rpf ai: prismatic
Something I wrote last summer that I still considered one of my top 5 best works.
prismatic
friends, brothers or more, it's all-encompassing
kris allen/adam lambert >> rpf ai >> pg
rpf ai: prismatic
Blue
Blue is the soft leather jacket bedazzled with spikes and studs that swallows Kris' shoulders with its belatedness; his arms are bare as they ascend from beneath the stage, two phoenixes rising from the ashes like the one that which expands across the back of the jacket, and he knows he should feel some semblence of guilt for rubbing off on the Southern boy but the way said boy fluffs the collar and shrugs into it more securely just makes Adam nearly miss his cue with his giggles because, it that wasn't the cutest thing he'd ever seen.
It's the unplanned way they match, an airiness to their very beings, to their fashion choices--Adam's graphic tees of the big city always manage to work beside his checkered button-downs of home--except on this particular afternoon, when a simple favor turned into the entire group following the instructions of a cheesy, corny, idiot-proof prequel to Dance Dance Revolution (slide to the left, slide to the right, two hops this time, two hops two hops, how low can you go? Can you go down low? All the way to the floor?), thusly proving that while they match in other aspects they very distinctly do not in this catagory, as Kris hastily falls on his ass and Adam guffaws over his shoulder.
It's the reason his favorite color is no longer what it has been for most of his life, why his whole perception of it has changed; those winter eyes bring about an early snow to his own autumn, barren trees and eliciting shivers that he hesitates to rename fissions, but it's a sea change he welcomes eagerly.
(Though he will deny to the core that the two correlate, that it's a cause & effect/push-pull type of deal, claiming that a man can change his mind every so often without an ulterior motive or meaning.)
Silver
Silver is the heart he finds drawn on the steam-fogged mirror when he steps out of the shower, towel moored to his waist, the cliff note and the anecdote of a clandestine visitor, sweat trickling down the glass from the base tip, and he attempts beyond physicality to parry the accompanying I and U, even if it lingers and haunts the back of his mind for the rest of the day.
It's the ice that crystalizes in his stomach as he forces out the ultimatum that he never imagined himself bargaining with; all his adult life--more to the point, since high school--he declared he would never be the one to break a home, to be the middle person, to have what he couldn't have freely, and yet, resigning to the situation where Kris goes home and he's left alone being where the exception occurs, Adam stands in front of the man, heart asunder, instructing plaintively, "You have to choose or I'm gone."
It's the light sheen of the photo album that Allison places in Kris' hands the morning after the crowning, his reflection just a hazy shimmer, and the transparency that glosses each photograph, a timeline of their weeks together, of the perfunctory rehearsals and late movies and game nights and puerile laughter, his own face grinning with sincerity in more than two-thirds of the book; that night he discovers that Adam was given one of the same and they stay up to flip through it together, fondly reminiscent.
(It's rather surreal to comprehend that once they all return to salvage what's left of their previous lives, he'll be titled the winner of a phenomena, his best friend will be the world's next rock star and Allison will have both of them to call family.)
Red
Red is what lights Allison's hair on fire, emblazoned by her teenage penchant for individuality and rebellion, and it's that that causes Adam to fold her under his wing, never letting it known that distractions are always mandatory when something he can't have dangles in front of his face.
It's the anger that festers then explodes like fireworks that rocket into the night sky when Danny's off-handed, playful comments regulate and he makes another unremitted remark about Adam's sexuality being something repugnant; Kris doesn't censor his thoughts par usual and muffles a "jerk" into his coffee mug, believing to the bone that no one has heard him until he notices the way Adam's eyes flit to him periodically and that amused half-smirk twists the corner of his lips.
It's the heat that fills his cheeks and highlights the back of his neck and pierces his ears when an innocent round of poker manifests into a not-so-innocent game, Lil stripping off her blouse with a cock-sure overhaul and Matt following with the considerably lewd unbuckling of his belt, the man's tremerity merely encouraged by Adam's wolf-whistle; noticing his friend and the wide eyes married to the nervous conforming laughter, Adam chortles to himself, leaning over to say only a hairsbreadth away, "Don't worry, virgin, I'll talk you through it."
(He knows he should be more surprised he recognizes the Gossip Girl quote--he really should--but, somehow, he isn't and that doesn't bother him in the slightest.)
Green
Green is the strobe lights manically spiraling and jostling over his head, keeping perfect time with Allison and Adam's maddening and inordinate thrashing, their energy to an almost acidic high, dispelled and contagious to the deafening crowd; Kris watches Adam with his perfectly untrained inconspicuousness and wonders, as the man circles him like the coquette he is, how he doesn't lose his balance or over-correct himself, but, then again, Adam's surprising grace is half the appeal.
It's the hideous couch and the even more horrendous wall as its partner, the couch that's so unfairly comfortable and inviting, luring its somnolent patrons like the sun draws the planets into her orbit; most days, after hours of obligatory miscellaneous activities--sounds checks, interviews, photoshoots, car commercial filming (though that was actually fun, if unnerving)--it's a race for who gets to it first and who gets the leftovers, the deceptively collected throng dissolving into psych-outs and sibling antics at the drop of a hatch; fortunately, Adam is more than willing to share with his best friend and does so on most days, so long as he gets to use the man's thigh as a pillow.
It's the speck of plastic he keeps around his neck at all times, his initials engraved in gold on the back, there and at his dispense if the scene ever calls for it; the guitar pick is more than an instrumentation accessory or the ready break his calluses demand, it's a...figment, almost, a compatible pea in a pod with the band on his finger, though, while Adam strums studiously with it, Kris can't help but think that that figment is getting more and more fragmented as the days pass by.
(Between you, me and the bed post, he thinks.)
Black
Black is the coating that shadows his eyes, the mystery of those eyes penetrated by jagged yet fashionably cut locks, and every time Kris' vew is obscured he realizes that Adam is as enigmatic as he wants to be; all he has to do is swipe at the bangs and the world is left guessing.
There ain't no sunshine when she's gone, it's not warm when she's away, there ain't no sunshine when she's gone, she's always gone too long, anytime she goes away: it's the darkness that hangs over his head as he sings, so soft as he hums the words into the web of the microphone, cradling the guitar in his lap; it's only when the stage lights dim and the crowd's stridence hits his ear that, for a split second, he convinces himself it was all an act and the song was as empty as the competition insists it be.
It's the polish he has painted on his finger late one night, when the blinding light of gossip and posits has rung ignorance true and it splashes like some contorted reality across newspapers and magazines; they paint the nail and shed it from another and once and for all there's no questioning what they are to one another.
(Friends, brothers or more, it's all-encompassing; they carry the knowledge like rocks upon their chests; there's no escaping the heaviness in their hearts and the imprint they've truly evidently left there.)
prismatic
friends, brothers or more, it's all-encompassing
kris allen/adam lambert >> rpf ai >> pg
rpf ai: prismatic
Blue
Blue is the soft leather jacket bedazzled with spikes and studs that swallows Kris' shoulders with its belatedness; his arms are bare as they ascend from beneath the stage, two phoenixes rising from the ashes like the one that which expands across the back of the jacket, and he knows he should feel some semblence of guilt for rubbing off on the Southern boy but the way said boy fluffs the collar and shrugs into it more securely just makes Adam nearly miss his cue with his giggles because, it that wasn't the cutest thing he'd ever seen.
It's the unplanned way they match, an airiness to their very beings, to their fashion choices--Adam's graphic tees of the big city always manage to work beside his checkered button-downs of home--except on this particular afternoon, when a simple favor turned into the entire group following the instructions of a cheesy, corny, idiot-proof prequel to Dance Dance Revolution (slide to the left, slide to the right, two hops this time, two hops two hops, how low can you go? Can you go down low? All the way to the floor?), thusly proving that while they match in other aspects they very distinctly do not in this catagory, as Kris hastily falls on his ass and Adam guffaws over his shoulder.
It's the reason his favorite color is no longer what it has been for most of his life, why his whole perception of it has changed; those winter eyes bring about an early snow to his own autumn, barren trees and eliciting shivers that he hesitates to rename fissions, but it's a sea change he welcomes eagerly.
(Though he will deny to the core that the two correlate, that it's a cause & effect/push-pull type of deal, claiming that a man can change his mind every so often without an ulterior motive or meaning.)
Silver
Silver is the heart he finds drawn on the steam-fogged mirror when he steps out of the shower, towel moored to his waist, the cliff note and the anecdote of a clandestine visitor, sweat trickling down the glass from the base tip, and he attempts beyond physicality to parry the accompanying I and U, even if it lingers and haunts the back of his mind for the rest of the day.
It's the ice that crystalizes in his stomach as he forces out the ultimatum that he never imagined himself bargaining with; all his adult life--more to the point, since high school--he declared he would never be the one to break a home, to be the middle person, to have what he couldn't have freely, and yet, resigning to the situation where Kris goes home and he's left alone being where the exception occurs, Adam stands in front of the man, heart asunder, instructing plaintively, "You have to choose or I'm gone."
It's the light sheen of the photo album that Allison places in Kris' hands the morning after the crowning, his reflection just a hazy shimmer, and the transparency that glosses each photograph, a timeline of their weeks together, of the perfunctory rehearsals and late movies and game nights and puerile laughter, his own face grinning with sincerity in more than two-thirds of the book; that night he discovers that Adam was given one of the same and they stay up to flip through it together, fondly reminiscent.
(It's rather surreal to comprehend that once they all return to salvage what's left of their previous lives, he'll be titled the winner of a phenomena, his best friend will be the world's next rock star and Allison will have both of them to call family.)
Red
Red is what lights Allison's hair on fire, emblazoned by her teenage penchant for individuality and rebellion, and it's that that causes Adam to fold her under his wing, never letting it known that distractions are always mandatory when something he can't have dangles in front of his face.
It's the anger that festers then explodes like fireworks that rocket into the night sky when Danny's off-handed, playful comments regulate and he makes another unremitted remark about Adam's sexuality being something repugnant; Kris doesn't censor his thoughts par usual and muffles a "jerk" into his coffee mug, believing to the bone that no one has heard him until he notices the way Adam's eyes flit to him periodically and that amused half-smirk twists the corner of his lips.
It's the heat that fills his cheeks and highlights the back of his neck and pierces his ears when an innocent round of poker manifests into a not-so-innocent game, Lil stripping off her blouse with a cock-sure overhaul and Matt following with the considerably lewd unbuckling of his belt, the man's tremerity merely encouraged by Adam's wolf-whistle; noticing his friend and the wide eyes married to the nervous conforming laughter, Adam chortles to himself, leaning over to say only a hairsbreadth away, "Don't worry, virgin, I'll talk you through it."
(He knows he should be more surprised he recognizes the Gossip Girl quote--he really should--but, somehow, he isn't and that doesn't bother him in the slightest.)
Green
Green is the strobe lights manically spiraling and jostling over his head, keeping perfect time with Allison and Adam's maddening and inordinate thrashing, their energy to an almost acidic high, dispelled and contagious to the deafening crowd; Kris watches Adam with his perfectly untrained inconspicuousness and wonders, as the man circles him like the coquette he is, how he doesn't lose his balance or over-correct himself, but, then again, Adam's surprising grace is half the appeal.
It's the hideous couch and the even more horrendous wall as its partner, the couch that's so unfairly comfortable and inviting, luring its somnolent patrons like the sun draws the planets into her orbit; most days, after hours of obligatory miscellaneous activities--sounds checks, interviews, photoshoots, car commercial filming (though that was actually fun, if unnerving)--it's a race for who gets to it first and who gets the leftovers, the deceptively collected throng dissolving into psych-outs and sibling antics at the drop of a hatch; fortunately, Adam is more than willing to share with his best friend and does so on most days, so long as he gets to use the man's thigh as a pillow.
It's the speck of plastic he keeps around his neck at all times, his initials engraved in gold on the back, there and at his dispense if the scene ever calls for it; the guitar pick is more than an instrumentation accessory or the ready break his calluses demand, it's a...figment, almost, a compatible pea in a pod with the band on his finger, though, while Adam strums studiously with it, Kris can't help but think that that figment is getting more and more fragmented as the days pass by.
(Between you, me and the bed post, he thinks.)
Black
Black is the coating that shadows his eyes, the mystery of those eyes penetrated by jagged yet fashionably cut locks, and every time Kris' vew is obscured he realizes that Adam is as enigmatic as he wants to be; all he has to do is swipe at the bangs and the world is left guessing.
There ain't no sunshine when she's gone, it's not warm when she's away, there ain't no sunshine when she's gone, she's always gone too long, anytime she goes away: it's the darkness that hangs over his head as he sings, so soft as he hums the words into the web of the microphone, cradling the guitar in his lap; it's only when the stage lights dim and the crowd's stridence hits his ear that, for a split second, he convinces himself it was all an act and the song was as empty as the competition insists it be.
It's the polish he has painted on his finger late one night, when the blinding light of gossip and posits has rung ignorance true and it splashes like some contorted reality across newspapers and magazines; they paint the nail and shed it from another and once and for all there's no questioning what they are to one another.
(Friends, brothers or more, it's all-encompassing; they carry the knowledge like rocks upon their chests; there's no escaping the heaviness in their hearts and the imprint they've truly evidently left there.)