fic: Life after Love.
Title: Life after Love
Author: tohereandnow
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: PG13
Summary: Just intrigued by Adam’s song choice of ‘Believe’ in Hollywood week.
Disclaimer: All fiction. I own nothing. Not making money either.
So the camera turns to stare at me: the lucky number one. I’m here to show, I can.
‘It’s Believe by Cher,’
Seacrest reacts appropriately, ‘Oh boy,’
‘Yeah. But I won’t do disco, I promise. I promise’, offering a joke while I pray that my nervous chuckle is misinterpreted as chill and charm.
I tap the floor with my left shoe, followed by my right. This is my final chance to transcend my mask of music theatre, all those roles I’d undertaken to hide behind before I’d finally come to terms with myself. Here is where I prove I am more than just eyeliner and an inhuman vocal range and the guy who has his microphone picked out from afar because of this black nail polish warped around it.
The only question left is how.
Stepping onto the stage apparently scares the hell out of others but has always made me feel far more comfortable than any other situation. I tell myself I’ve been singing all my life and this time is no different. Adam Lambert never gives in to nerves or embarrassment, and this must hold even when I choose to make some room for true meaning in something that is otherwise merely a performance. This is exactly the risk in a song I refer to. I don’t actually know how everyone else will interpret this risk I’ve never made before, and that makes tiny beads of sweat appear on my palms. I breathe.
The verse is relatively easy, and I cruise through and past it into the chorus,
Do you believe in life after love?
I sing and keep his face in my mind, ascending the arch of one of his eyebrows and reaching its summit as I hit the first big note, sliding down and resting ‘love’ on his eyes. Are there any possibilities which follow a misdirected infatuation?
Since this is fantasy I wish to make true, I can take liberties with anything. I run my hands along the firm planes of muscle in his back, the fabric of his shirt rumpled and crushed between my fingers. One of his hands is stiff against the small of my back, the other hangs mutely by his side. I kiss his eyelashes with the edge of my fringe.
I can feel something inside me say,
Our faces meet and suddenly we’re too close because his eyes startle into guilt. He struggles and tries to pull away and I can taste the fear in him. Funny how you can’t fully control your object of desire even in fantasies. I tell him, I can, I can, but can you?
I really don't feel you're strong enough.
There is no other way. He stands before me, torn, with red-rimmed eyes. As the last note fades into silence I imagine against hope that he mouths, no, I am strong enough.
***
The results are due anytime now. I escape from the crowd I’ve always seemed to love and head out for some air. The walls strain to contain the tension, almost bending to meet me as I turn a corner, only to discover Kris: leaning against the balcony with his elbows resting on the railing, his fingers crossed in a seeming of prayer or something equally worthy of devotion as the lightest of drizzles fall on his arms. The wind carries the raindrops to his face. He doesn’t seem to react to the rain or the sudden halt in the sound of my footsteps because he’s adsorbed in the tune he is humming. In a gentle falsetto I’ve never heard before he scales the chorus of Believe, hitting the notes perfectly, retaining my edition of the melody as he executes the interval jump so beautifully I want to hold him, or just touch the back of his neck with my fingertips.
I almost take a step toward him when I will my legs to stop. Standing very still with one hand against the wall to steady myself I watch him against the rain. Just watching, I wish, is enough, for now.