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Not a good day for witty subjects.
Okay, I know nothing about this and therefore have no opinion. But there's someone on TV talking about some international custody issue and the semantics of it are creeping me out. The anchor keeps referring to "the mother" and "the Brazilian family" and "his father" and "his American family." Seriously creepy.
There are pieces of a story lurking below the cut, in which Adam dies and Kris tries to finish his album only ghost!Adam doesn't like that because the stress is hurting his relationship with Katy and sure the album was Adam's dream but it was his dream and Kris doesn't just get to walk into that, whatever good intentions he may have. (Lets pretend that sentence makes sense.)
I know I said I was going to finish this, but I'm really thinking that I said that just because I want to finish something and that's really not a good indication that the story was going anywhere. I have this bad habit of beating at stories until I've edited them into soulless husks. Someone once said that all stories are good stories but they aren't all yours to tell. This one, I guess, is not one of mine. (Funny, since that was kinda going to be the gist of the work. Oh, meta.)
I'm posting what I have of it because, well, I already wrote it. Why pretend I didn't? Maybe someone will get some enjoyment out what there is of it, at least.
He woke from as sound a sleep as any he'd gotten since the tour ended, sat straight up in bed and listened. Katy was nestled in beside him, the blankets twisted up between them in stillness; she couldn't sleep without the weight of a blanket, even in the LA heat. There had been a sound, just there, right beyond the thought of waking. The sound wasn't what had woken him--no, that had been something else--something with a dark aftertaste in his mind that bent away into the shadows when he tried to look at it head on. But the sound he could grasp.
He tried to shake it off, but found himself still lying there an hour later, listening to the quiet sound in the blank places of his mind. He got up, then, closing the door firmly behind himself so that the hall light wouldn't wake Katy--the habit of a dinky one-bedroom in Arkansas, not this palatial condo in LA, where it was never really dark to begin with and he could navigate the hallway just fine without the light, thank you very much.
He found his guitar and began to pick out the sound that had woken him, drawing it forth with hands stretched wide across the fingerboard, stretched almost past bearing. He heard the breathy twang of the strings, and behind that glass breaking, a wet slick thump on pavement.
He knew, then.
Katy stood over him wrapped in a sheet from the bed. She held out his phone, which was ringing. Which had been ringing for quite some time, to judge from her expression.
"There was an accident."
"I know," was all he could think to say.
He said it to himself, again and again, listening to that half-heard thunk. Adam is dead. Car crash; drunk driver; hit and run. His hands itched for his guitar, itched to pull out that note. Katy kept him clothed and fed, ushered him from press conference to press conference and cast him a worried look every time she thought he wasn't looking.
Kris couldn't sleep. It was like Idol all over again but worse, a million times worse. There were people camping on his lawn. The funeral was a blur of black, weeping, and camera flashes. Kris sat in the back and tried not to be noticed. It didn't work.
He came back to himself again in the spare room, hands still over his guitar. It was night. He was exhausted, and he was hungry, and he had no idea what day it was. He found Katy in the kitchen.
Her arms were spread wide on the kitchen island and she stared out at nothing, tapping the toe of one bare foot against the heel of the other. She hadn't heard him coming. She looked tired, too.
"I want to finish the album," he said, before he knew he was going to say anything at all.
Katy turned. "Of course, baby."
"No." Kris shook his head. "I want to finish Adam's album."
At first, he thought it was something coming through the station-monitors. He'd listened to the album roughs backwards and forwards--listened to Adam sing for so long it had actually sorta kinda stopped hurting. Certainly, he figured, it had been long enough for him to start hearing things.
You need to go home, Kris. You're exhausted. The voice was quiet against his ear, intimate; he expected to feel the rush of air past his ear, the heat of a presence, but there was nothing. Kris stopped the tape, took off the headphones. It was just past one in the morning. He was alone in the studio.
"My conscience sounds like Adam Lambert." Kris scrubbed at his face with both hands. "How fucked is that."
But he listened. He hailed a cab just outside the studio lot and went home. He dragged himself up two flights of stairs and fell into bed beside Katy, curling around her sleeping form.
The execs had said this was a terrible idea and Kris was starting to think maybe they were right. This album--this wasn't something Kris would do. His voice was all wrong for most of these pieces. "I don't know how else to say goodbye," Kris told Katy.
"You need to let go," she told him.
He could her anything, but it couldn't tell her this.
Three weeks of wheedling--constant nagging, starting at snide and sliding into desperation--and he finally caved.
"This is so completely beyond weird."
I shared a room with you for months. Don't even try to tell me you don't do this, Kris Allen.
Kris tugged at his zipper.
Adam's hand is on my cock, was all he could think of to say--if he was being honest with himself--but stating the obvious hardly seemed situationally appropriate.
Because it wasn't Adam's hand, of course, because Adam had as much of a hand as he had a cock these days. And if he'd had a cock, they wouldn't have been in this position.
Not for lack of trying.
Kris's grip turned painful. "You're not helping," he growled.
Then let me.
He was jerking off alone in his bedroom at two o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon and it was still the best orgasm of his life.
"You're taking this remarkably well, you know." Kris said, once he got his breath back. "The whole 'undead' thing."
"Yeah, well, I don't really have much of a choice in the matter. There's this or--"
Kris' curiosity got the better of him. "This or what?" He asked, sincerely hoping the answer wasn't "lake of burning fire" or something equally horrid.
Adam was silent for so long that Kris began to think he'd gone to sleep. "Somewhere else."
"Like what? Where?"
There aren't words for it. Adam's voice was a hushed whisper, as usual, breathlessly close to his ear. He sounded strangely hushed, though, which made Kris feel odd and uncomfortable and made him really wish he hadn't asked the question.
"I'm glad you're here." Kris said to fill the silence. It was true, he realized.
Being onstage was a rush; it always was. Enough of a rush to make him forget. He let Adam drive--tucked himself away in a corner of his mind and just watched.
"This is for a friend," someone said in his voice--he wasn't sure, anymore, if it was him or Adam.
The crowd called and cheered. But it was different. They would have gone wild for Adam.
The song ended with a crash that made the silence after it so much bigger. Kris stumbled. He was alone.
Not even going to say goodbye?
I think I just did. Adam's voice was faint and growing fainter.
The bassist nodded his way and moved into the first few cords of the next song. Kris lifted his voice into it by force of habit, rehearsal ticking up like muscle memory, and by the time the song was done, it was gone.C
There are pieces of a story lurking below the cut, in which Adam dies and Kris tries to finish his album only ghost!Adam doesn't like that because the stress is hurting his relationship with Katy and sure the album was Adam's dream but it was his dream and Kris doesn't just get to walk into that, whatever good intentions he may have. (Lets pretend that sentence makes sense.)
I know I said I was going to finish this, but I'm really thinking that I said that just because I want to finish something and that's really not a good indication that the story was going anywhere. I have this bad habit of beating at stories until I've edited them into soulless husks. Someone once said that all stories are good stories but they aren't all yours to tell. This one, I guess, is not one of mine. (Funny, since that was kinda going to be the gist of the work. Oh, meta.)
I'm posting what I have of it because, well, I already wrote it. Why pretend I didn't? Maybe someone will get some enjoyment out what there is of it, at least.
He woke from as sound a sleep as any he'd gotten since the tour ended, sat straight up in bed and listened. Katy was nestled in beside him, the blankets twisted up between them in stillness; she couldn't sleep without the weight of a blanket, even in the LA heat. There had been a sound, just there, right beyond the thought of waking. The sound wasn't what had woken him--no, that had been something else--something with a dark aftertaste in his mind that bent away into the shadows when he tried to look at it head on. But the sound he could grasp.
He tried to shake it off, but found himself still lying there an hour later, listening to the quiet sound in the blank places of his mind. He got up, then, closing the door firmly behind himself so that the hall light wouldn't wake Katy--the habit of a dinky one-bedroom in Arkansas, not this palatial condo in LA, where it was never really dark to begin with and he could navigate the hallway just fine without the light, thank you very much.
I'm not feeling Kris' voice here. He doesn't really interest me much as a character and I think that shows. The front-loaded prose here is annoying; I'm trying to settle into the character, and the scene, but its way too much of a word dump, especially compared to the spare prose later. A second draft would be greatly pruned, here.
He found his guitar and began to pick out the sound that had woken him, drawing it forth with hands stretched wide across the fingerboard, stretched almost past bearing. He heard the breathy twang of the strings, and behind that glass breaking, a wet slick thump on pavement.
He knew, then.
Katy stood over him wrapped in a sheet from the bed. She held out his phone, which was ringing. Which had been ringing for quite some time, to judge from her expression.
"There was an accident."
"I know," was all he could think to say.
He said it to himself, again and again, listening to that half-heard thunk. Adam is dead. Car crash; drunk driver; hit and run. His hands itched for his guitar, itched to pull out that note. Katy kept him clothed and fed, ushered him from press conference to press conference and cast him a worried look every time she thought he wasn't looking.
Kris couldn't sleep. It was like Idol all over again but worse, a million times worse. There were people camping on his lawn. The funeral was a blur of black, weeping, and camera flashes. Kris sat in the back and tried not to be noticed. It didn't work.
He came back to himself again in the spare room, hands still over his guitar. It was night. He was exhausted, and he was hungry, and he had no idea what day it was. He found Katy in the kitchen.
Her arms were spread wide on the kitchen island and she stared out at nothing, tapping the toe of one bare foot against the heel of the other. She hadn't heard him coming. She looked tired, too.
"I want to finish the album," he said, before he knew he was going to say anything at all.
Katy turned. "Of course, baby."
"No." Kris shook his head. "I want to finish Adam's album."
At first, he thought it was something coming through the station-monitors. He'd listened to the album roughs backwards and forwards--listened to Adam sing for so long it had actually sorta kinda stopped hurting. Certainly, he figured, it had been long enough for him to start hearing things.
You need to go home, Kris. You're exhausted. The voice was quiet against his ear, intimate; he expected to feel the rush of air past his ear, the heat of a presence, but there was nothing. Kris stopped the tape, took off the headphones. It was just past one in the morning. He was alone in the studio.
"My conscience sounds like Adam Lambert." Kris scrubbed at his face with both hands. "How fucked is that."
But he listened. He hailed a cab just outside the studio lot and went home. He dragged himself up two flights of stairs and fell into bed beside Katy, curling around her sleeping form.
The execs had said this was a terrible idea and Kris was starting to think maybe they were right. This album--this wasn't something Kris would do. His voice was all wrong for most of these pieces. "I don't know how else to say goodbye," Kris told Katy.
"You need to let go," she told him.
He could her anything, but it couldn't tell her this.
Three weeks of wheedling--constant nagging, starting at snide and sliding into desperation--and he finally caved.
"This is so completely beyond weird."
I shared a room with you for months. Don't even try to tell me you don't do this, Kris Allen.
Kris tugged at his zipper.
Adam's hand is on my cock, was all he could think of to say--if he was being honest with himself--but stating the obvious hardly seemed situationally appropriate.
Because it wasn't Adam's hand, of course, because Adam had as much of a hand as he had a cock these days. And if he'd had a cock, they wouldn't have been in this position.
Not for lack of trying.
Kris's grip turned painful. "You're not helping," he growled.
Then let me.
He was jerking off alone in his bedroom at two o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon and it was still the best orgasm of his life.
Lets pretend there was sexytimes here somewhere.
"You're taking this remarkably well, you know." Kris said, once he got his breath back. "The whole 'undead' thing."
"Yeah, well, I don't really have much of a choice in the matter. There's this or--"
Kris' curiosity got the better of him. "This or what?" He asked, sincerely hoping the answer wasn't "lake of burning fire" or something equally horrid.
Adam was silent for so long that Kris began to think he'd gone to sleep. "Somewhere else."
"Like what? Where?"
There aren't words for it. Adam's voice was a hushed whisper, as usual, breathlessly close to his ear. He sounded strangely hushed, though, which made Kris feel odd and uncomfortable and made him really wish he hadn't asked the question.
"I'm glad you're here." Kris said to fill the silence. It was true, he realized.
Being onstage was a rush; it always was. Enough of a rush to make him forget. He let Adam drive--tucked himself away in a corner of his mind and just watched.
"This is for a friend," someone said in his voice--he wasn't sure, anymore, if it was him or Adam.
I'll admit that this fic exists solely because I wanted an excuse to play dress-up with Kris.
The crowd called and cheered. But it was different. They would have gone wild for Adam.
The song ended with a crash that made the silence after it so much bigger. Kris stumbled. He was alone.
Not even going to say goodbye?
I think I just did. Adam's voice was faint and growing fainter.
Seriously, brain? Fading voices? I can't believe I actually wrote that.
The bassist nodded his way and moved into the first few cords of the next song. Kris lifted his voice into it by force of habit, rehearsal ticking up like muscle memory, and by the time the song was done, it was gone.C