Fic: Stephen pre-story (American Idol)
I wasn't doing too well today working on what I'm supposed to be doing, and this little pre-story came to mind.
It's set directly before Stephen starts. 1200 words.
Brad set the grocery bags down on Adam's counter. Adam hadn't responded to the doorbell or Brad's pounding at the door, and Brad wasn't optimistic enough to believe it was because Adam was working in his studio. He'd go upstairs in a few minutes and shake him out of bed. He put the groceries away first and turned the stove on to whip up three eggs. While that cooked, he made toast and coffee. He set a tray out, plated up the eggs and toast, poured the coffee into a mug and added a small glass of orange juice.
"Adam! I'm coming up!" Brad bellowed from the bottom of the stairs. That was the unspoken rule they had--yell first so Adam had time to make himself look awake and not like he'd been up all night with his mind whirling between despair and crazy ideas.
Brad was all for crazy, his whole life was a testament to it, but Adam took it to a different level. Brad had belts made out of ostrich feathers; Adam had lists and charts of places Kris wasn't and PI's phone numbers memorized and jet lag layered on jet lag from all the times he'd flown on zero notice to a place where Kris might have been seen, according to an unsubstantiated source, at some point in time. Brad had put his foot down on that when Adam had fainted from hunger and tiredness. Thank God he hadn't been anywhere public. Brad hadn't known if his foot would have any impact on what Adam did, but Adam had seemed grateful to have someone take an interest in how he was falling apart, maybe because Adam himself couldn't seem to care. They had this deal now, Brad took care of Adam and pretended he didn't notice that Adam wasn't getting any better, and Adam hired other people to go looking for Kris.
When Brad stepped into Adam's room, Adam was sitting up with his feet on the floor. He wore a pair of sweatpants that used to fit, but now left a gap at the back of his waist. He kept his shirt on these days not because of the self-consciousness over his extra pounds he used to have but because those pounds were gone now, replaced with gauntness, and Brad could never regulate his expression when faced with blatant evidence of Adam's condition.
"I found him," Adam said. He watched, his gaze seeming alert and a little crazy--same as usual when he mentioned Kris--as Brad set the tray down on the bedside table. He handed Adam the juice and Adam obediently drank. "He's in New York." He put the glass back on the tray. "It's him this time. I know it."
"Who's going to see?" Brad asked.
Adam looked away. He'd had a fight with the Allens recently, another one, and there wasn't much money left for his obsession with finding Kris. Brad tried another question. "What did you find out?"
"He's with a doctor named Smith." Adam threw the covers back and revealed a stack of papers he'd slept on. This also was nothing new. "He keeps boys. Slaves. But for the last three years he's only kept one." He waved one of the papers, as if Brad could read it in motion. "It has to be Kris."
Brad stopped Adam's hands. "How do you know?"
"The dates line up."
"Adam, how did you hear about this guy?"
Adam handed over another paper. It had a phone number on it. "I followed a connection to a connection and," he waved his hand to indicate that Brad should continue the line in his head. "I met his last boy."
Brad glanced at the paper. Adam needed to see that Brad took his research seriously. "You're going to believe a traumatized kid?"
Adam shifted so his knees pointed away from Brad. It was a slight move but somehow made him look smaller. "Every lead, Brad. That's the rule."
Brad grimaced, angry at himself. "Sorry. You're right." He sat down next to Adam and handed him a piece of toast. Adam nibbled on it, watching Brad through a side glance. Brad rubbed his knees. "So, tell me what you want to do."
"I have a plan for getting him back."
"You mean you have a plan for finding out if he's there," Brad said. Adam still had a tendency to skip steps, which led him to greater disappointments.
"Yeah, that." He tossed the crusts onto the plate. They landed in the center of the eggs, which had taken on a jellied look once they'd cooled. "Smith has a monthly gambling game. It's a hefty buy-in, but I can cover it."
Brad grabbed a bit of egg for himself. Sometimes if he ate in front of Adam, Adam ate too. It slid down his throat, cold. "Who are you sending in to play?"
"I'll go myself. I found a guy who'll teach me."
"No." Brad stood up, needing the facade of towering over Adam--something he could do as long as Adam stayed seated--to assert his authority. Not that he had any authority, but between the two of them over the past few years they'd worked out a see-saw balancing act of giving and taking commands. "Adam Lambert is not going to a gambling party with the intent of winning a sex slave." Adam started to protest. Brad stopped him. "No! Stop thinking about it. Now."
"What am I supposed to do then? No one else will go." His voice cracked and his eyes watered. Brad steeled himself against it. He couldn't let Adam put himself into danger that could be avoided. That was Brad's purpose: Keep Adam alive; Keep Adam sane. He figured he was playing a sixty percent success rate. Adam wobbled and Brad dropped his calculation down a notch. This could be it, the disappointment that broke Adam.
Brad was as bad as Adam in that sense. For every clue that Adam chased with his hope focused on it, Brad tracked with the fear it would be too much for him. Adam would go insane, or die, before he stopped looking for Kris, and Brad had no right to stop him. But he'd be damned if he let Adam fall victim to his obsession without a fight. He looked up and loosened his fingers, which Brad had squeezed into fists at his sides as he thought things through. "I'll go," he said. "I'll play. I'll find him."
He didn't smile when Adam hugged him. He clung to Adam's too-thin body, feeling detached from Adam's gratitude as his mind spun forward to himself at that secret gambling table, lying his ass off and betting Adam's money, all for the sight of a man who probably wouldn't be Kris. As Adam said, "Thank you," Brad forced a toothy smile and said, "You're welcome," as he thought further into the future, of himself caring for Adam again, coming back to find him worse for the new disappointment, and no one around but Brad to make him eat and get out of bed.
"When's the next game?" Brad asked.
"Two weeks," Adam said.
Brad nodded. They had time then. Until he knew otherwise, Brad would treat this as a real mission with Kris on the end of it. He'd go into it with the intention of getting Kris back. He slipped out of Adam's arms and took advantage of Adam's standing up to make the bed. "Go shower. We've got work to do."
Adam went to his bathroom with a light step. He was always like this when he had a new unvarnished lead. It made Brad feel like stone. He touched his mouth, pushing his smile into place and silently ordered it to stay.
End
It's set directly before Stephen starts. 1200 words.
Brad set the grocery bags down on Adam's counter. Adam hadn't responded to the doorbell or Brad's pounding at the door, and Brad wasn't optimistic enough to believe it was because Adam was working in his studio. He'd go upstairs in a few minutes and shake him out of bed. He put the groceries away first and turned the stove on to whip up three eggs. While that cooked, he made toast and coffee. He set a tray out, plated up the eggs and toast, poured the coffee into a mug and added a small glass of orange juice.
"Adam! I'm coming up!" Brad bellowed from the bottom of the stairs. That was the unspoken rule they had--yell first so Adam had time to make himself look awake and not like he'd been up all night with his mind whirling between despair and crazy ideas.
Brad was all for crazy, his whole life was a testament to it, but Adam took it to a different level. Brad had belts made out of ostrich feathers; Adam had lists and charts of places Kris wasn't and PI's phone numbers memorized and jet lag layered on jet lag from all the times he'd flown on zero notice to a place where Kris might have been seen, according to an unsubstantiated source, at some point in time. Brad had put his foot down on that when Adam had fainted from hunger and tiredness. Thank God he hadn't been anywhere public. Brad hadn't known if his foot would have any impact on what Adam did, but Adam had seemed grateful to have someone take an interest in how he was falling apart, maybe because Adam himself couldn't seem to care. They had this deal now, Brad took care of Adam and pretended he didn't notice that Adam wasn't getting any better, and Adam hired other people to go looking for Kris.
When Brad stepped into Adam's room, Adam was sitting up with his feet on the floor. He wore a pair of sweatpants that used to fit, but now left a gap at the back of his waist. He kept his shirt on these days not because of the self-consciousness over his extra pounds he used to have but because those pounds were gone now, replaced with gauntness, and Brad could never regulate his expression when faced with blatant evidence of Adam's condition.
"I found him," Adam said. He watched, his gaze seeming alert and a little crazy--same as usual when he mentioned Kris--as Brad set the tray down on the bedside table. He handed Adam the juice and Adam obediently drank. "He's in New York." He put the glass back on the tray. "It's him this time. I know it."
"Who's going to see?" Brad asked.
Adam looked away. He'd had a fight with the Allens recently, another one, and there wasn't much money left for his obsession with finding Kris. Brad tried another question. "What did you find out?"
"He's with a doctor named Smith." Adam threw the covers back and revealed a stack of papers he'd slept on. This also was nothing new. "He keeps boys. Slaves. But for the last three years he's only kept one." He waved one of the papers, as if Brad could read it in motion. "It has to be Kris."
Brad stopped Adam's hands. "How do you know?"
"The dates line up."
"Adam, how did you hear about this guy?"
Adam handed over another paper. It had a phone number on it. "I followed a connection to a connection and," he waved his hand to indicate that Brad should continue the line in his head. "I met his last boy."
Brad glanced at the paper. Adam needed to see that Brad took his research seriously. "You're going to believe a traumatized kid?"
Adam shifted so his knees pointed away from Brad. It was a slight move but somehow made him look smaller. "Every lead, Brad. That's the rule."
Brad grimaced, angry at himself. "Sorry. You're right." He sat down next to Adam and handed him a piece of toast. Adam nibbled on it, watching Brad through a side glance. Brad rubbed his knees. "So, tell me what you want to do."
"I have a plan for getting him back."
"You mean you have a plan for finding out if he's there," Brad said. Adam still had a tendency to skip steps, which led him to greater disappointments.
"Yeah, that." He tossed the crusts onto the plate. They landed in the center of the eggs, which had taken on a jellied look once they'd cooled. "Smith has a monthly gambling game. It's a hefty buy-in, but I can cover it."
Brad grabbed a bit of egg for himself. Sometimes if he ate in front of Adam, Adam ate too. It slid down his throat, cold. "Who are you sending in to play?"
"I'll go myself. I found a guy who'll teach me."
"No." Brad stood up, needing the facade of towering over Adam--something he could do as long as Adam stayed seated--to assert his authority. Not that he had any authority, but between the two of them over the past few years they'd worked out a see-saw balancing act of giving and taking commands. "Adam Lambert is not going to a gambling party with the intent of winning a sex slave." Adam started to protest. Brad stopped him. "No! Stop thinking about it. Now."
"What am I supposed to do then? No one else will go." His voice cracked and his eyes watered. Brad steeled himself against it. He couldn't let Adam put himself into danger that could be avoided. That was Brad's purpose: Keep Adam alive; Keep Adam sane. He figured he was playing a sixty percent success rate. Adam wobbled and Brad dropped his calculation down a notch. This could be it, the disappointment that broke Adam.
Brad was as bad as Adam in that sense. For every clue that Adam chased with his hope focused on it, Brad tracked with the fear it would be too much for him. Adam would go insane, or die, before he stopped looking for Kris, and Brad had no right to stop him. But he'd be damned if he let Adam fall victim to his obsession without a fight. He looked up and loosened his fingers, which Brad had squeezed into fists at his sides as he thought things through. "I'll go," he said. "I'll play. I'll find him."
He didn't smile when Adam hugged him. He clung to Adam's too-thin body, feeling detached from Adam's gratitude as his mind spun forward to himself at that secret gambling table, lying his ass off and betting Adam's money, all for the sight of a man who probably wouldn't be Kris. As Adam said, "Thank you," Brad forced a toothy smile and said, "You're welcome," as he thought further into the future, of himself caring for Adam again, coming back to find him worse for the new disappointment, and no one around but Brad to make him eat and get out of bed.
"When's the next game?" Brad asked.
"Two weeks," Adam said.
Brad nodded. They had time then. Until he knew otherwise, Brad would treat this as a real mission with Kris on the end of it. He'd go into it with the intention of getting Kris back. He slipped out of Adam's arms and took advantage of Adam's standing up to make the bed. "Go shower. We've got work to do."
Adam went to his bathroom with a light step. He was always like this when he had a new unvarnished lead. It made Brad feel like stone. He touched his mouth, pushing his smile into place and silently ordered it to stay.
End