(no subject)
Title: In The End It's Music
Author: Chensuu
Rating: R for language and suggestive situations, angst, drug use
Word Count 13,300
Characters: Adam Lambert and Michael Sarver
Fandom American Idol, Sarbert, friendship
Summary Adam and Michael have nothing in common.
Disclaimer:They are NOT mine. This is a work of fiction.
Written for: Pinkygoldfish
by Chensuu'>
You can say battle or war or whatever, but in the end, it's music. It's not really violent in intent at all, it's really just about expression and celebrating that in itself.
Eric San
In The End It's Music
Adam stands in the parking lot of his hotel and stares at the empty tour buses mired in bright streetlights casting their ghostly shadows across the pavement. He licks his lower lip just enough to feel the slight ridge of freckle on the tip of his tongue and shivers even though it’s warmer than fuck on a humid September night in wherever-the-goddamn-crap-he-is-now-USA.
His cell phone rings and he curses when his hand gets tangled in the loose flow of his shirt causing him to miss the call. He says, “Shit,” checks the number and swallows hard.
Great, terrific, fuck me sideways.
Neil.
The absolutely last person he feels like speaking with right now is his brother. Neil is amazing and brilliant and funny and cool. He’s also sanctimonious, arrogant and a god damn pain in the ass when he wants to be and Adam is too fucking tired at the moment to listen to his bullshit take on religion, hate and other unrelated political and family oriented crap.
He exhales and stares off into the distance, dark mountains on one side of the hotel, bright lights on the other and the arena where he’s going to sing tomorrow night located right across the street.
He loves his brother. God, he loves his brother so fucking much sometimes it physically hurts and he thinks that if he doesn’t see Neil, speak with him, laugh with him, and reaffirm his presence in Adam’s life he just might go insane or possibly just stop breathing. He frowns again. Maybe it’s better this way. Neil made his feelings clear after the show in Long Island last month and they haven’t spoken to each other since.
It feels crazy to admit but along with his obsessive adoration Adam sometimes hates his brother with a burning passion that showers him with unnecessary guilt and leaves him feeling like a fucked-up mess. Neil believes he understands Adam perfectly and loves him unconditionally.
Only he doesn’t because, of course, there’s no way he can.
Adam frowns and snubs the pavement with his well worn sneaker. Or maybe Neil does and its Adam who’s all screwed up. He sighs, swallows, and tries to clear his head.
Nobody knows you and nobody ever will…
Neil is straight and living in a completely different world. He thinks he gets Adam, but surprise, surprise, that’s not necessarily true, and sometimes the utter pain of that sham, the fact that he actually wants to believe his brother’s sincerity, is the wildest kick in the ass of all.
He considers ringing Neil back. Possibility of a misdial aside his brother did make the first move just by calling. But then he decides against it. Fuck him. Adam’s nerves are still raw and burnt around the edges from their last fight and if he did manage to speak more than one sentence to his brother he’d probably only end up in a shouting match just like always and then he’d be worse off then he is right now.
Adam isn’t ready to apologize yet considering he’s pretty sure that Neil was the major dickhead in last month’s argument. He shoves the phone back in his pocket and wraps his arms across his chest surprised for a second to find that he’s trembling.
What the almighty fuck?
“Shit.” Adam rubs his forehead and fights back the sting of another migraine. This will make five in the last six weeks. And god-forbid he doesn’t come out to greet fans after the show tomorrow. Fucking twitter just might explode.
He sighs and turns back toward his hotel a Hilton so new it still smells with wet paint and freshly installed carpeting. To the left Adam can see the shining lights of shopping centers and restaurants and things to do, fun things, movie theaters, a club maybe, but he isn’t stupid enough to imagine that he can do anything fun right now. He’s a celebrity, a star. People want to hear him and touch him and screw his fucking brains out. Security is tight on his ass from dusk until dawn and if his body guard and handler knew he was standing by himself in, he crunches his brain for a bit, Rosemont, yeah, freaking Rosemont, Illinois, they’d haul him back up to his room for a nice long chat about making their lives simpler, and his life in turn a prison, by instructing him for the millionth time on behaving like a good boy and staying where they put him.
It’s gotten nearly impossible for him to do something casual. Atlanta was probably the last time he got shit-faced drunk in a bar that wasn’t attached to a hotel where he’s staying. Adam knows that’s the way it’s probably going to be for him from now on and it irks just a bit even though last year at this time it was all he could ever imagine wanting. And it’s great, at least some of it is and fuck, Adam’s never been much of a complainer but even so he wishes he could be anonymous again, just for one freaking night. Maybe pick someone up in a club. Make out in the pouring rain. Just be free again to live and love and laugh without cameras flashing, people staring and the press documenting his every god damn move.
He stares at the lights. The truth is if he starts walking Adam’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop. But if he doesn’t hesitate maybe he can get across the highway and bury himself in the glittery Mecca before anyone notices he’s gone.
He can go see a movie.
Get a drink.
Relax.
And oh god, oh god, oh god, he can get laid.
Adam stifles a moan at the thrill coursing through his body and has to physically stop himself from rubbing off against the nearest light post or car hood that he can find. He touches the front of his jeans and skims his fingers across the zipper, a slight caress against the growing bulge under his fingertips, until his breath catches and he bends forward, whimpering at how fucking helpless and hot the touch of his own hand makes him feel. It’s wild and crazy and so fucking good that Adam does it again and again until he’s moaning and shaking like a wild thing alone on the balmy pavement with a hotel full of greedy eyes temporarily leaving him in the background.
“Uhhhh…”
He leans into the hood of a pick-up and breathes in and out in time with the rapid beating of his heart. He could easily come like this, wet and desperate, just thinking about fucking, about the taste and smell of cock, on him, in him, all around him, giving and taking, using and being used, but tonight he needs a little bit more.
New York and Drake are a lifetime ago and Adam craves anonymous sex in any way he can get it. A hand job, a blow job, it really doesn’t matter as long as there’s cock involved and touching and tonguing and coming until his mind explodes with a vengeance that obliterates his senses and helps him mentally black out for the final leg of the tour. He closes his eyes and gives himself a squeeze just rough enough to take the edge off.
It’s nearly impossible to get his shit together but somehow he manages. Adam feels like he’s breathing under water. He looks at the lights again and his stomach does flip-flops. His heart tells him the journey is a great idea, and of course the promise of sex is always enticing, but his mind won’t back him the fuck up this time and what the hell is up with that? He’s edgy and exhausted and because it’s inevitable when he starts to feel insecure, Adam curses himself out in his head with every self-doubt and recrimination he’s ever had plastered onto his soul in the past ten years and adds a few new ones to the growing list for good measure.
You’re fat. You’re ugly. You’re unlovable. You deserve whatever the hell shit you get. Your skin is bad. No one wants you. No one will ever love you. Your brother thinks you’re a moron. You parents are ashamed. .
He breathes in and out, tries not to hyperventilate.
You’ll never be a success. You can’t sing. You belong in the theater. You lost American Idol because you’re gay.
Adam shakes until his head spins and his breath catches and when he gives himself one cruel parting shot…
Drake and Brad cheated because you’re terrible in bed.
Oh fuck….
…it’s nearly enough to force him down to the ground on his knees. He feels his bottom lip tremble and he bites it hard enough to taste the sting of blood.
“And you’re also a mother-fucking dumb ass,” he says darkly and shoves his hands into his jean pockets while struggling to get his thoughts under control.
Adam’s not staying here tonight. If he does he’ll suffocate. He loves his friends very much but right now they’re not enough. Matt, goofy and wilder than anyone probably even thinks, Lil, pretty and tiny and stronger then a grizzly bear, Allison, his buddy and partner in crime and Kris, his former roommate, his kind-of-crush his lifelong friend. Adam swallows. Thinking of Kris under the circumstances is dangerous and stupid so he pushes the image away. Some things, it seems, can’t be had no matter how much he wants to have them.
The seed of a plan forms and for the first time all week depression leaves him, and Adam realizes he’s damn lucky and quite possibly, at least for the time being, in control of his own destiny.
The lights of freedom beckon.
Adam takes the first step.
************
Michael examines his face in the hotel lobby mirror. His reflection mocks him. He looks drunk, tired, worn out fucked-up all to hell and totally without merit. His clothes are rumpled, his breath stinks and if tomorrow’s show is anything like the night before he’s going to go through another six-pack of Bud before he can forget all the miserable reviews and twitter comments and get some decent shut-eye. Maybe Adam has a point.
Fucking twats…
Michael’s is an upbeat guy by nature. He’s always looks on the bright side of life even when rough-necking and getting filthy and aging faster than his daddy on some dirty plain in Texas. He’s smart enough to know that American Idol is his ticket away from the dust and grime and so he hangs on tight to the lasso and does his best to get as far as he can possibly go once the singing starts. It isn’t easy but it’s better than oil rigging. He gets lucky on country night and damn if he’s not the happiest chicken in the henhouse when little Alexis Grace gets knocked out and he sails on through to the American Idol tour and one big fat much needed paycheck. He’s happy at first but once the tour starts, things change for the worse. Michael’s in over his head with a bunch of more talented people that only serve to make his lack of experience shine like a beacon.
He thinks for a second, reconsiders.
Well, maybe not Megan. She’s so ditzy that she actually makes him look pretty damn good. Lil’s a patronizing bitch with more ass than talent, Anoop’s smart and mellow and Scott, well, fuck, Scott’s voice is as weak as his ego is strong but since he plays the piano, tells jokes and is blind as a bat he kind of gets a free ride from most critics and fans.
Michael frowns and lowers his gaze. His opinions of Scott and the others are crude and undeserved and he wonders if anyone in the immediate area can tell how bitter and angry he feels
Upbeat guy my ass…
There are a few people he calls friends. Danny Gokey’s got a nice deep tone when he sings and off stage he’s a socially awkward jerk but since they’re good buddies Michael would never trash him in any way. Matt is cool if a bit too goofy at times with a sense of humor that borders on the ridiculous. And as for Kris, well, he’s a good guy, a strong man and a good musician and Michael is thrilled when the underdog wins the god damn American Idol prize and hugs his pretty wife onstage while the runner-up blends silently into the background.
Yeah right.
The thought of Adam Lambert ever blending into anything makes him snicker. The guy is a vocal freak of nature. How in the world can he compete against someone whose range taps the clouds on a sunny day and whose charisma charts off the scale like a recipe for nuclear fusion?
Michael frowns at the obvious answer. He just fucking can’t compete. No one can. Maybe he should just swallow up his gratitude and give thanks for even making it this far in life and just ride the runner-up’s coattails to the end of the line. Just take this tour for what it is: His one chance at making a quick buck before he’s back on the oil fields. He swallows hard and oh yeah, that really, really hurts.
He considers telling Lambert how he feels now and be done with things once and for all. Tell the fucking media hog how sick and tired he is of reading Adam’s soaring reviews combined with his own negative ones. How tiring it is for him and some others to face the press and the crowds knowing that most of them are clamoring and sometimes chanting for the number two guy in the show.
Adam…Adam…Adam…
God, it makes his head spin. And best yet oh yes, fuck, fuck, fuck it all, how about how very sick as crap he is of signing “I Love Adam” on every freaking Rolling Stone cover shoved in his face. Adam might not be amused but it sure would do Michael’s own soul a hell of a lot of good to get some of this shit off his chest.
He snorts at his own pity party. Adam Lambert isn’t really a bad guy. In fact he’s the direct opposite. He loves to talk. Some days you can’t shut him up. Adam would probably talk your ass off if he wasn’t exhausted out of his mind and on his cell phone half the time. And he’s funny and actually sweet once you get to know him.
At first it’s hard for Michael to pinpoint exactly what it is that makes him reconsider his original dislike for the guy who got his butt kissed by the Idol judges on a weekly basis but then, just like that it hits him like a ton of bricks; Adam Lambert is a good boy. Yeah, he’s gay and Michael isn’t one hundred percent comfortable with that idea just yet but Lambert is also well brought up, polite and disgustingly respectful. A kid any mother would be proud to call her own. And he’s also a bit of a puzzle; goofy jackass one minute, introspective prude the next. And fuck, if that Rolling Stone article that Michael won’t ever admit to reading is true, Lambert lost his virginity at twenty-one, twenty-frigging-one! Ignoring the fact that it’s a guy who takes his cherry, twenty-one is still pretty old for a city boy to first get fucked considering Michael was screwing on the backseat of his father’s old Chevy just past his seventeenth birthday.
Adam is a major talent, a celebrity, a star with a future, a sometimes pain in the ass but he’s not really Michael’s friend, is he? People flock to Adam. They adore him. They cheer him on louder and louder at each venue until the screams are deafening. They obsess over his every move. They argue over his boyfriend for god’s sake.
His boyfriend…
God, it’s almost unreal. The world is changing faster than he ever thought possible and Michael doesn’t want to find himself at the backend of a social revolution. He frowns. Or worse yet: As despised as Danny Gokey seemed bent on becoming with the internet fans this time out on the tour.
Gokeyisadouche… Gokeyisadouche…Gokeyisadouche
He recalls the night Gokeyisadouche trends on Twitter. Danny is mortified to see the association and read the somewhat deserved hate filled tweets and messages to him and his family. Adam is surprisingly sympathetic to Danny’s plight if not a bit shocked and embarrassed by all the shenanigans. And for the first time in his twenty-seven years of existence, Michael Sarver comprehends with no small amount of astonishment that not everyone in the universe shares his borderline close-minded view of humanity.
Nobody speaks much that night. But then again, nobody has to. The images and words are impossible to forget.
Michael can’t shake the memory of Adam’s wounded expression in the Facebook picture. It’s too blatant and raw to just shove aside. And the ignorant comments made by hate-filled people make him wince in disgust and turn his eyes away in shame. Adam doesn’t deserve this shit. He’s a human being for God’s sake. Sure he’s not perfect, none of them are, but Michael wagers Adam’s worth a hell of a lot more in God’s eyes than the ignorant dickheads who dismiss him so easily and cruelly out of hand through biting words and ridicule.
The day he finds out from the tour promoters about the Westboro Baptist Church flyer and some protesters paying a visit to the venue he stops in on Adam and finds him sitting on an old sofa staring out into space. Michael sits beside him, squeezes his shoulder softly and feels Adam’s muscles tense helplessly beneath the unyielding strength of his hand. He looks lost and tired and very much alone. It’s absurdly surreal. Michael swallows and squeezes his shoulder again. It feels wrong somehow seeing Adam fucking Lambert so vulnerable. Without makeup he looks like a kid.
He says “Hey,” and waits to be acknowledged.
Adam turns with a vague hint of a smile that refuses to touch his eyes, and then, “Hey Michael.”
“We’re here for you. You know that right?”
Adam stares at him hard but stays silent. He fidgets a bit with his ear and folds and unfolds his pale hands on his lap. His hair is tousled and his eyes are rimmed red. Michael wonders if he’s been crying or maybe just not getting enough sleep.
He says, “Those bastards outside don’t mean anything.” Except of course they do. They mean that right now, at least for Adam Lambert, the world is not the most inviting or friendly place.
Adam’s face looks drained. He shrugs, “I tell myself I’m used to it…” His voice trails away and he manages, “Whatever.”
Michael nods. “Look, I know we haven’t been best friends Adam but I’m not like these morons and I don’t want you to think I am.”
Adam seems appalled at the suggestion. “I never said…”
Michael interrupts him with a wave of his hand. Adam has a lot on his mind right now and he doesn’t want to make him feel worse or defensive for any past grudges. He makes a decision and decides then and there to stick with it for the rest of his life.
“We’re family and we take care of each other.” And how the hell weird is that? As he says the words Michael actually starts to believe them. “The Twitter world is a bit worried about you Adam. I’m going to let them know you’re okay.”
He makes nice, shakes hands, and says that he wants things better between them. Adam nods and says sure and no hard feelings and a bunch of other stuff that Michael doesn’t remember because he’s too busy being dazzled by the warmth of Lambert’s perfect smile.
Later, Michael tweets and people follow him and suddenly he’s Adam’s keeper and a good guy and someone fans can count on for the truth. People start to like him for himself. They respond to him like a friend and give him a nickname, Papa Bear, and it feels…good.
Michael likes Adam okay and he’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual but it doesn’t go beyond pleasantries. Simply put, they tolerate each other. They don’t hang out. They don’t share hidden secrets. And despite pulling out all the stops for Rolling Stone, Michael is pretty sure Adam Lambert is still hiding quite a few of those and maybe someday…
“Excuse me, sir?”
Michael jumps out of his reverie, blinks and stares. The young man standing in front of him is a kid not more than nineteen years old.
The kid stutters, “You’re with the Idol tour, right?”
Well, well, well.
“That’s right,” he says with a smile. Maybe this time the day will end on a positive note. After a couple of poorly received shows Michael certainly needs one.
“Um, is that Adam Lambert standing in the parking lot? I want his autograph but I don’t want to bother him out of the blue like that.” The boy’s voice trails off and for the first time Michael notices Adam standing all alone, his hair all anime frenzy in the hot evening breeze.
He tells the boy it’s probably not a good idea and that if he has tickets it would probably be better to come tomorrow and that he’ll set him up with a couple of passes. The kid smiles and agrees with Michael and then asks for his autograph too. For some reason he’s not entirely sure of, Michael opens the door and walks outside. He doesn’t want to speak with Adam. He just wants to watch him for a while. Maybe try and figure out what makes the other man so god damn fascinating to so many people.
Michael frowns. Adam doesn’t move. He just stands there with his hands in his pockets and an odd expression on his face. It’s weird to see him so still because he’s usually the most frenetic one in the lot of them.
He considers approaching Adam, asking if he’s okay, maybe suggesting they go back into the bar for a beer but pulls back at the last second. What the hell could they even have to discuss at this point? They have absolutely nothing in common.
Adam has a recording contract and an album coming out in November. Michael’s meeting with people and hoping for the best. Adam’s from California , he’s gay, and he wears makeup.
Makeup…
Michael’s a Texan born and bred and the last time he wore makeup was when he was on American Idol singing his guts out.
Just when he thinks that Adam is going to just stand there staring at the mountains for the rest of the evening the guy surprises him by starting to walk across the pavement, then across the street, and onward into traffic.
“Fuck!”
Michael’s not sure why he decides to follow Adam on his confusing journey but something tells him that it’s probably a good idea for someone to know where the runner-up is headed.
Michael adjusts his cap and starts out at a brisk pace determined to keep up with Adam’s unwavering stride.
Michael watches Adam move nimbly across the highway and onto the other side of the street. He follows at a steady pace keeping just out of eyeshot.
Where the heck is he going?
He blinks once, then again.
And why the hell are you following him?
Michael groans when he has to hike up yet another grassy rise. One more, then another and he finally gets his footing on concrete smack dab in the middling of what must pass for a shopper’s paradise in this part of the state. Actually, it’s not half bad. Restaurants, bars, stores, a mini-mart, even a pretty nice sized shopping mall are all visible from his position. He does a quick scan for Adam and frowns.
“Shit,” he barks. Now where the hell did he go? The idiot is going to get them both into a hell of a lot of trouble.
***
At first glance the outside of the bar doesn’t look like that much. The white siding is peeling and the dark windows need a good cleaning. The only bright spot is the vibrant sign, a 70’s flash declaring a moniker Twist.
I mean, come on, that’s got to be a gay bar right?
Well, sort of.
Adam enters slowly and is immediately aware that he’s made a big mistake. Sure it’s a gay bar, but it’s a blue collar gay bar. The men and women at the bar turn to stare at him and look him over in ways that make his skin crawl. He moves slowly to the counter and takes a seat all the while aware that every eye in the place is sizing him up and finding him wanting - or possibly just wanting him. Maybe it’s his two hundred dollar jeans or his bright blue t-shirt or his silver rings and Channel Love necklace. He wishes he remembered to wear his baseball cap. Then he’d fit in perfectly. The bartender smirks at him. Adam shrugs and slips the necklace under his t-shirt. Fuck them all. He needs a drink.
“Vodka martini straight up with a twist,” he says without a hint of smile and moments later settles back in a small booth with his back against the wall. Adam sips his drink, searches faces, waits, tries to see if anyone is showing any interest, if he’s going to be picked up or maybe do the picking up himself. Just when he thinks that maybe this is one of his worst ideas ever he’s approached by an attractive man with a crooked smile.
“Hi I’m Steven,” the man stutters nervously but since he’s horny and edgy as hell Adam decides to call it endearing.
“Steven,” he responds and gestures to the seat across from him.
“No, I mean, well, first why don’t I buy you another one of those. I mean, can I buy you another one of those drinks, um,” Steven pauses nervously and it takes Adam a minute to realize he’s waiting for both permission and his name.
“Sure,” Adam says and smiles encouragingly. “I’m Jack by the way and thanks for the drink. It’s a vodka martini.”
“Well Jack, you sure as hell brighten up this place.”
Adam licks his lips when Steven walks up to the bar. He’s taller than Adam’s usual preference, maybe 5’11 or so and stocky and thick where he usually likes them lean, a little older too, early thirties but youthful looking. He swallows. Maybe tonight he’s not going to be on top. Maybe tonight, if he’s lucky, Steven is going to change things up brilliantly. He looks around the bar and smirks. Beggars can’t be choosers. Steven really is the best of an unfortunate lot. Adam shrugs. There’s a lot to be said for having sex with a stronger partner. They can hold you down. They can make you plead. They can shove you hard and bend you to their will and…
Oh shit…
Adam feels the shudder begin at his toes and travel up his legs until it settles engagingly in the small of his back and his body spasms in a slight arch that makes his breath catch and his stomach fly. His mouth forms a small “o” and he swears “Fuck,” under his breath and stirs in his seat trying to get comfortable. Adam’s already getting hard just thinking about what the evening might have in store for him and at his age it’s kind of embarrassing to have so little self-control. He watches Steven order the drinks from the bartender, swallows his guilt, sits on his hands and waits.
****
Michael moves slowly down the street and sees a few places that Adam might have gone. Bars mostly, and none of them very fancy either. He always suspected Adam was more high maintenance than the dives around here but still a drink is a drink no matter where you drink it.
The first bar he comes to is called O’Reilly’s. It’s a nice enough looking place on the outside, more like a pub than a bar. Michael wonders if there really is a difference. He opens the door and a wave of stale beer slams him and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. Yuck. It’s dark and grimy inside with wooden tables and lots of smoke and people who don’t even turn in his direction when he coughs. Michael knows without a doubt that Adam isn’t relaxing in this rat-hole. He smirks. You don’t have to be high maintenance to recognize crap.
Michael smiles tiredly at the patrons, waves like an idiot and walks out the door. He feels beyond foolish, but for some reason he can’t quite decipher Michael keeps moving forward determined to find Adam Lambert and, although he’s not sure what the hell he’s going to do with him when he finds him, one thing’s for certain; Michael’s not returning to the Hilton until he does.
He wanders into another bar, classier this time, with flashy lights and waitresses wearing fewer clothes than a Hooter’s girl. It’s not very inviting but it’s still nice and since he can use a drink he settles at the bar and orders one of whatever the hell they have on tap while he looks around subtly for Adam.
There’s no smoke but the fancy lights make it difficult to make out individual faces. People are dancing and talking and just generally having a good time. It’s nice, but very loud so not much for relaxing and Michael thinks that maybe loud partying isn’t what Adam had in mind for tonight.
He smirks.
Right, like you know him so well.
The truth is he doesn’t know Adam Lambert very well at all. He knows the surface guy, the guy with the amazing pipes, the guy every media outlet wants a piece of on the tour, the guy who sings Bowie and dances like a stripper. But he’s not sure if he knows the real Adam, the guy outside the show.
Or does he?
He thinks back to the day that Adam Lambert lost American Idol and recalls how quickly his shock turned to glee. But more than that he remembers how classy Adam was in defeat. Hugging Kris fondly and backing away, relinquishing the spotlight and becoming simply another reality show contestant.
Michael frowns into his beer.
Since then, on the tour, he’s seen Lambert angry and drunk and sick and tired. He’s talked to him when he was over the top happy and sat near him and had words when Adam was sad. He’s seen him at his best and quite possibly at his worst.
Michael recalls a day, not long after they first make peace, when Adam comes up to him on the bus, pats him on the back and smiles. They don’t exchange any words but it’s an amazing feel good moment that puts him in a good frame of mind for the rest of the day. After the concert, the gang sits around, eats pizza, and chats about silly things while the tension of the past month lifts away like a cloud.
Good times.
Later in his bunk he thinks how odd it is that Adam has such an amazing effect on people and he wonders at the charisma that it takes to make an entire arena scream their lungs out just by taking off your fucking jacket.
And he smiles because he’s not sure there’s really an answer to that question at all.
****
Adam sips his second drink and takes a very deep breath. What he’s planning to do tonight is foolish, fucking out of his mind foolish, but the burning need in his gut is too strong for him to pull the reigns in on the evening now. He’s going to get it on with Steven. He’s going to fuck Steven or maybe let Steven fuck him. Either way he’s going to come until his mind explodes and his dick falls asleep from exhaustion. Adam absolutely refuses to spend another god damn night with his hand. He considers his various options, thinks fast, searches his pockets for condoms and comes up empty.
Great, just great…
“Shit,” Adam mumbles under his breath and swallows. Checking with Steven is probably a good idea but suddenly he doesn’t want to. He sighs with a small huff that blows up the fringe of his bangs. Either mindless sex with a stranger is a very bad plan or the universe is desperately trying to tell him something. He sighs. Probably a little bit of both.
“Did you say something?” Steven eyes him with a frown, waiting, watching, and staring at him intently. “Adam, are you still with me?”
Adam bites his bottom lip, stands up, gasps and catches himself on the edge of the table as the world begins to spin. It’s crazy because, seriously, one and a half martinis aren’t nearly enough to get him drunk. He manages a breathy, “Yeah, just give me a minute…” before stumbling forward again.
Steven grips his arm but Adam maneuvers out of reach and steadies himself fighting desperately to clear the relentless fog clouding his brain. His thoughts feel jumbled, unrestrained, and dangerous. “I just need,” but really what does he need? Adam doesn’t have a freaking clue. The exit door seems more than a mile away and what the fuck would he do if he reached it anyway? He doesn’t know where the hell he is and he’d probably get hit by a car on the highway trying to find his way back to the hotel. Adam directs his next words at Steven without looking at him. He swallows. “I need a cab.”
“Sure. No problem,” Steven responds but makes no move to comply then says, “I can give you a ride.”
Adam clenches his fists, grabs the top of the nearest chair and holds on tight. Something’s not right. He’s not right. He flops back in the booth with rubber legs and shudders hard. “Listen, I think this is a bad idea,” he begins weakly before Steven interrupts him.
“No it isn’t.” The other man’s voice is so soothing that Adam almost believes what he’s saying, almost wants the world to just melt away for a little while and leave him free and clear of all inhibitions. “It’s a good idea. We’re going to leave here now. I’ll take you back to my place. We’ll have sex. You’ll feel better. That’s what you need, right?” He moves closer and Adam jerks hard at the unexpected proximity.
“Um…” he considers. Hell yeah. Sex does sound good at least it always does with Drake but it doesn’t sound good right now. Despite his onstage persona Adam’s always been the kind of guy who prefers making love rather than fucking and cuddling and kissing more than getting it fast and dirty.
Fuck the world! He deserves to be intimate with someone he loves. Everyone deserves that. But this guy, this bar, and this city do not make the cut. Whatever in the world was he thinking? Adam mumbles, “Sex is not the Enemy,” and nearly laughs out loud. God, he feels so fucking weird.
“What?”
Adam closes his eyes and rides out the rush. When he opens them Steven is observing him with a strange expression on his face that’s both familiar and abhorrent. He’s seen that expression before in his club kid days on predators, guys looking for a good time and willing to do anything to anyone to get it. His stomach bottoms out and his head sags forward on his chest. He’s sick and crazy and desperately out of control. He feels a hand between his shoulder blades - Steven’s hand - rubbing circles in a possessive, eerie pattern, and despite his very obvious displeasure his cock shows interest and he gags when a sudden realization hits.
Adam, are you still with me?
The bastard called him Adam.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…
“I don’t want to go with you,” Adam mumbles and struggles but finds himself standing anyway. “Listen, please, listen, I can’t.” He bites his tongue, and tries, fuck he really tries, but he can’t stop his feet from moving toward the door. “This is wrong.”
And oh shit just like that he’s afraid. Steven knows who he is. The game is up. Adam shudders. What the hell is this guy doing? Why can’t he scream? Why the fuck won’t this bastard take no for an answer? What does he want?
You…
Steven smiles and leads him forward, hand steady at his back, his movements sure and precise. “You’re sick Adam. You need to rest. You can do that at my house.”
“No.” Adam grabs onto the doorframe when they exit. “No…”
“Come on buddy.” Steven pulls at his fingers. “My car is right over there.”
Just as Adam starts to think that he’s made the biggest mistake of his life, just as he starts to crumble and fall over onto the dirty pavement, he hears a voice that’s familiar and strong and tough as fucking nails say: “Buddy, I think the gentleman just told you “no.”
What?
The last conscious image Adam has is of a very determined and angry Michael Sarver bearing down on Steven with massive fists clenched tight. He smiles weakly, tries to wave and then without warning, his world goes black.
*****
It takes Michael a while to get Adam away from the little fuck who obviously thinks it’s going to be his lucky night. Thankfully after he threatens to call the police and growls a bit the asshole doesn’t put up much in the way of resistance past a poor man’s attempt at acting tough that’s really quite laughable.
Michael knows what being tough is really all about. Tough means sucking it up and getting your hands dirty working hard for a living at a back-breaking job that you hate to support your family while dreaming hard and fast of a better life in your spare time. Tough means getting in trouble with the law and taking your punishment instead of making excuses and letting the experience destroy your spirit. Tough means having the soul of a poet and the charisma of toad and still trying to be something that people tell you that you’re not, still looking ahead instead of hiding in a corner.
All his life people tell him to get a job, join the union, work hard, marry and be a good husband. And damn it if Michael didn’t do exactly what they told him to do! He looks at his callused hands so rough and out of place next to Adam’s pale manicured ones and for a moment he’s ashamed of who he is and angry that he never had all the breaks in life that god deemed fit to give to Adam.
“Ah, hell…”
He hails a grimy yellow cab just hanging out on the corner, pushes Adam into the back and follows him quickly inside. He looks around the area but doesn't meet any curious eyes and sighs with relief as he flops into the seat behind the driver.
He smiles his best "awe shucks" grin and asks the driver to recommend a local hotel where his friend can "sleep it off" and then feels slightly freaked out when the driver actually snickers. Michael swallows hard and stares at the man in the mirror until he looks away. He almost asks, "What the fuck is your problem buddy" when it hits him right between the eyes like a ton of god-damned bricks.
The moron is laughing because Michael Sarver has just herded a hot, loopy man into the back of his taxi in front of an established gay bar and then asked to be taken to a motel.
The cabbie thinks he's gay
Double shit fuck mother of god.
The cabbie thinks he's just as gay as Adam. And since he's bigger than Adam and not in the least bit drunk, the driver probably also assumes he's taking advantage. Or maybe he thinks that Michael’s a business man picking up a hooker. Or maybe, Michael frowns and considers. Do they still call male prostitutes "hookers” these days?
"Look, just drive. This isn't what you think."
"It's not my business." The driver says with a shrug and revs up the engine.
"Take me out of the city but not too far. Just go someplace quiet."
He turns toward Adam snuggled into himself in the corner of the cab with his heavy lidded eyes and pouting lips. He looks exhausted and miserable and ten different shades of pale. If the press gets wind of any of this nonsense all hell will break loose, that’s a given. He imagines the headlines and twists his mouth. "Idol runner-up slipped roofie at notorious gay hang-out". Yeah, it won’t look good for either of them. But it will look a hell of a lot worse for Adam.
They drive for a few minutes and the bright lights of the city start to fade away and change to trees and smaller buildings, donut shops and fast food restaurants. They're still on a highway but different, a route maybe, definitely not the center of town. There’s still traffic but it’s not as hectic. It’s bright but not overcrowded.
It’s the middle of fucking small town nowhere USA.
“Hmmm…”
Next to him Adam groans. He reaches for Michael, touches his face and immediately cuddles up against him wrapping his painted fingernails in the hem of Michael's dark blue hoodie.
"Yes..." Adam hisses.
Michael sighs, “No.” He pushes the slender hand away more roughly than he intends to but it comes back with a flourish along with Adam's mouth brushing up against chin. The hot breath on his neck is an embarrassing distraction. But damn if the bastard doesn't smell kind of nice.
He somehow manages to untangle Adam’s wiry arms and watches him warily from the corner of his eye. Adam moves closer and Michael allows it. The poor fuck doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing anyway and if he did he’d probably be pretty damn mortified to realize that the guy he’s pawing in the backseat of a taxi is the same big Texan he didn’t spare a word for at the start of the AI season.
Okay, so that description isn’t really accurate but maybe this way it’s easier for him to remember. Adam never openly disliked him. They’re just from two completely different worlds.
After what seems like an eternity the cab pulls up outside a run down Knights Inn and Michael pays the driver. The curious bastard can’t wait to be rid of them.
He parks Adam on a chair inside the hotel office and walks up to the check-in counter to get a room.
The hotel manager smiles and says, “We only have a room with one King size bed available.”
Michael sighs, “Yeah, of course you do.”
part 2 conclusion
Author: Chensuu
Rating: R for language and suggestive situations, angst, drug use
Word Count 13,300
Characters: Adam Lambert and Michael Sarver
Fandom American Idol, Sarbert, friendship
Summary Adam and Michael have nothing in common.
Disclaimer:They are NOT mine. This is a work of fiction.
Written for: Pinkygoldfish
by Chensuu'>
You can say battle or war or whatever, but in the end, it's music. It's not really violent in intent at all, it's really just about expression and celebrating that in itself.
Eric San
In The End It's Music
Adam stands in the parking lot of his hotel and stares at the empty tour buses mired in bright streetlights casting their ghostly shadows across the pavement. He licks his lower lip just enough to feel the slight ridge of freckle on the tip of his tongue and shivers even though it’s warmer than fuck on a humid September night in wherever-the-goddamn-crap-he-is-now-USA.
His cell phone rings and he curses when his hand gets tangled in the loose flow of his shirt causing him to miss the call. He says, “Shit,” checks the number and swallows hard.
Great, terrific, fuck me sideways.
Neil.
The absolutely last person he feels like speaking with right now is his brother. Neil is amazing and brilliant and funny and cool. He’s also sanctimonious, arrogant and a god damn pain in the ass when he wants to be and Adam is too fucking tired at the moment to listen to his bullshit take on religion, hate and other unrelated political and family oriented crap.
He exhales and stares off into the distance, dark mountains on one side of the hotel, bright lights on the other and the arena where he’s going to sing tomorrow night located right across the street.
He loves his brother. God, he loves his brother so fucking much sometimes it physically hurts and he thinks that if he doesn’t see Neil, speak with him, laugh with him, and reaffirm his presence in Adam’s life he just might go insane or possibly just stop breathing. He frowns again. Maybe it’s better this way. Neil made his feelings clear after the show in Long Island last month and they haven’t spoken to each other since.
It feels crazy to admit but along with his obsessive adoration Adam sometimes hates his brother with a burning passion that showers him with unnecessary guilt and leaves him feeling like a fucked-up mess. Neil believes he understands Adam perfectly and loves him unconditionally.
Only he doesn’t because, of course, there’s no way he can.
Adam frowns and snubs the pavement with his well worn sneaker. Or maybe Neil does and its Adam who’s all screwed up. He sighs, swallows, and tries to clear his head.
Nobody knows you and nobody ever will…
Neil is straight and living in a completely different world. He thinks he gets Adam, but surprise, surprise, that’s not necessarily true, and sometimes the utter pain of that sham, the fact that he actually wants to believe his brother’s sincerity, is the wildest kick in the ass of all.
He considers ringing Neil back. Possibility of a misdial aside his brother did make the first move just by calling. But then he decides against it. Fuck him. Adam’s nerves are still raw and burnt around the edges from their last fight and if he did manage to speak more than one sentence to his brother he’d probably only end up in a shouting match just like always and then he’d be worse off then he is right now.
Adam isn’t ready to apologize yet considering he’s pretty sure that Neil was the major dickhead in last month’s argument. He shoves the phone back in his pocket and wraps his arms across his chest surprised for a second to find that he’s trembling.
What the almighty fuck?
“Shit.” Adam rubs his forehead and fights back the sting of another migraine. This will make five in the last six weeks. And god-forbid he doesn’t come out to greet fans after the show tomorrow. Fucking twitter just might explode.
He sighs and turns back toward his hotel a Hilton so new it still smells with wet paint and freshly installed carpeting. To the left Adam can see the shining lights of shopping centers and restaurants and things to do, fun things, movie theaters, a club maybe, but he isn’t stupid enough to imagine that he can do anything fun right now. He’s a celebrity, a star. People want to hear him and touch him and screw his fucking brains out. Security is tight on his ass from dusk until dawn and if his body guard and handler knew he was standing by himself in, he crunches his brain for a bit, Rosemont, yeah, freaking Rosemont, Illinois, they’d haul him back up to his room for a nice long chat about making their lives simpler, and his life in turn a prison, by instructing him for the millionth time on behaving like a good boy and staying where they put him.
It’s gotten nearly impossible for him to do something casual. Atlanta was probably the last time he got shit-faced drunk in a bar that wasn’t attached to a hotel where he’s staying. Adam knows that’s the way it’s probably going to be for him from now on and it irks just a bit even though last year at this time it was all he could ever imagine wanting. And it’s great, at least some of it is and fuck, Adam’s never been much of a complainer but even so he wishes he could be anonymous again, just for one freaking night. Maybe pick someone up in a club. Make out in the pouring rain. Just be free again to live and love and laugh without cameras flashing, people staring and the press documenting his every god damn move.
He stares at the lights. The truth is if he starts walking Adam’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop. But if he doesn’t hesitate maybe he can get across the highway and bury himself in the glittery Mecca before anyone notices he’s gone.
He can go see a movie.
Get a drink.
Relax.
And oh god, oh god, oh god, he can get laid.
Adam stifles a moan at the thrill coursing through his body and has to physically stop himself from rubbing off against the nearest light post or car hood that he can find. He touches the front of his jeans and skims his fingers across the zipper, a slight caress against the growing bulge under his fingertips, until his breath catches and he bends forward, whimpering at how fucking helpless and hot the touch of his own hand makes him feel. It’s wild and crazy and so fucking good that Adam does it again and again until he’s moaning and shaking like a wild thing alone on the balmy pavement with a hotel full of greedy eyes temporarily leaving him in the background.
“Uhhhh…”
He leans into the hood of a pick-up and breathes in and out in time with the rapid beating of his heart. He could easily come like this, wet and desperate, just thinking about fucking, about the taste and smell of cock, on him, in him, all around him, giving and taking, using and being used, but tonight he needs a little bit more.
New York and Drake are a lifetime ago and Adam craves anonymous sex in any way he can get it. A hand job, a blow job, it really doesn’t matter as long as there’s cock involved and touching and tonguing and coming until his mind explodes with a vengeance that obliterates his senses and helps him mentally black out for the final leg of the tour. He closes his eyes and gives himself a squeeze just rough enough to take the edge off.
It’s nearly impossible to get his shit together but somehow he manages. Adam feels like he’s breathing under water. He looks at the lights again and his stomach does flip-flops. His heart tells him the journey is a great idea, and of course the promise of sex is always enticing, but his mind won’t back him the fuck up this time and what the hell is up with that? He’s edgy and exhausted and because it’s inevitable when he starts to feel insecure, Adam curses himself out in his head with every self-doubt and recrimination he’s ever had plastered onto his soul in the past ten years and adds a few new ones to the growing list for good measure.
You’re fat. You’re ugly. You’re unlovable. You deserve whatever the hell shit you get. Your skin is bad. No one wants you. No one will ever love you. Your brother thinks you’re a moron. You parents are ashamed. .
He breathes in and out, tries not to hyperventilate.
You’ll never be a success. You can’t sing. You belong in the theater. You lost American Idol because you’re gay.
Adam shakes until his head spins and his breath catches and when he gives himself one cruel parting shot…
Drake and Brad cheated because you’re terrible in bed.
Oh fuck….
…it’s nearly enough to force him down to the ground on his knees. He feels his bottom lip tremble and he bites it hard enough to taste the sting of blood.
“And you’re also a mother-fucking dumb ass,” he says darkly and shoves his hands into his jean pockets while struggling to get his thoughts under control.
Adam’s not staying here tonight. If he does he’ll suffocate. He loves his friends very much but right now they’re not enough. Matt, goofy and wilder than anyone probably even thinks, Lil, pretty and tiny and stronger then a grizzly bear, Allison, his buddy and partner in crime and Kris, his former roommate, his kind-of-crush his lifelong friend. Adam swallows. Thinking of Kris under the circumstances is dangerous and stupid so he pushes the image away. Some things, it seems, can’t be had no matter how much he wants to have them.
The seed of a plan forms and for the first time all week depression leaves him, and Adam realizes he’s damn lucky and quite possibly, at least for the time being, in control of his own destiny.
The lights of freedom beckon.
Adam takes the first step.
************
Michael examines his face in the hotel lobby mirror. His reflection mocks him. He looks drunk, tired, worn out fucked-up all to hell and totally without merit. His clothes are rumpled, his breath stinks and if tomorrow’s show is anything like the night before he’s going to go through another six-pack of Bud before he can forget all the miserable reviews and twitter comments and get some decent shut-eye. Maybe Adam has a point.
Fucking twats…
Michael’s is an upbeat guy by nature. He’s always looks on the bright side of life even when rough-necking and getting filthy and aging faster than his daddy on some dirty plain in Texas. He’s smart enough to know that American Idol is his ticket away from the dust and grime and so he hangs on tight to the lasso and does his best to get as far as he can possibly go once the singing starts. It isn’t easy but it’s better than oil rigging. He gets lucky on country night and damn if he’s not the happiest chicken in the henhouse when little Alexis Grace gets knocked out and he sails on through to the American Idol tour and one big fat much needed paycheck. He’s happy at first but once the tour starts, things change for the worse. Michael’s in over his head with a bunch of more talented people that only serve to make his lack of experience shine like a beacon.
He thinks for a second, reconsiders.
Well, maybe not Megan. She’s so ditzy that she actually makes him look pretty damn good. Lil’s a patronizing bitch with more ass than talent, Anoop’s smart and mellow and Scott, well, fuck, Scott’s voice is as weak as his ego is strong but since he plays the piano, tells jokes and is blind as a bat he kind of gets a free ride from most critics and fans.
Michael frowns and lowers his gaze. His opinions of Scott and the others are crude and undeserved and he wonders if anyone in the immediate area can tell how bitter and angry he feels
Upbeat guy my ass…
There are a few people he calls friends. Danny Gokey’s got a nice deep tone when he sings and off stage he’s a socially awkward jerk but since they’re good buddies Michael would never trash him in any way. Matt is cool if a bit too goofy at times with a sense of humor that borders on the ridiculous. And as for Kris, well, he’s a good guy, a strong man and a good musician and Michael is thrilled when the underdog wins the god damn American Idol prize and hugs his pretty wife onstage while the runner-up blends silently into the background.
Yeah right.
The thought of Adam Lambert ever blending into anything makes him snicker. The guy is a vocal freak of nature. How in the world can he compete against someone whose range taps the clouds on a sunny day and whose charisma charts off the scale like a recipe for nuclear fusion?
Michael frowns at the obvious answer. He just fucking can’t compete. No one can. Maybe he should just swallow up his gratitude and give thanks for even making it this far in life and just ride the runner-up’s coattails to the end of the line. Just take this tour for what it is: His one chance at making a quick buck before he’s back on the oil fields. He swallows hard and oh yeah, that really, really hurts.
He considers telling Lambert how he feels now and be done with things once and for all. Tell the fucking media hog how sick and tired he is of reading Adam’s soaring reviews combined with his own negative ones. How tiring it is for him and some others to face the press and the crowds knowing that most of them are clamoring and sometimes chanting for the number two guy in the show.
Adam…Adam…Adam…
God, it makes his head spin. And best yet oh yes, fuck, fuck, fuck it all, how about how very sick as crap he is of signing “I Love Adam” on every freaking Rolling Stone cover shoved in his face. Adam might not be amused but it sure would do Michael’s own soul a hell of a lot of good to get some of this shit off his chest.
He snorts at his own pity party. Adam Lambert isn’t really a bad guy. In fact he’s the direct opposite. He loves to talk. Some days you can’t shut him up. Adam would probably talk your ass off if he wasn’t exhausted out of his mind and on his cell phone half the time. And he’s funny and actually sweet once you get to know him.
At first it’s hard for Michael to pinpoint exactly what it is that makes him reconsider his original dislike for the guy who got his butt kissed by the Idol judges on a weekly basis but then, just like that it hits him like a ton of bricks; Adam Lambert is a good boy. Yeah, he’s gay and Michael isn’t one hundred percent comfortable with that idea just yet but Lambert is also well brought up, polite and disgustingly respectful. A kid any mother would be proud to call her own. And he’s also a bit of a puzzle; goofy jackass one minute, introspective prude the next. And fuck, if that Rolling Stone article that Michael won’t ever admit to reading is true, Lambert lost his virginity at twenty-one, twenty-frigging-one! Ignoring the fact that it’s a guy who takes his cherry, twenty-one is still pretty old for a city boy to first get fucked considering Michael was screwing on the backseat of his father’s old Chevy just past his seventeenth birthday.
Adam is a major talent, a celebrity, a star with a future, a sometimes pain in the ass but he’s not really Michael’s friend, is he? People flock to Adam. They adore him. They cheer him on louder and louder at each venue until the screams are deafening. They obsess over his every move. They argue over his boyfriend for god’s sake.
His boyfriend…
God, it’s almost unreal. The world is changing faster than he ever thought possible and Michael doesn’t want to find himself at the backend of a social revolution. He frowns. Or worse yet: As despised as Danny Gokey seemed bent on becoming with the internet fans this time out on the tour.
Gokeyisadouche… Gokeyisadouche…Gokeyisadouche
He recalls the night Gokeyisadouche trends on Twitter. Danny is mortified to see the association and read the somewhat deserved hate filled tweets and messages to him and his family. Adam is surprisingly sympathetic to Danny’s plight if not a bit shocked and embarrassed by all the shenanigans. And for the first time in his twenty-seven years of existence, Michael Sarver comprehends with no small amount of astonishment that not everyone in the universe shares his borderline close-minded view of humanity.
Nobody speaks much that night. But then again, nobody has to. The images and words are impossible to forget.
Michael can’t shake the memory of Adam’s wounded expression in the Facebook picture. It’s too blatant and raw to just shove aside. And the ignorant comments made by hate-filled people make him wince in disgust and turn his eyes away in shame. Adam doesn’t deserve this shit. He’s a human being for God’s sake. Sure he’s not perfect, none of them are, but Michael wagers Adam’s worth a hell of a lot more in God’s eyes than the ignorant dickheads who dismiss him so easily and cruelly out of hand through biting words and ridicule.
The day he finds out from the tour promoters about the Westboro Baptist Church flyer and some protesters paying a visit to the venue he stops in on Adam and finds him sitting on an old sofa staring out into space. Michael sits beside him, squeezes his shoulder softly and feels Adam’s muscles tense helplessly beneath the unyielding strength of his hand. He looks lost and tired and very much alone. It’s absurdly surreal. Michael swallows and squeezes his shoulder again. It feels wrong somehow seeing Adam fucking Lambert so vulnerable. Without makeup he looks like a kid.
He says “Hey,” and waits to be acknowledged.
Adam turns with a vague hint of a smile that refuses to touch his eyes, and then, “Hey Michael.”
“We’re here for you. You know that right?”
Adam stares at him hard but stays silent. He fidgets a bit with his ear and folds and unfolds his pale hands on his lap. His hair is tousled and his eyes are rimmed red. Michael wonders if he’s been crying or maybe just not getting enough sleep.
He says, “Those bastards outside don’t mean anything.” Except of course they do. They mean that right now, at least for Adam Lambert, the world is not the most inviting or friendly place.
Adam’s face looks drained. He shrugs, “I tell myself I’m used to it…” His voice trails away and he manages, “Whatever.”
Michael nods. “Look, I know we haven’t been best friends Adam but I’m not like these morons and I don’t want you to think I am.”
Adam seems appalled at the suggestion. “I never said…”
Michael interrupts him with a wave of his hand. Adam has a lot on his mind right now and he doesn’t want to make him feel worse or defensive for any past grudges. He makes a decision and decides then and there to stick with it for the rest of his life.
“We’re family and we take care of each other.” And how the hell weird is that? As he says the words Michael actually starts to believe them. “The Twitter world is a bit worried about you Adam. I’m going to let them know you’re okay.”
He makes nice, shakes hands, and says that he wants things better between them. Adam nods and says sure and no hard feelings and a bunch of other stuff that Michael doesn’t remember because he’s too busy being dazzled by the warmth of Lambert’s perfect smile.
Later, Michael tweets and people follow him and suddenly he’s Adam’s keeper and a good guy and someone fans can count on for the truth. People start to like him for himself. They respond to him like a friend and give him a nickname, Papa Bear, and it feels…good.
Michael likes Adam okay and he’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual but it doesn’t go beyond pleasantries. Simply put, they tolerate each other. They don’t hang out. They don’t share hidden secrets. And despite pulling out all the stops for Rolling Stone, Michael is pretty sure Adam Lambert is still hiding quite a few of those and maybe someday…
“Excuse me, sir?”
Michael jumps out of his reverie, blinks and stares. The young man standing in front of him is a kid not more than nineteen years old.
The kid stutters, “You’re with the Idol tour, right?”
Well, well, well.
“That’s right,” he says with a smile. Maybe this time the day will end on a positive note. After a couple of poorly received shows Michael certainly needs one.
“Um, is that Adam Lambert standing in the parking lot? I want his autograph but I don’t want to bother him out of the blue like that.” The boy’s voice trails off and for the first time Michael notices Adam standing all alone, his hair all anime frenzy in the hot evening breeze.
He tells the boy it’s probably not a good idea and that if he has tickets it would probably be better to come tomorrow and that he’ll set him up with a couple of passes. The kid smiles and agrees with Michael and then asks for his autograph too. For some reason he’s not entirely sure of, Michael opens the door and walks outside. He doesn’t want to speak with Adam. He just wants to watch him for a while. Maybe try and figure out what makes the other man so god damn fascinating to so many people.
Michael frowns. Adam doesn’t move. He just stands there with his hands in his pockets and an odd expression on his face. It’s weird to see him so still because he’s usually the most frenetic one in the lot of them.
He considers approaching Adam, asking if he’s okay, maybe suggesting they go back into the bar for a beer but pulls back at the last second. What the hell could they even have to discuss at this point? They have absolutely nothing in common.
Adam has a recording contract and an album coming out in November. Michael’s meeting with people and hoping for the best. Adam’s from California , he’s gay, and he wears makeup.
Makeup…
Michael’s a Texan born and bred and the last time he wore makeup was when he was on American Idol singing his guts out.
Just when he thinks that Adam is going to just stand there staring at the mountains for the rest of the evening the guy surprises him by starting to walk across the pavement, then across the street, and onward into traffic.
“Fuck!”
Michael’s not sure why he decides to follow Adam on his confusing journey but something tells him that it’s probably a good idea for someone to know where the runner-up is headed.
Michael adjusts his cap and starts out at a brisk pace determined to keep up with Adam’s unwavering stride.
Michael watches Adam move nimbly across the highway and onto the other side of the street. He follows at a steady pace keeping just out of eyeshot.
Where the heck is he going?
He blinks once, then again.
And why the hell are you following him?
Michael groans when he has to hike up yet another grassy rise. One more, then another and he finally gets his footing on concrete smack dab in the middling of what must pass for a shopper’s paradise in this part of the state. Actually, it’s not half bad. Restaurants, bars, stores, a mini-mart, even a pretty nice sized shopping mall are all visible from his position. He does a quick scan for Adam and frowns.
“Shit,” he barks. Now where the hell did he go? The idiot is going to get them both into a hell of a lot of trouble.
***
At first glance the outside of the bar doesn’t look like that much. The white siding is peeling and the dark windows need a good cleaning. The only bright spot is the vibrant sign, a 70’s flash declaring a moniker Twist.
I mean, come on, that’s got to be a gay bar right?
Well, sort of.
Adam enters slowly and is immediately aware that he’s made a big mistake. Sure it’s a gay bar, but it’s a blue collar gay bar. The men and women at the bar turn to stare at him and look him over in ways that make his skin crawl. He moves slowly to the counter and takes a seat all the while aware that every eye in the place is sizing him up and finding him wanting - or possibly just wanting him. Maybe it’s his two hundred dollar jeans or his bright blue t-shirt or his silver rings and Channel Love necklace. He wishes he remembered to wear his baseball cap. Then he’d fit in perfectly. The bartender smirks at him. Adam shrugs and slips the necklace under his t-shirt. Fuck them all. He needs a drink.
“Vodka martini straight up with a twist,” he says without a hint of smile and moments later settles back in a small booth with his back against the wall. Adam sips his drink, searches faces, waits, tries to see if anyone is showing any interest, if he’s going to be picked up or maybe do the picking up himself. Just when he thinks that maybe this is one of his worst ideas ever he’s approached by an attractive man with a crooked smile.
“Hi I’m Steven,” the man stutters nervously but since he’s horny and edgy as hell Adam decides to call it endearing.
“Steven,” he responds and gestures to the seat across from him.
“No, I mean, well, first why don’t I buy you another one of those. I mean, can I buy you another one of those drinks, um,” Steven pauses nervously and it takes Adam a minute to realize he’s waiting for both permission and his name.
“Sure,” Adam says and smiles encouragingly. “I’m Jack by the way and thanks for the drink. It’s a vodka martini.”
“Well Jack, you sure as hell brighten up this place.”
Adam licks his lips when Steven walks up to the bar. He’s taller than Adam’s usual preference, maybe 5’11 or so and stocky and thick where he usually likes them lean, a little older too, early thirties but youthful looking. He swallows. Maybe tonight he’s not going to be on top. Maybe tonight, if he’s lucky, Steven is going to change things up brilliantly. He looks around the bar and smirks. Beggars can’t be choosers. Steven really is the best of an unfortunate lot. Adam shrugs. There’s a lot to be said for having sex with a stronger partner. They can hold you down. They can make you plead. They can shove you hard and bend you to their will and…
Oh shit…
Adam feels the shudder begin at his toes and travel up his legs until it settles engagingly in the small of his back and his body spasms in a slight arch that makes his breath catch and his stomach fly. His mouth forms a small “o” and he swears “Fuck,” under his breath and stirs in his seat trying to get comfortable. Adam’s already getting hard just thinking about what the evening might have in store for him and at his age it’s kind of embarrassing to have so little self-control. He watches Steven order the drinks from the bartender, swallows his guilt, sits on his hands and waits.
****
Michael moves slowly down the street and sees a few places that Adam might have gone. Bars mostly, and none of them very fancy either. He always suspected Adam was more high maintenance than the dives around here but still a drink is a drink no matter where you drink it.
The first bar he comes to is called O’Reilly’s. It’s a nice enough looking place on the outside, more like a pub than a bar. Michael wonders if there really is a difference. He opens the door and a wave of stale beer slams him and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. Yuck. It’s dark and grimy inside with wooden tables and lots of smoke and people who don’t even turn in his direction when he coughs. Michael knows without a doubt that Adam isn’t relaxing in this rat-hole. He smirks. You don’t have to be high maintenance to recognize crap.
Michael smiles tiredly at the patrons, waves like an idiot and walks out the door. He feels beyond foolish, but for some reason he can’t quite decipher Michael keeps moving forward determined to find Adam Lambert and, although he’s not sure what the hell he’s going to do with him when he finds him, one thing’s for certain; Michael’s not returning to the Hilton until he does.
He wanders into another bar, classier this time, with flashy lights and waitresses wearing fewer clothes than a Hooter’s girl. It’s not very inviting but it’s still nice and since he can use a drink he settles at the bar and orders one of whatever the hell they have on tap while he looks around subtly for Adam.
There’s no smoke but the fancy lights make it difficult to make out individual faces. People are dancing and talking and just generally having a good time. It’s nice, but very loud so not much for relaxing and Michael thinks that maybe loud partying isn’t what Adam had in mind for tonight.
He smirks.
Right, like you know him so well.
The truth is he doesn’t know Adam Lambert very well at all. He knows the surface guy, the guy with the amazing pipes, the guy every media outlet wants a piece of on the tour, the guy who sings Bowie and dances like a stripper. But he’s not sure if he knows the real Adam, the guy outside the show.
Or does he?
He thinks back to the day that Adam Lambert lost American Idol and recalls how quickly his shock turned to glee. But more than that he remembers how classy Adam was in defeat. Hugging Kris fondly and backing away, relinquishing the spotlight and becoming simply another reality show contestant.
Michael frowns into his beer.
Since then, on the tour, he’s seen Lambert angry and drunk and sick and tired. He’s talked to him when he was over the top happy and sat near him and had words when Adam was sad. He’s seen him at his best and quite possibly at his worst.
Michael recalls a day, not long after they first make peace, when Adam comes up to him on the bus, pats him on the back and smiles. They don’t exchange any words but it’s an amazing feel good moment that puts him in a good frame of mind for the rest of the day. After the concert, the gang sits around, eats pizza, and chats about silly things while the tension of the past month lifts away like a cloud.
Good times.
Later in his bunk he thinks how odd it is that Adam has such an amazing effect on people and he wonders at the charisma that it takes to make an entire arena scream their lungs out just by taking off your fucking jacket.
And he smiles because he’s not sure there’s really an answer to that question at all.
****
Adam sips his second drink and takes a very deep breath. What he’s planning to do tonight is foolish, fucking out of his mind foolish, but the burning need in his gut is too strong for him to pull the reigns in on the evening now. He’s going to get it on with Steven. He’s going to fuck Steven or maybe let Steven fuck him. Either way he’s going to come until his mind explodes and his dick falls asleep from exhaustion. Adam absolutely refuses to spend another god damn night with his hand. He considers his various options, thinks fast, searches his pockets for condoms and comes up empty.
Great, just great…
“Shit,” Adam mumbles under his breath and swallows. Checking with Steven is probably a good idea but suddenly he doesn’t want to. He sighs with a small huff that blows up the fringe of his bangs. Either mindless sex with a stranger is a very bad plan or the universe is desperately trying to tell him something. He sighs. Probably a little bit of both.
“Did you say something?” Steven eyes him with a frown, waiting, watching, and staring at him intently. “Adam, are you still with me?”
Adam bites his bottom lip, stands up, gasps and catches himself on the edge of the table as the world begins to spin. It’s crazy because, seriously, one and a half martinis aren’t nearly enough to get him drunk. He manages a breathy, “Yeah, just give me a minute…” before stumbling forward again.
Steven grips his arm but Adam maneuvers out of reach and steadies himself fighting desperately to clear the relentless fog clouding his brain. His thoughts feel jumbled, unrestrained, and dangerous. “I just need,” but really what does he need? Adam doesn’t have a freaking clue. The exit door seems more than a mile away and what the fuck would he do if he reached it anyway? He doesn’t know where the hell he is and he’d probably get hit by a car on the highway trying to find his way back to the hotel. Adam directs his next words at Steven without looking at him. He swallows. “I need a cab.”
“Sure. No problem,” Steven responds but makes no move to comply then says, “I can give you a ride.”
Adam clenches his fists, grabs the top of the nearest chair and holds on tight. Something’s not right. He’s not right. He flops back in the booth with rubber legs and shudders hard. “Listen, I think this is a bad idea,” he begins weakly before Steven interrupts him.
“No it isn’t.” The other man’s voice is so soothing that Adam almost believes what he’s saying, almost wants the world to just melt away for a little while and leave him free and clear of all inhibitions. “It’s a good idea. We’re going to leave here now. I’ll take you back to my place. We’ll have sex. You’ll feel better. That’s what you need, right?” He moves closer and Adam jerks hard at the unexpected proximity.
“Um…” he considers. Hell yeah. Sex does sound good at least it always does with Drake but it doesn’t sound good right now. Despite his onstage persona Adam’s always been the kind of guy who prefers making love rather than fucking and cuddling and kissing more than getting it fast and dirty.
Fuck the world! He deserves to be intimate with someone he loves. Everyone deserves that. But this guy, this bar, and this city do not make the cut. Whatever in the world was he thinking? Adam mumbles, “Sex is not the Enemy,” and nearly laughs out loud. God, he feels so fucking weird.
“What?”
Adam closes his eyes and rides out the rush. When he opens them Steven is observing him with a strange expression on his face that’s both familiar and abhorrent. He’s seen that expression before in his club kid days on predators, guys looking for a good time and willing to do anything to anyone to get it. His stomach bottoms out and his head sags forward on his chest. He’s sick and crazy and desperately out of control. He feels a hand between his shoulder blades - Steven’s hand - rubbing circles in a possessive, eerie pattern, and despite his very obvious displeasure his cock shows interest and he gags when a sudden realization hits.
Adam, are you still with me?
The bastard called him Adam.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…
“I don’t want to go with you,” Adam mumbles and struggles but finds himself standing anyway. “Listen, please, listen, I can’t.” He bites his tongue, and tries, fuck he really tries, but he can’t stop his feet from moving toward the door. “This is wrong.”
And oh shit just like that he’s afraid. Steven knows who he is. The game is up. Adam shudders. What the hell is this guy doing? Why can’t he scream? Why the fuck won’t this bastard take no for an answer? What does he want?
You…
Steven smiles and leads him forward, hand steady at his back, his movements sure and precise. “You’re sick Adam. You need to rest. You can do that at my house.”
“No.” Adam grabs onto the doorframe when they exit. “No…”
“Come on buddy.” Steven pulls at his fingers. “My car is right over there.”
Just as Adam starts to think that he’s made the biggest mistake of his life, just as he starts to crumble and fall over onto the dirty pavement, he hears a voice that’s familiar and strong and tough as fucking nails say: “Buddy, I think the gentleman just told you “no.”
What?
The last conscious image Adam has is of a very determined and angry Michael Sarver bearing down on Steven with massive fists clenched tight. He smiles weakly, tries to wave and then without warning, his world goes black.
*****
It takes Michael a while to get Adam away from the little fuck who obviously thinks it’s going to be his lucky night. Thankfully after he threatens to call the police and growls a bit the asshole doesn’t put up much in the way of resistance past a poor man’s attempt at acting tough that’s really quite laughable.
Michael knows what being tough is really all about. Tough means sucking it up and getting your hands dirty working hard for a living at a back-breaking job that you hate to support your family while dreaming hard and fast of a better life in your spare time. Tough means getting in trouble with the law and taking your punishment instead of making excuses and letting the experience destroy your spirit. Tough means having the soul of a poet and the charisma of toad and still trying to be something that people tell you that you’re not, still looking ahead instead of hiding in a corner.
All his life people tell him to get a job, join the union, work hard, marry and be a good husband. And damn it if Michael didn’t do exactly what they told him to do! He looks at his callused hands so rough and out of place next to Adam’s pale manicured ones and for a moment he’s ashamed of who he is and angry that he never had all the breaks in life that god deemed fit to give to Adam.
“Ah, hell…”
He hails a grimy yellow cab just hanging out on the corner, pushes Adam into the back and follows him quickly inside. He looks around the area but doesn't meet any curious eyes and sighs with relief as he flops into the seat behind the driver.
He smiles his best "awe shucks" grin and asks the driver to recommend a local hotel where his friend can "sleep it off" and then feels slightly freaked out when the driver actually snickers. Michael swallows hard and stares at the man in the mirror until he looks away. He almost asks, "What the fuck is your problem buddy" when it hits him right between the eyes like a ton of god-damned bricks.
The moron is laughing because Michael Sarver has just herded a hot, loopy man into the back of his taxi in front of an established gay bar and then asked to be taken to a motel.
The cabbie thinks he's gay
Double shit fuck mother of god.
The cabbie thinks he's just as gay as Adam. And since he's bigger than Adam and not in the least bit drunk, the driver probably also assumes he's taking advantage. Or maybe he thinks that Michael’s a business man picking up a hooker. Or maybe, Michael frowns and considers. Do they still call male prostitutes "hookers” these days?
"Look, just drive. This isn't what you think."
"It's not my business." The driver says with a shrug and revs up the engine.
"Take me out of the city but not too far. Just go someplace quiet."
He turns toward Adam snuggled into himself in the corner of the cab with his heavy lidded eyes and pouting lips. He looks exhausted and miserable and ten different shades of pale. If the press gets wind of any of this nonsense all hell will break loose, that’s a given. He imagines the headlines and twists his mouth. "Idol runner-up slipped roofie at notorious gay hang-out". Yeah, it won’t look good for either of them. But it will look a hell of a lot worse for Adam.
They drive for a few minutes and the bright lights of the city start to fade away and change to trees and smaller buildings, donut shops and fast food restaurants. They're still on a highway but different, a route maybe, definitely not the center of town. There’s still traffic but it’s not as hectic. It’s bright but not overcrowded.
It’s the middle of fucking small town nowhere USA.
“Hmmm…”
Next to him Adam groans. He reaches for Michael, touches his face and immediately cuddles up against him wrapping his painted fingernails in the hem of Michael's dark blue hoodie.
"Yes..." Adam hisses.
Michael sighs, “No.” He pushes the slender hand away more roughly than he intends to but it comes back with a flourish along with Adam's mouth brushing up against chin. The hot breath on his neck is an embarrassing distraction. But damn if the bastard doesn't smell kind of nice.
He somehow manages to untangle Adam’s wiry arms and watches him warily from the corner of his eye. Adam moves closer and Michael allows it. The poor fuck doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing anyway and if he did he’d probably be pretty damn mortified to realize that the guy he’s pawing in the backseat of a taxi is the same big Texan he didn’t spare a word for at the start of the AI season.
Okay, so that description isn’t really accurate but maybe this way it’s easier for him to remember. Adam never openly disliked him. They’re just from two completely different worlds.
After what seems like an eternity the cab pulls up outside a run down Knights Inn and Michael pays the driver. The curious bastard can’t wait to be rid of them.
He parks Adam on a chair inside the hotel office and walks up to the check-in counter to get a room.
The hotel manager smiles and says, “We only have a room with one King size bed available.”
Michael sighs, “Yeah, of course you do.”
part 2 conclusion