in as they cross Lake Pontchartrain at 4 in the morning.

Adam parks the Toyota outside a Waffle House as soon as they clear the causeway and they wordlessly open the suitcase, donning shoes and the rest of their clothing before heading inside. They don't talk again until they're huddled side by side in a corner booth, mugs of hot coffee in their hands and their eyes continuously scanning the room and the night outside the windows.

"That shit was real," Adam eventually says.

"Yeah." There's this sickening twist of relief in the back of his throat that Kris wants to spit out, wants to not be grateful that Adam went through that with him.

"No, holy shit, I can't believe that shit was real."

"Yeah."

"No wonder you've been a complete nut job about it."

Kris doesn't have the energy to be offended. "Nice, man."

Adam drags him in for a side hug and kisses the top of his head. "I'd apologize for not believing you before, etcetera, but I'm still in fight-or-flight mode. So let's figure out what to do about this crapstorm you're living under, and I'll apologize later."

"Don't look at me," Kris says glumly. "If I had any good ideas, I wouldn't've been hooking up just for an excuse not to go home."

"Oh my god, that place is not a home. Don't even use that word. That's, like, Rosemary's Condo you were living in."

A smile quirks the corner of Kris's mouth and he admits, "I was thinking Condo of the Damned, but I like yours better."

Adam shakes his head and says with conviction, "You've gotta sell it. There's no way you can live there with that."

Of course not. It wouldn't let him. But, "I can't," is all he says.

"Yes you can. It's not a great market, but there's gotta be some sap willing to pay bottom dollar. Slash the prices, take a loss; aside from a few busted lamps, nothing's obviously wrong with it or anything..."

"No!" Kris protests too loudly. He drops his voice to explain, "I can't send anyone else in there knowing what it'll.... It'll be on my head, and I can't do that. I shouldn't have let you go in there. I'm so sorry I let you talk-"

"Okay, no, stop that. That was my call. You don't get to feel guilty about any of this. You just have to get out from under it."

"But I can't sell it," Kris repeats with stubborn hopelessness.

Adam sighs, "You're right, I know. Just..." Adam leans harder against him, slurps his coffee. "Okay, you've got insurance, right? I say we burn the bitch down."

Kris can almost see the cleansing flames, smell the thick smoke, but, "It's a condo, Adam! If my place burns they all burn!"

"Well shit!" Adam slaps his hand on the tabletop, shifting unhappily on the bench. "You know.... What the hell is wrong with this thing, hanging out in a 5-year old condo in Covington! Shouldn't it be haunting some big, creepy house in the French Quarter?"

Adam isn't the first of them to ask that question, but Kris suddenly resents the implication. "You would've believed me from the start if I'd said it was in the French Quarter, wouldn't you!" He leans back so he can catch Adam's face with a glare.

"I don't know. Maybe?" Adam shrugs, not looking contrite. "I don't believe in ghosts, but I just met one so...what the hell do I know?"

Kris shakes his head and drinks his coffee, fights to keep it from coming back up. "What do we do?"

After a long moment Adam offers, "My reality show idea is starting to sound pretty good right now..."

"Fuck you."

"How about, like, an exorcism?"

"That's for people, not houses. And I'm lapsed-Baptist, anyway. What about you?"

"Lapsed-Jew. Punt."

Kris folds his arms and tries not to sulk too obviously. "We don't even know who or what this thing is," he sighs. "They would've had to disclose any suicides or murders during closing, and it's not like there are condo bylaws on how to handle a haunting." Adam had just said life's not fair a few hours ago. For the umpteenth time, Kris fights the urge to whine about the unfairness of this happening to him.

"Oh my god. Can you imagine what the next home inspection would be like?" Adam whispers, trying to hide the giggles Kris can feel building in his chest.

"Focus."

"I'm sorry, not funny, just. Yeah."

And Adam giggling next to him, trying to be serious for him, actually settles the last of Kris's panic—the low level he's had with him for months. "I'm never going back," he says with sudden certainty. After months of wondering what to do, carrying that burden all by himself, he's finally got it in perspective; some fights just aren't worth it. "I don't care if I go broke, if they foreclose, evict me. They can't make me go back there." He's beaming, a huge smile he can feel stretching his lips and cheeks. "And I'm gonna be okay."

Adam hugs him again, even tighter, pressing his face into the back of Kris's neck. "You are. I'm not letting you go back there. You come crash at my place for however long it takes."

And that sounds amazing, not having to worry about the condo anymore. He could stop paying the mortgage this very week, throw out the bill at the bottom of his backpack to speed up the process. Once it's no longer under his name he can put it behind him for good. Adam is a warm, solid wall anchoring him to reality, reminding him that he could have a life outside of that nightmare. Fuck all the debt; he'll take the shame of bankruptcy over one more night in that place. If he doesn't go back, it can never touch him again. If it's no longer his, it's no longer his problem...

"Oh god, they'll sell it."

"What?" Adam mumbles against his skin, lips and nose smooshed against his spine.

Kris tenses up all over again and shakes his head, Adam's hair tickling his ear. "If they foreclose, the bank'll resell it. To somebody who won't know what's in there."

Adam squeezes harder. "Not your problem."

"No, no," Kris argues, because it is, it so is. He can't let it get its claws, fangs, in anybody else.

Adam grips his shoulders and shakes him, looks down at him sternly. "It's not your responsibility to protect the world from ghosts that like moderately-priced condominium communities." Kris sticks out his jaw in protest. "I'm serious. Nobody warned you, okay? It wasn't anybody's responsibility before you, so you don't have to take it on yourself now."

Kris twists his body away and looks at the tops of heads he can see over the plastic booth dividers around the restaurant. Unsuspecting people with no idea that things like that are real. "Yeah I do."

Adam doesn't react for a long moment and Kris is steeling himself for the inevitable, although he hadn't realized how much he'd been relying on a unified front to get through it. Adam was the one who'd started the 'we' talk, and in the last five minutes Kris had made that word a key part of his plans.

Just before Kris can offer him the out he deserves, Adam sighs and curses, "God damn it," as expressive as the filthiest insult or deathbed curse.

Kris pushes at his coffee cup rather than look at him.

"Alright, I get it," Adam says at last. "But that means we're still stuck on figuring out how to kill it."

Kris spins around, his knees colliding with Adam's, his funny bone whacking the edge of the table, but he finds Adam's lips and grabs his hair and kisses him desperately.

Adam kisses him back, but pulls away immediately. "What, you thought I was gonna pussy out on you?" His tone is teasing, but his smile wobbles and Kris kisses him again, slower, wondering how the hell he met someone like Adam in the middle of a waking nightmare. When Kris finally lets go of Adam's hair, the singer twists his fingers with Kris's on the table and looks at their coffee cups with shining blue eyes, says, "We're gonna need another pot, cause I'm not leaving here before sunrise."



Dawn dispels a lot of the dark thoughts circling in Kris's head, and Adam throws down a $20 for the tolerant waitress and they head out to the car, barely awake. They lean on each other in the elevator up to Adam's apartment. Kris drops his suitcase on the floor just inside the doorway and Adam heads straight for the bedroom, flicking on all the lights as he goes. Daylight is streaming through the windows. Kris follows, pulling his clothes off along the way.

They crawl into bed naked, Adam spooned up behind him like the night before, keeping Kris safe. Kris closes his eyes against the light and sleeps without dreaming.

The alarm goes off at 2:15 in the afternoon. Kris opens his eyes to the broad expanse of freckles that is Adam's back, Kris's arm draped over the taller man's stomach. He grunts and turns his head to see the clock, jostles Adam to wake him.

"'s 2 o'clock. D'you need to be up?"

Adam moans a little without using consonants and doesn't move.

Good enough. Kris rolls away from Adam, flings an arm out to slap the snooze button, silencing the obnoxious car commercial. And then he rolls over again to snuggle against Adam's back, arm wrapped around him as he passes out.

Three jarring snoozes later, Kris is getting seriously pissed at the alarm clock. He gives up on sleep and drags himself out of bed, stumbling toward Adam's bathroom for a shower, eyes only half-open. He ends up just standing under the warm spray, too tired to reach for the color-safe shampoo. He hasn't felt this exhausted since...since the final days of the divorce proceedings.

The bathroom door opens and someone moves on the other side of the translucent curtain, yawning loudly. Kris lets Adam take his morning piss and then pulls back the curtain to grab his arm, tugs him closer for a kiss.

Adam protests the water spraying on him, Kris dripping on him, and then gives up and leans closer, mumbles against his lips words that feel like good morning. Kris smiles and pulls him the rest of the way into the shower where he can push Adam against the tiles and lean his weight on him. Adam sighs and runs his hand through Kris's spiky brown hair, kisses him again and again, his tongue slowly stroking Kris to full consciousness, until he can stand up on his own, rock his hips against Adam with growing urgency.

Kris slips a hand down between them to touch Adam, hard and hot against his stomach. Adam bites at his tongue and Kris moans, his pulse picking up. He needs this, needs Adam, needs to be as close as he can get.

Adam feels his new intensity, pushes off of the wall and ducks his head under the water before asking, "Can I wash your back?"

"Please." Kris turns to brace himself against the back of the shower stall, his hands finding purchase on the cool, wet tiles.

A bottle cap snaps while Kris listens, eyes closed, nerves open and waiting. Warm hands slide up his back and out over his shoulder blades, slippery with a citrus-scented soap. Kris arches into them, hisses a "yes" as they push hard over sore muscles, forcing the physical traces of last night out of his flesh. He's sweating already, can taste the salt on his upper lip when he licks. Adam removes his hands for a brief moment, returns with more soap, squeezing Kris's neck until the muscles there relax. Kris moans again and shifts his hips, slides his legs a little wider.

Adam's fingers drag down his spine, going right for his ass, spreading his cheeks and nudging at his hole. Adam leans close and nips at his ear, whispers, "Baby, I..."

"God, please," Kris pleads.

Adam slips a finger inside, slick and easy and hot. Kris squirms and rocks back a little. Adam gives him another, squeezing it in, then pulling out and shoving back in, fucking him open and loose. Kris leans his forehead against the tiles and pants as Adam says, "You're so pretty like this, I can't even take it. Open up for me. That's it. You want another?"

Kris nods, loving the ache that's starting in his thighs, his hips thrusting back against Adam's fingers as he pulls out and lines up with three, pushes in, pushing him wide open before crooking at just the right angle to make him gasp and start thrusting in earnest.

And then Adam goes still behind him, in him, and says, "Fuck, I don't have the condoms-"

"Oh my god," Kris says, banging his forehead against the wall. "Go! Go get them! I'll wait right here." He points an imperious finger toward the door, hand knocking the shower curtain askew.

Adam yanks his fingers out and Kris hisses, but the curtain rings jangle sharply and he's pleased to open his eyes and see Adam's dripping ass running out the door of the bathroom, getting water everywhere.

He returns a moment later, holding the box up like a prize, and Kris doesn't care that he's braced naked and exposed in the open shower, his wet skin cooling, his cock hard and obvious. He can't possibly feel awkward when Adam is so clearly all for him.

Adam fumbles out a packet and tears it open, rolls it on, gives Kris an embarrassed thumbs up as he squirts out a dollop of lube. Kris rolls his eyes and shimmies his hips in invitation and Adam steps carefully back into the shower stall, drawing the curtain closed around them.

Afterward, glowing and exhausted, Kris tries to take Adam back to bed for a nap. Adam looks torn, says, "But the coffee pot's on...."

Kris should be outraged that his boyfriend is choosing coffee over him, but then Kris's stomach rumbles and Adam grins hopefully. "You're lucky, mister," he says, shoving Adam's shoulder as they leave the bathroom.

Adam pours them coffee and lets Kris scramble up some egg whites for their breakfast, supervising the whole time. Kris grumbles, "I can make eggs, Adam. I used to make my own food before I met you."

Adam mumbles into his coffee mug, "The contents of your fridge strenuously disagree."

"So you know all my dirty little takeout secrets, huh?"

"And your addiction to sugary cereals. Tsk, Kristopher. What would your mother say?"

Kris swats at his leg with the eggy-spatula and Adam dodges, swiveling his ass in tight jeans with rhinestones on the back pockets.

They sit at Adam's small table and eat like people who aren't couch potatoes for the first time, and then Adam says, before they clear away the plates, "Did you see Drag Me To Hell?"

"Hell yeah," Kris grins. "With all the corpse vomit. That was fucking funny."

"Yeah. But how cool was the séance scene, with the goat?"

"And the guy gets possessed and tries to kill them, yeah. Do you have that movie?"

"No, but...I meant, like, the woman trying to break the gypsy curse for the girl. Food for thought."

Kris blinks at Adam's shifty eyes and then grimaces. "Adam. I really doubt I've been cursed by a gypsy."

"Mrs. Mitchell-"

"-is not a gypsy. Okay? I think she's on some 24-7 customer service job or something. Like a telecommuter. She hasn't put a curse on me, so let it go."

Adam frowns but changes the subject. "How about The Exorcist?"

"What about it? Have I seen it? Yes. Did I like it? Not really. Do I think a Catholic exorcism is appropriate for my condo? We covered that last night."

"What about Supernatural? On TV? Sam & Dean are pretty fucking hot."

"You're totally a Dean-boy," Kris accuses.

"...short, muscled, sensitive, gorgeous..."

"I'm sitting right here."

"I meant you, love," Adam teases.

Kris fights back a grin and shoves at his elbow. "And what inspiration am I supposed to take from your favorite TV show?"

"You kill ghosts by salting and burning their corpses."

"I don't know where to start," Kris sighs. "With the part where we don't know who this ghost was, or the part where I'm not about to dig up a body in this lifetime."

"We could try some Ouija boards and hand holding..."

"Yes on the hand holding, nix on the Ouija boards. Seriously, Adam, we're not gonna get the answer from a TV show."

Adam chews on his thumb, looking determined to figure it out right then and there. And then he kicks a little at the opposite chair and says, staring at the table, "There's a little voodoo shop a few blocks from Simon's. I've walked past it a few times."

Kris snorts. "I'm not gonna fall for some tourist trap voodoo crap."

"Hey, I don't believe in it either, but neither of us believed in ghosts a few months ago," Adam protests. "So who knows, maybe they can help. At least there'll be real people there, since you have a problem with Hollywood as my oracle."

Kris hesitates. It's a really stupid idea. Totally stupid. It's also the best idea they've come up with so far. "I'll...consider it," he relents.

"We could go before the show tonight. It's Sunday, but everything on Bourbon Street's open late."

"Maybe."



That's how they end up standing outside the tackiest tourist trap in New Orleans at 8:30 that night, Kris with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Adam.

"Look, let's at least talk to them," Adam says through gritted teeth, refusing to admit his idea sucked. "What's the worst that can happen?"

"You are so gonna pay for this," Kris mutters as he pulls open the door, a small bell ringing over his head.

It smells like dust and incense and lavender inside, both sides of the empty, narrow little shop lined floor-to-ceiling with jars of twigs, powders, liquids, and baskets of blank, faceless dolls.

"Oh, this is great." Kris scowls at the voodoo dolls and the strings of bright Mardi Gras beads hanging from the ceiling.

"Can I help you?" a young guy about their own age asks, appearing behind the counter 10 feet ahead.

Adam takes the lead, walking purposefully up to the desk with Kris in tow. "Hi," he says, his tone brusque, "can you direct us to a real voodoo shop?"

The brown-skinned guy's caramel-colored eyes go wide and he huffs, "Excuse me? I don't go into your place of business and ask to be directed to some real drag queens."

They both gape, and after a long moment Adam says, "Snap!" looking like it hurts.

"How did you-" Kris starts to ask.

"Waxed eyebrows," the guy says, his eyes flicking insultingly over Adam. "So, what problems do the drag queen and the little gay cowboy have that I can't help them with?"

Adam visibly fights his way back to politeness, clears his throat and puts his hand on Kris's chest. "Sorry. Okay, I'm Adam. And this is Kris Allen. And Kris's place is haunted."

"Uh huh. Garden District or French Quarter?"

"Covington," Kris supplies.

"Hmm. That's a little off the beaten path but..." The guy pulls out a cell phone and starts typing, humming to himself while they wait. After a few seconds he starts writing something down, pushes a store flyer across the desk toward Kris. "Here you go. That's Jimmy's number. He runs ghost tours on the weekends. Let Jimmy look over the place, and if it's got good vibes maybe you can get on his route."

"No, I don't wanna...I need to kill it."

"Kill it. A ghost."

Kris makes a frustrated sound. "Whatever it is. It's trying to kill me, and I can't live there 'til it's gone. Can voodoo get rid of it?"

The guy stares at him like he's stupid. "Voodoo doesn't really do hauntings. Let me guess; you watched The Skeleton Key, didn't you."

"Weekend at Bernie's II," Adam admits in Kris's ear.

Kris's jaw drops and he slaps a hand over his mouth to hold back an inappropriate guffaw. "You had better be joking," he hisses to Adam.

Adam just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, his mouth twisted around a shit-eating grin.

The guy clears his throat, glaring.

Kris sucks it up and gets serious again. "Listen, I don't know anything about voodoo. All I know is there's something in my home that wants to kill me, and somebody's gotta have the answer. I'm sorry if we've offended you, but I'm just looking for help."

The guy scrutinizes him for a long minute and then sighs and looks around the shop. "Most of what I've got here are just charms for the living; good luck, fortune and wealth, uncrossings; you get where I'm going. Mass market stuff. But the really powerful voodoo..."

Adam nods, "That's what we want."

"...I should probably pass you off to Theresa. You might need, like, a cleansing ritual or something."

"That sounds great," Kris says eagerly, jumping on the suggestion.

"Okay. Um, you guys wait outside for a few minutes while I make some calls, cool? Be right out."

Kris grabs Adam's hand and tugs him quickly out of the shop. "I can't believe you," he starts as soon as they're on the sidewalk.

Adam just loops his arms around Kris's back and drags him in for a nuzzle. "I know. I'm incredible."

"Weekend at Bernies?! And you walked right in there and insulted the guy the second you met him! Jesus, I'm lucky he'll even speak to me now."

"Baby, you know you were thinking the same thing," Adam says soothingly.

"Yeah, but I'm not gonna blurt it out like that," Kris shakes his head.

"Relax. He loves us. He found our honesty refreshing."

Kris grits his teeth but doesn't pull away. He knows he's just unsettled because the voodoo guy didn't turn him down already; is bringing him another possible lead.

The door opens a minute later and the shop keeper comes out with another store flyer. "Okay, Mr. Allen. I got you an appointment with Theresa Mordeau. Her momma used to own this place; was one of the most powerful voodoo priestesses back in the day. Theresa knows her stuff, so if anyone can help you in this town, it's her. 10 a.m. tomorrow, her place. She's expecting you."

Kris snatches the piece of paper from him like a lifeline. "Thank you so much, Mr. ..."

"Michael Dee," he sticks out his hand and Kris shakes it gratefully. "Good luck with your ghost, Mr. Allen."



They stop by the car in Simon's parking lot to fetch Adam's makeup case out of the backseat before they head inside. Kris's chest is buzzing with hope; it's an amazing feeling. He isn't really listening when Adam drops off the case in the empty dressing room and heads off down the hall. Kris just leans against a wall, enjoying the confusing optimism he's found in voodoo of all things. His life is so ridiculous.

"Hey, babe, you okay?" Adam asks, sticking his head back into the dressing room.

Kris focuses on his concerned face. "Yeah."

"Do you wanna come out front with me...." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, like he's repeating something Kris missed the first time.

"Sure." Kris shrugs an absent-minded apology and follows Adam out into the back hallway.

When they get to the door to the main room, Adam takes a moment to introduce Kris to the bear of a security guard, all bushy beard, thick muscles, and beer gut. Adam tells him it's okay for Kris to go backstage whenever he wants. Chuck just nods and goes back to scanning the bar patrons.

It's Sunday night and Simon's is getting busy; almost 9 p.m. and the tourists have been drinking for a while as the locals start to trickle in. Adam takes Kris to the waiters' corner of the bar and introduces him to bartenders Julie and Steve, arranges for Kris to have a free tab all night.

Steve sizes Kris up with a saucy leer and then winks at Adam. "The usual, I see," he shouts in Adam's ear.

Adam grins. "Play nice."

Butch little Julie shakes Kris's hand and pours the drinks. He wonders if she remembers him buying her a drink after last call a week ago. When she drags Steve away to whisper and point at Kris, he figures that answers that question.

Refusing to feel awkward, Kris turns to Adam and teases, "And you and Steve..."

"Are just friends. Swear."

Adam kisses Kris's forehead and pulls him out onto the empty dance floor, drink in one hand and an arm around Kris's waist, rocking them to Aerosmith's way-too-loud Sweet Emotion. Adam croons along and Kris closes his eyes, letting the hope well up again, filling up all his empty spaces.

"AAAAAADAAAAM," someone shrieks a few songs later.

Adam whirls around, grabbing a woman with huge platinum hair and stiletto heels and an Adam's apple and drag queen makeup. Kris recognizes the second performer of Simon's nightly trio. "Daisy Baby," Adam shrieks back, twirling the outrageously thin man. Adam's drink and ice spill on the floor.

"Where the hell were you last night," Daisy demands when Adam sets him down. He throws up a hand. "No, don't tell me. Just tell me it was fabulous."

"It was something, alright," Adam says, still smiling like he isn't remembering the stay at Kris's condo.

"Oh who am I kidding? Dish! Dish! I want all the gory details. Come on and help me get my corset on. Shouldn't you be getting ready by now? It's practically 9:30! You aren't playing it straight again, are you? Cause honey, three-piece-suits ain't what they're paying to see."

Daisy swirls his finger to indicate the small group of men who are now gyrating on the dance floor and notices Kris standing behind Adam, staring.

"Hey there, you're cute," he says, extending his fingers like a lady.

Kris shakes the limp hand and says, honestly, "You're amazing."

"Ooooo!" Daisy squeals in a piercing, nasal falsetto. "A fan! I love fans. What's your name, cutey-pie?"

"Kris."

"Krissy, Krissy, do you wanna come backstage with me?" Daisy is sidling forward, Adam all but forgotten.

Kris flicks his gaze to Adam, whose eyes are laughing in a straight face. "I would love to," he says, proffering an elbow. "I hear you're having corset troubles."

Daisy slithers up against his side in his short dress and hooks arms, sharp elbow jabbing Kris's ribs a little bit. "Such a charmer," he sighs. "Oh, Adam, you should come, too," he adds as an afterthought.

Adam is looking at Kris like he can't wait to see what happens next, and he tags along as Kris leads Daisy to the performers' door.

Daisy sashays into the dressing room, fluffing his hair and flipping the back of his dress up with a coy smile at Kris over his shoulder. Kris grins and shakes his head, takes another sip of his beer.

"So, Kris, you've seen my act before?"

"Lots of times. Your Mariah Carey number on Friday, though...that was mind blowing."

"Mmm, it's not minds I'm trying to blow." Daisy unlocks the storage lockers and pulls out a red corset and ruffled black bloomers on a wooden hanger.

"Maybe you'll finally meet the man of your wet dreams tonight," Adam says, stepping around Kris to lean into the locker, pulling out leather pants and some kind of a yellow mesh top.

Kris takes a seat at the third performer's table and watches as Adam strips his shirt off and Daisy whips his sweater dress up and off.

Adam's all sleek and muscled, broad shoulders and long torso next to Daisy, whip-thin with a bra that Kris assumes is padded—although he can't tell when Daisy's back is turned—and complicated women's black lace panties, stockings, and garters. Daisy shoots a look over at Adam's costume choice as the tall man starts unbuttoning his jeans and says, "Honey, you're not gonna do the blue Cookie Monster again, are you?"

Adam snorts, "No. And hey, I like that one."

"Thank god. It's absolutely wretched. And I'll say it again; a fucking Avatar rip-off."

"Adam looks good in blue," Kris protests.

Daisy whips around, corset clutched to his chest. "Not in that look, sweetie. And hey, whose fan are you, anyway?"

"He's mine," Adam says, kicking off his jeans, bare-assed and unselfconscious.

Daisy glares imperiously at Adam's presumptuousness and then raises his eyebrows, looking closer at Kris. "Oh, you didn't! Adam, you dog, you found another one!"

"Another one what?" Kris asks.

"Daisy," Adam whines.

"Another one of his boys. Let me see: Tiny? Check. Pretty? Check. Southern? Hmm..."

Kris smirks at Adam's embarrassment, pulls out his thickest drawl. "I'm from Arkansas. Ma'am," he adds for good measure.

"Double-check," Daisy crows, pointing a finger at Adam. "Just like Drake, and Tommy, and Brad.... I swear, honey, sometimes I think you moved here just for the men."

"Daisy, come on," Adam rolls his eyes, tries to act like he isn't flaming bright red.

"Well, just keep an eye on him. Cause he's my type, too: a gentleman who knows how to flatter a girl. I'm liable to snatch him up when you're on stage."

"I don't think I have to worry about that," Adam says, meeting Kris's eyes and straightening his shoulders, his naked body turning into a great master's sculpture, something he could worship and study for centuries.

Kris gulps and tries not to swallow his tongue.

"Psht. You two. Just keep it in your pants back here. Adam, any time you wanted to put your pants on..."

Daisy pops a Backstreet Boys CD into a little stereo and the performers start warming up by singing along quietly, moving around each other in the small dressing room without getting in each others' way. Adam pulls on the pants with the loops of chain dangling over his thighs, adds a chain belt overtop, rubs glitter moisturizer over his arms, chest, face, and calls on Kris to cover his back. And then he pulls out two thick tubes with rollerball tops and starts drawing wide, diagonal stripes of yellow and green day-glow body paint around his torso, starting at his hips.

Kris immediately takes over, because obviously this isn't a one-man job and Daisy doesn't look like the kind of girl to get his hands dirty; he's still agonizing over his own face, applying a fourth type of lip stick, this one just to the corners. Adam stands in the center of the dressing room with his arms outstretched and Kris walks around him, alternating the colors in two-inch thick bands.

The mesh vest goes gingerly overtop, and then Adam sits at the dressing table to apply the stripes to his face and neck.

"Krissy, be a dear and tighten these ties, will you," Daisy calls, and Kris gamely takes over threading the corset on Adam's friend. And in that moment he comes up against a whole bunch of cross-dressing, transgender, subconscious prejudices from his Arkansas-Baptist upbringing that he needs to get the fuck over, stat. Once Daisy's satisfied that his totally-real breast implants are well supported, Kris helps him pin the Christina Aguilera wig to his head to complete the Lady Marmalade ensemble.

Kris checks back in on Adam's progress just as Adam finishes adding a little silver shimmer over his cheekbones. When Adam looks up and smiles at him in the mirror, Kris is stunned. Adam has become someone entirely different again. It's surprisingly exciting to have that in a boyfriend—someone who can change himself at will.

Adam is looking up at him with those hot blue eyes, though, and Kris can't concentrate on that thought for very long.

"9:55," Daisy interrupts. "You ready yet?"

"Shit," Adam hisses, grabbing a bottle of hairspray. "Kris, c'mere. I need this up okay? Just spray. Use the whole damn bottle if you have to."

Adam dips his fingers in a pot of gel and shoves them into his black hair, pulls it straight up. Kris starts spraying. Three minutes later, they've managed a black tangle that's four inches high, swooped back and spiky in places. It looks deranged, but it also looks intentional. Adam shakes his head back and forth, watching his reflection to make sure it doesn't move, and then laughs, "It'll do. C'mon."

At the performers' entrance, Adam pushes Kris up against the wall, his eyes burning into him. "Just so it's clear; you're mine," he whispers. And then he grabs Kris's chin and tilts his face up and kisses him, sloppy and wet and thorough.

Kris loses his breath, feels swept off his feet and fights the urge to touch Adam for fear of ruining the stripes. And then Adam is gone, pushing open the door, signaling to the DJ.

T. Rex's Hot Love kicks in and Kris follows Adam out the door.

He watches the set from side stage, just a few feet from Chuck's stool. It's a thrill to be that close, to watch Adam prowling around the stage arching his back and licking the microphone like some kind of psychedelic punk tiger. He's never stood where Adam could see him before, he realizes when Adam finds him, catches his eye and sings, "I'm her two-penny prince and I give her hot love." He finds Kris a lot, actually. Every time Adam sings something dirty, he looks at Kris. Every time he sings something hot, he looks at Kris. Every time he sings something tender he looks at Kris.

It's like he's getting his own private performance. In front of a packed club. Some of the guys on the dance floor are noticing and shooting curious looks his way. Feeling awkward, Kris drifts away to the bar down the right side of the room.

Julie sees him and meets him with a fresh Miller Lite, sliding it across the counter with a huge grin on her face. "Love the look," she pinches his cheek and winks.

Kris cocks his head, confused, and then catches his reflection in the distressed mirror behind the bar.

He's glowing.

Or rather, his mouth is glowing. Where Adam kissed him.

Adam's day-glow stripes are smeared all over his lips, unmistakable in origin. And Adam is up there aiming all his attention Kris's way, drawing everyone's attention to the glow he put there.

Adam's marked his territory. This is him flashing Kris around the club with a big "Hands Off" sign.

Kris thinks about wiping it off, but looking at the makeup on his face doesn't bother him like the lipgloss did. He takes his bottle and heads back to side stage, chin up and smiling.



When Adam comes off stage, Kris precedes him through the performers' door, keeping a few feet ahead while Adam stalks him. They pass Daisy in the hall and Kris misses what the second performer says before he waves and heads out into the club. All Kris cares about is getting into that dressing room, getting Adam alone.

He opens the dressing room door and finds it occupied, though. The third performer, a statuesque guy done up like Jessica Rabbit, is leaning over his makeup table with a finger in his eye.

"Oh, sorry," Kris blurts just as Adam catches up to him.

"Frankie, what's happening!" Adam calls, his palms on Kris's shoulders pushing him into the room.

"Hold on, there's this fucking, erm, damn it!" Frankie blinks a lot, then lifts his eyelid again and pokes some more.

"Eyelash?"

"Yeah, fuck, I can't get it out. Is the bathroom empty?"

"Kris, go check if the bathroom's free," Adam asks softly, letting him go. "Turn around and let me see," he says to his coworker as Kris ducks back into the hall.

By the time he pushes his way back from the other side of the club, Adam has Frankie standing under the overhead light, helping to hold back his eyelid and reaching in to do some poking of his own.

"Stop being such a crybaby-"

"You haven't even washed your hands, and they're fucking glowing," Frankie squeaks, knees bent to give Adam a better view, but shying away from Adam's fingers.

"Uh, the bathroom's all full, and there's a line in the hall," Kris says helpfully.

"You don't want them seeing you like this," Adam says.

"Duh. Just.... My makeup's all fucked anyway. Get me a shot glass of bottled water from the bar and I'll rinse the fucker out. Ow-ow, it stings so bad."

"Well, stop moving your eye!"

"Oh my god you are such a bitch-"

"On it," Kris volunteers, heading back out again.

When he comes back in with the glass and bottle of water, Adam has backed off and left Frankie to stand with watering eyes in the middle of the room. Mascara has run down his cheek and he looks completely miserable.

"When I cut my cornea on Friday it hurt way worse than an eyelash," Adam taunts.

"I hate you so much right now. Just see if I ever invite you over again."

Adam sees Kris and takes the bottle, smiling like he isn't taking the threat seriously. "Hey, we've got the water. You want me to wash it out?"

"Just fill the shot glass and gimme it."

Adam pours the water and presses the glass into Frankie's hand, making sure he has a good grip.

And then Frankie says, "This is gonna suck," and bends down, lines up the rim of the glass with his eye socket, and stands back up quickly, overturning the liquid onto his open eye.

"Shit, baby," Adam exclaims, grabbing up his own t-shirt from the back of a chair and pressing it around the glass to soak up the water leaking everywhere. "That was close."

"Oh maaaan," Frankie whines. "Did I mess up the wig?"

"Nah, you're good. How's the lash?"

Frankie tips forward gingerly, the glass only a quarter full, and blinks a lot. "Well now I've got makeup in my eye, but I think the lash is gone. Jesus that was stupid. Why'd you let me do that?" He grabs the wet cloth from Adam and scrubs at the right side of his face and then looks at the fabric in his hand. "Shit, this is your shirt, isn't it?"

"Don't worry about it; I'm doing laundry tomorrow."

"Sorry, man. Hey, who the hell are you?"

Bloodshot eyes narrow at Kris so he gives a little wave and smile. "I'm Kris. Adam's fan."

Frankie looks at Adam, then back at Kris's lips, and pushes his tongue against his cheek. "I can see that. Hi, I'm Frankie Duquesne, but you can call me gorgeous."

Kris smirks and ducks his head to get a better look at his glowing mouth in the dressing table mirror.

Adam takes back his shirt, drops it on a corner of the table and crowds up behind Kris, just inches away from rubbing against him. He nuzzles at Kris's cheek, spreading more green paint on his skin, watching Kris's reaction in the mirror. Kris keeps his eyes open, showing Adam exactly how much he likes the marks Adam's left on him.

"What's the crowd like tonight?" Frankie asks, sitting at the table next to them.

"Not terrible, but you know, it's Sunday."

"Yeah, I know. I'm borrowing your Visine. You brought it, right?"

Frankie reaches over to get at Adam's box on the table, but Adam nudges Kris out of the way and says, "Yeah, lemme get it." Adam sits in the second-hand office chair and starts rummaging through his box. Kris stands behind him and runs his fingers along Adam's hairline where he missed some spots with the day-glow paint. Adam hands over the eye drops and leans back into Kris's touch.

"Life saver," Frankie sings softly, his head tipped back for the drops. He shakes his head when he's done and rolls his shoulders, does a few scales. "Oh hey, what's this bullshit about calling out sick last night? I wasn't planning on longer sets."

"At least it was a Saturday?" Adam says by way of apology.

"Saturdays are good, but seriously, you're totally not blind so it better've been worth it. Has Simon yelled at you yet?"

"Haven't seen him. I don't think he's here tonight."

"You'd better call him tomorrow; he was totally pissed off last night."

"Yeah, yeah." Adam rolls his eyes at Kris in the mirror.

"m' serious, Adam. He thinks you're moonlighting again."

"So I need to call him and tell him I'm not cheating? Baby, you know you're the only floorshow for me..."

"Something like that," Frankie snickers.

Adam bares his teeth and rubs off a little makeup that's stuck to the enamel. "I get his lecture every damn month."

"We all do, honey. But some of us take it a little more seriously. I covered for you, just so you know. Told him I'd driven you to the 24-hour clinic myself."

"Thanks, babe. That feels so good."

Frankie shoots them a curious glance and quirks his lips. "Are you talking to me, or him?"

"Hmm?" Adam's eyes are closed.

"What's up with your hair? Did something die on your head?"

"Ran outta time."

"Uh huh. It looks like you got in a fight with Daisy and she set fire to your favorite wig."

"Blow me."

"...thinking about it," Kris whispers in his ear and Adam gasps, arches his neck back a little further. Kris takes a careful grip of Adam's chin and tips his face up so he can kiss him, lick the paint on his lips. Adam gives a happy moan and opens his mouth for him.

"What d'you think of this nail color? Does it say 'whore' to you?"

"Gthurm," Adam mumbles around Kris's tongue.

"Cause the last thing I wanna look like is a kinda-slutty prom queen with a quarterback boyfriend. It needs to scream 'whore.'"

Kris twists Adam's face to get a better angle and Adam helps, spinning the swivel-chair around so he can hook a hand behind his neck and pull Kris closer. Kris does him one better, sliding onto Adam's lap, straddling his leather-clad thighs. He holds Adam's hair so he doesn't fuck up the body stripes and bites Adam's lip, sucks on his tongue, still worked up from his strut, his voice, those possessive blue eyes finding him every few seconds.

Kris rocks their hips together, not close enough to get any real friction without rubbing against the vest and stripes, but Adam moans again and Kris grunts in frustration.

Frankie is still talking in the chair next to them. "I wasn't sure about it, but it was only $3 bucks, so what the hell, right? But it's maybe a little too hot pink for this dress. Look."

Adam tugs at Kris's hair, trying to get him closer, and Kris loses track of his hands, feels his thumb smear along Adam's jaw line as he holds Adam's head still. Shit. Well, Adam can fix it later. Which means he can also... Kris drops his hands to the curves of Adam's wide shoulders and squeezes, letting his fingers smear the greasy paint stripes.

"You know what? Forget it."

Kris pulls his head away to check on Adam's friend, but Frankie just smiles and shakes his head, starts singing some vocal scales. Adam leans in and kisses along Kris's neck, and Kris can't think of any reason why they should ever stop doing this.

A long time later the door opens and shuts, and then opens and shuts again, and a new voice says, "Adam, will you loosen this fucking thing?" Daisy drops into the chair on their other side and sighs heavily. "Come on, I can barely breathe."

Kris only half hears him, intent on running his teeth across Adam's collarbone where the vest cuts across. Adam is panting under him, grinding up against his ass, his hands up under the back of Kris's t-shirt.

"Adam? Adam. Adam. Douche, I'm fucking dying, here!"

"God, fine," Adam mutters, pulling his hands away.

Kris stifles his complaints and carefully stands up, swings his leg over Adam's knees to release him from his clutches.

Adam's makeup's a blurry mess, and Kris's hands are glowing. He smirks to himself while Adam goes about saving Daisy from the murderous corset.

Daisy grunts and whispers something as Adam jerks at the laces, crouched down behind his chair. Adam looks up and whispers something back and Daisy's eyes cut over to Kris in the mirror.

Kris's head is pounding with lust and the bass from the main room. His jeans are too tight and his skin is flushed. And he just totally molested Adam in front of two of Adam's friends. That's...a little awkward.

"Um, I'm gonna get some more drinks. You guys want?" he offers for an excuse to duck out.

Chuck has to open the performers' entrance door for him when he comes back juggling a shot of tequila, two vodka tonics, and a bottle of beer. He kicks the dressing room door a few times until Adam opens it and lets him in, taking one of the vodka tonics and the bottle out from the crook of his elbow.

Kris puts the shot and other drink on Daisy's table and Daisy finally smiles at him again and blows him a kiss. "Thank you, Sir. You truly are a gentleman." He bats his eyelashes.

Kris blushes a little and sits down in Frankie's chair. Adam passes him the bottle and watches him take a swig, then presses his thumb down on Kris's wet lower lip, rubbing a little, his eyes narrowed. Kris stares up at him and thinks about the day-glow on both of their mouths. Wonders if it's on the mouth of his bottle, too. And what else he could get it on.

"Babydoll, you are not allowed to ignore me while I'm in here, okay?" Daisy warns, applying fresh lipstick.

Adam jerks his hand away with a guilty, apologetic shrug and lowers himself into his own chair, right next to Kris, close enough to touch, to kiss. Kris takes another big pull from his beer and tells himself to cool down.

That's easier said than done, though, because when Adam goes back on stage a painful half hour later, he's obviously smudged at wrist and shoulder, upper arm and neck. His hair looks more like someone gripped it with two fists than a frantically hair-sprayed construction.

Kris watches and wants and doesn't care that his own face and throat are covered in glowing paint. No, that's not true. He likes it. When people look at him they see what Adam did to him, and when they look at Adam they see what Kris did. Adam hadn't even bothered to fix his face; it's still all wrecked from Kris's mouth and fingers. And that just makes Kris want him more.

He's all over Adam the second he's off the stage, fingers grabbing the front of his vest and dragging him to the performers' entrance, past Chuck and away from all those watching eyes. Adam pulls him in for a kiss against the wall of the hallway. Daisy slaps Kris's ass as he brushes by on his way to the stage. Kris watches Daisy pass through the door and then grabs Adam again and gets him to the dressing room.

...the surprisingly empty dressing room.

"Wait," he says as Adam steps into his space, the singer wrapping both arms around him heedless of the body paint. "Where's Frankie?"

"He likes to mix it up with the crowds, give the tourists their photo opportunities. Get some phone numbers..."

"How long do we have?" Kris asks, shifting a few steps to back Adam into a chair.

Adam sits heavily and his eyes are locked on Kris's. He licks his lips. "Lock the door."

Kris presses the button in the doorknob and kneels between Adam's legs, his mouth already watering. This is what he's wanted to do for...it feels like days, weeks. And when he shoves the chain loops out of the way and gets his hands on the zipper, his fingers leave day-glow trails on the leather around the fly. And oh yes, that's just perfect. Kris bites his lip evilly and eases back the folds of fabric, tugging Adam's cock out, already hard and red and impatient.

Adam grabs at his hair and Kris sees the molten look in his eyes before he lets Adam tug him in closer. He starts with a teasing lick around the head, then down the shaft, a little firmer against the vein as he nears the base. Adam groans and Kris lifts back up, more saliva ready, drenching the tip as he works his tongue around again, getting him shiny and slick. Adam smells like moisturizer and sweaty leather, and the dressing room smells like multiple brands of aftershave and deodorant and hairspray, but he tastes amazing. Kris squeezes Adam's thighs in the black leather and takes him into his mouth; just the head at first, so he can really play with the nerve endings, making Adam buck his hips in desperation.

He sucks sharply, hollowing his cheeks for an instant before relaxing and working his tongue again.

"Holy crap," Adam whimpers, petting his cheek.

Kris grins and goes down as far as he can, taking Adam deep and sucking again, letting Adam dig his thumb in against his cheek, feel himself inside. There's saliva dripping down his chin, things are getting satisfactorily messy, and Adam is making ridiculous noises as his cock nudges the back of Kris's throat. Kris slips a hand down to his own fly but Adam bucks again, making Kris choke a little. He coughs, ignores Adam's high-pitched apologies, and presses more firmly with both hands to hold him in place.

"Jesus Christ, I'm gonna," Adam whines after just a few minutes.

Kris smiles and tongues the slit, sucks him hard again, humming a little in encouragement, and Adam shoots, filling his mouth with cum until Kris can't hold it all, till it runs out of his mouth and he catches it with his hands, swiping at his skin. When Adam's done he pulls off, grabs an empty glass off the other table and spits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

And then he stands back to admire his handy work. Adam is red-faced where the paint has rubbed off, his upper lip and temple shining with sweat, his cock hanging out of his pants with a yellow-green glow that matches the rest of his skin. And his thighs are glowing, too—unmistakable hand prints where Kris squeezed. Kris catches his breath and beams at the results. He would sit down on Adam's lap again, but that would mess up those beautiful hand prints...

Adam slowly opens his eyes and catches him looking, arches against the back of the chair, tilting his head up and beckoning Kris closer. So he leans in and licks into Adam's mouth again, sharing the lingering taste of him. Adam kisses back with growing energy as he recovers, straightening up and hooking his hand in Kris's belt.

"Now what can I do for you?" he asks, nuzzling Kris's cheek.

"Oh, you'll think of something-"

The doorknob rattles, followed by a sharp knock. "Adam?"

"Oh shit," Adam giggles, letting go of Kris's belt and scrambling to tuck himself back in.

"Adam, I swear to god, I'm in the middle of an epic, Lucille Ball eyelash-disaster out here!"

Adam stands up and checks out his face in the mirror to make sure he looks alright. What he looks like is someone who just got blown in the dressing room. There's no hiding it.

"Open this fucking door!" Frankie shouts, loud enough to bring Chuck back there if he keeps it up.

"Don't shit your panties, sugar, just gimme a second." Adam turns and sticks his finger in Kris's face, presses it against Kris's nose. "You are a total distraction."

Kris grins and snaps his teeth at Adam's finger. Adam pulls him in by the back of his neck and kisses him one last time before unlocking the door.

Frankie flounces in on his 4-inch heels, false eyelash dangling over his eye, hanging on by one corner, a hand cupped against his cheek to catch it if it falls. "This is the worst fucking night..." He stands at his table and then surveys them both, eyeing the glowing hands on Adam's thighs. Kris hides his hands behind his back, but Frankie tosses his head and snorts. "Backstage blowjob? For real?"

Adam leers at Kris.

"And you're the guy who rags on me for hooking up in bathrooms. What was that about cement floors not being classy enough for you?"

"Well, there's carpet in here..." Adam protests, blotting the sweat on the back of his neck with a handful of tissues.

"And you swore you would never hook up at Simon's."

"I was young and naïve at the time."

"That was six months ago." Frankie arches an eyebrow and carefully applies fresh adhesive to the dangling end of the sparkly eyelashes. "And it looks like you've got some company ink staining your pants, too."

Adam looks down and spots the day-glow on his thighs and fly. "Shit, you-" He looks up at Kris, his face torn between admiration and horror. "These cost $180!"

"Hope it was worth it," Frankie sing-songs.

Kris hopes so, too. He stands very still and watches Adam's face as he sorts out his feelings on the ruined pants.

Petulance gives way to thoughtfulness, and finally an indecent smile. "Yeah, it was. In fact," Adam moves over to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and takes in his whole wrecked ensemble, "I think I like them better this way." He lowers his lashes and looks at Kris, his eyes glowing past the mascara and eyeliner.

Frankie leaves a few minutes later and Daisy sashays back into the dressing room, looking for help with the corset once again. Kris fetches another round of drinks for Adam & Daisy, declining Julie's offer of another free beer; he's going to drive sober for a change. Adam is laughing when he gets back, saying, "You'll never get me in those 5-inch, sequined, strappy sandals. My toes are definitely not my best feature."

"Why don't we let Kris decide that," Daisy suggests with a sly smile.

Kris grins and hands over the drinks, tries to get comfortable in Frankie's chair. God, he still really needs to get off; blowing Adam only made it worse.

"I'm going out to The Empire Waistland on Tuesday. D'you wanna come with?" Daisy asks Adam.

"Nah, thanks, though."

"Really? But you're, like, obsessed with that place."

"Yeah, but I just spent $500 there last week. Wait'll you see the boots I found!"

Daisy whistles and then cocks his head. "Wait, how'd you get out there? You didn't cab, did you? I'd have driven you."

"Kris took me."

"Kris..." Daisy turns to pay attention to Kris again and Kris looks up from his phone when he notices Daisy's long silence. "You've known him for a while, huh?"

"You could say that," Adam says.

"You never mentioned him before."

"Do you mention all your boyfriends?"

Daisy tilts his head away coyly. "Well, I don't call them boyfriends, but.... Oh."

"That's what I'm saying." Adam leans in to kiss Daisy's stunned cheek but he pushes Adam away.

"Don't you go messing up this blush! This is Coco Chanel!" Adam grins and tickles Daisy on the strip of skin between corset and panties. "No! Stop! You're not going to turn me into another one of your day-glow conquests before my last set! Oh god, it's already on my hands!"

Daisy jumps up and grabs a well-worn, faded green towel off the shelf on the back wall and scrubs at his hands while Adam laughs, stretches his legs out, and reaches out to tug absently at Kris's short sleeve.

Kris has no idea what to say when Daisy starts grilling Adam about how long he's known Kris, where they met, etc. Adam doesn't mention Kris's condo, or the fact that Kris has essentially moved in with Adam, or already spent a whole week at his apartment. Instead, Adam masterfully redirects the topic to Kris's session work at the studio.

Daisy seems impressed, and Kris is willing to give more details so long as the conversation sticks to safe things like music. He'd really rather not mention the ghost that's trying to kill him, or tomorrow's appointment with a voodoo priestess. He'd really rather not have Adam's friends thinking he's a crazy psycho.

Part 4