Fic: Rubber Bands
Title: Rubber Bands
Author: drygon
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1200
Author's Note: Written for ontd_ai with the prompt: Kradam adrenaline-fueled making out while Kris is doing his last clothing change/when they're under the floor on the lift just about to emerge on stage for Don't Stop Believing.
Rubber bands, he thinks. It's just like rubber bands.
The lights dim as their last 'na na na na's' fade out and Kris hurries offstage, the trampling footsteps of the other Idols close behind him. He's buzzing; the hair on his arms bristles and it's those tiny rubber bands, the ones that his brother had back when he was twelve and his mouth shone silver with braces; it's like that, snapping against his skin, multiplied a thousandfold.
The electricity hums through him, down his spine, across his temples, past his teeth - as if he could pick up radio signals if he ground his molars and concentrated hard enough. Maybe if he squints a little too. He tightens his grip and it’s as if he can feel every detail of the microphone - the tiny grooves in the plastic he thought was so smooth before - coursing up through his fingertips and shooting off more rubber bands in his head. It’s a little superhuman.
His thoughts are jumbled - Spiderman, shortwave radios, dentistry - as Adam grabs his wrist and pulls him hurtling back into reality. Oh, right, it’s not over yet.
“Come on come on!” He tugs Kris towards a doorway leading to the arena’s basement, hurrying down the stairs with Kris close on his heels.
“This is insane!” he shouts over the thundering of Adam’s boots on the metal staircase, sure that if his smile got any wider his face might actually break.
Adam hops off the bottom step, turning for a split second and flashing a grin and Kris knows he’s not the only one having the frickin’ time of his life. “You bet your ass it is!”
Both hurry towards the stage lift. “But,” Adam pivots to face him “if said ass isn’t on this elevator in howevermany minutes we’re both screwed so let’s go, clothes off!”
It’s like a fashion show, Adam explained to him during rehearsals; walk backstage from off the runway and strip. Just outfits and chaos and go go go even though there’s people everywhere and mounds of tulle and chiffon and Kris has no idea what half the words he’s using mean but he nods along anyway.
Kris arranged to have his second shirt waiting for him down here and he his eyes find the black top on a hanger nearby, taking that as his cue. He starts working the buttons of his familiar plaid and can feel the pockmarks where each is sewn on, can feel the roughness of the fabric, but his fingers just wont stop buzzing.
He unfastens two before a small noise of frustration escapes his throat and Adam steps in, pawing Kris’s hands away and deftly working the buttons. “They’re gonna be done by the time you get out of this and then you’ll have to be half naked and stuck here;” he’s close, his breath fanning across Kris’s cheek and Kris can hear that familiar low tone creeping into his voice “and we can’t have that, can we?”
Kris laughs and the rubber bands wind tighter. “No, I guess not-”
“Fuck, it’s caught.” He scowls and Kris looks down to watch Adam’s hands - and it’s always his hands, curling around a microphone stand, running through his hair in the morning- struggling for a half second before they just give in and tug, sending the final offending button flying somewhere into the room.
Their last song has already started and the flaring stage lights from the open ceiling cast drastic shadows on Adam’s face; technicolor contrast. The lights flash over the glitter on his eyes and they glint at odd intervals, making him look everything like some manic, shimmery wild animal. They strobe their way onto Kris’ bare shoulders as his shirt falls in a heap on the ground where Adam tosses it.
“Turn,” Adam says as he quickly grabs the second shirt off of its hanger. With his back to him, Kris is living only in the thumping music, bass keeping time with the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
He jumps when Adam’s fingers touch his back and he hears the throaty chuckling behind him. “C’mon, arms.” He holds up the shirt for him and Kris slips it on, tugging the sleeves up over his elbows before he turns and spreads his arms. “Ta da.”
Adam reaches out to grab the front of the shirt, yanking Kris towards him, all too familiar grin tugging at his lips. “Perfect.”
Kris always thought clichéd expressions about fireworks and butterflies were stupid but when it’s as if the live wire strung between their chests is finally ignited Kris’ breath catches in his throat he thinks he kind of understands.
Closer, they have to be closer.
He reaches out, grabbing blindly and wondering somewhere in the back of his mind if it’s rational to want to occupy the exact same physical space as someone, to press himself so close to Adam they become a single living, buzzing thing. His hands collide with Adam’s arms and latch on as Adam pulls the front of his shirt (pulls Kris up on his tiptoes) and their mouths crash together.
Tongue meets tongue and Kris swears he can feel actual sparks. He slides his hands around Adam, pulling their bodies flush together, his fingers finding every detail of each stud and seam strewn across his back. More bands snap. Adam licks deeper, drawing low notes from Kris’ mouth into the thrumming air as they fall into each other. They’re resonating, wound tight and humming together. A matching harmonic.
“Don’t get too lost, we still have to get you dressed,” Adam whispers, voice steady against Kris’ lips, but he’s breathing heavy just the same. His hands unclench the soft fabric of Kris’ shirt and start to work the buttons closed. Kris nods but doesn’t let their lips part even when they’re dizzy and gasping for breath.
Kris sucks Adam’s bottom lip between his teeth, swiping his tongue over the freckles he can’t see as nimble fingers move between them. Adam’s knuckles brush his stomach as the buttons come together and Kris just has to tip his head back and laugh at how backwards it is, trying to get clothes on.
Adam finishes with the shirt and hooks a hand behind Kris’ neck, pulling him back in for a last kiss and it’s synapses firing and faulty short circuit electric all over again. “Let’s go,” Adam breathes when he finally pulls back, grabbing Kris’ hand and stepping up on the lift. “We have fifteen thousand people waiting for us, if we’re late I’m telling them it’s all your fault.”
Kris laughs and hops onto the platform after him, staring up into the vast arena above as thousands of cheering voices rain in and the music reverberates and the energy crashes down on them in waves. He looks over at Adam and weaves their fingers together.
“We really made it,” Kris says, breathless and giddy, and even he doesn’t know if he’s making some grand scheme of things comment or just glad he’s properly clothed in time. Probably both. All he knows is Adam’s palm pressed into his and rubber bands under his skin.
Adam grins. “You better fucking believe it.”
And the lift starts to move.
Author: drygon
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1200
Author's Note: Written for ontd_ai with the prompt: Kradam adrenaline-fueled making out while Kris is doing his last clothing change/when they're under the floor on the lift just about to emerge on stage for Don't Stop Believing.
Rubber bands, he thinks. It's just like rubber bands.
The lights dim as their last 'na na na na's' fade out and Kris hurries offstage, the trampling footsteps of the other Idols close behind him. He's buzzing; the hair on his arms bristles and it's those tiny rubber bands, the ones that his brother had back when he was twelve and his mouth shone silver with braces; it's like that, snapping against his skin, multiplied a thousandfold.
The electricity hums through him, down his spine, across his temples, past his teeth - as if he could pick up radio signals if he ground his molars and concentrated hard enough. Maybe if he squints a little too. He tightens his grip and it’s as if he can feel every detail of the microphone - the tiny grooves in the plastic he thought was so smooth before - coursing up through his fingertips and shooting off more rubber bands in his head. It’s a little superhuman.
His thoughts are jumbled - Spiderman, shortwave radios, dentistry - as Adam grabs his wrist and pulls him hurtling back into reality. Oh, right, it’s not over yet.
“Come on come on!” He tugs Kris towards a doorway leading to the arena’s basement, hurrying down the stairs with Kris close on his heels.
“This is insane!” he shouts over the thundering of Adam’s boots on the metal staircase, sure that if his smile got any wider his face might actually break.
Adam hops off the bottom step, turning for a split second and flashing a grin and Kris knows he’s not the only one having the frickin’ time of his life. “You bet your ass it is!”
Both hurry towards the stage lift. “But,” Adam pivots to face him “if said ass isn’t on this elevator in howevermany minutes we’re both screwed so let’s go, clothes off!”
It’s like a fashion show, Adam explained to him during rehearsals; walk backstage from off the runway and strip. Just outfits and chaos and go go go even though there’s people everywhere and mounds of tulle and chiffon and Kris has no idea what half the words he’s using mean but he nods along anyway.
Kris arranged to have his second shirt waiting for him down here and he his eyes find the black top on a hanger nearby, taking that as his cue. He starts working the buttons of his familiar plaid and can feel the pockmarks where each is sewn on, can feel the roughness of the fabric, but his fingers just wont stop buzzing.
He unfastens two before a small noise of frustration escapes his throat and Adam steps in, pawing Kris’s hands away and deftly working the buttons. “They’re gonna be done by the time you get out of this and then you’ll have to be half naked and stuck here;” he’s close, his breath fanning across Kris’s cheek and Kris can hear that familiar low tone creeping into his voice “and we can’t have that, can we?”
Kris laughs and the rubber bands wind tighter. “No, I guess not-”
“Fuck, it’s caught.” He scowls and Kris looks down to watch Adam’s hands - and it’s always his hands, curling around a microphone stand, running through his hair in the morning- struggling for a half second before they just give in and tug, sending the final offending button flying somewhere into the room.
Their last song has already started and the flaring stage lights from the open ceiling cast drastic shadows on Adam’s face; technicolor contrast. The lights flash over the glitter on his eyes and they glint at odd intervals, making him look everything like some manic, shimmery wild animal. They strobe their way onto Kris’ bare shoulders as his shirt falls in a heap on the ground where Adam tosses it.
“Turn,” Adam says as he quickly grabs the second shirt off of its hanger. With his back to him, Kris is living only in the thumping music, bass keeping time with the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
He jumps when Adam’s fingers touch his back and he hears the throaty chuckling behind him. “C’mon, arms.” He holds up the shirt for him and Kris slips it on, tugging the sleeves up over his elbows before he turns and spreads his arms. “Ta da.”
Adam reaches out to grab the front of the shirt, yanking Kris towards him, all too familiar grin tugging at his lips. “Perfect.”
Kris always thought clichéd expressions about fireworks and butterflies were stupid but when it’s as if the live wire strung between their chests is finally ignited Kris’ breath catches in his throat he thinks he kind of understands.
Closer, they have to be closer.
He reaches out, grabbing blindly and wondering somewhere in the back of his mind if it’s rational to want to occupy the exact same physical space as someone, to press himself so close to Adam they become a single living, buzzing thing. His hands collide with Adam’s arms and latch on as Adam pulls the front of his shirt (pulls Kris up on his tiptoes) and their mouths crash together.
Tongue meets tongue and Kris swears he can feel actual sparks. He slides his hands around Adam, pulling their bodies flush together, his fingers finding every detail of each stud and seam strewn across his back. More bands snap. Adam licks deeper, drawing low notes from Kris’ mouth into the thrumming air as they fall into each other. They’re resonating, wound tight and humming together. A matching harmonic.
“Don’t get too lost, we still have to get you dressed,” Adam whispers, voice steady against Kris’ lips, but he’s breathing heavy just the same. His hands unclench the soft fabric of Kris’ shirt and start to work the buttons closed. Kris nods but doesn’t let their lips part even when they’re dizzy and gasping for breath.
Kris sucks Adam’s bottom lip between his teeth, swiping his tongue over the freckles he can’t see as nimble fingers move between them. Adam’s knuckles brush his stomach as the buttons come together and Kris just has to tip his head back and laugh at how backwards it is, trying to get clothes on.
Adam finishes with the shirt and hooks a hand behind Kris’ neck, pulling him back in for a last kiss and it’s synapses firing and faulty short circuit electric all over again. “Let’s go,” Adam breathes when he finally pulls back, grabbing Kris’ hand and stepping up on the lift. “We have fifteen thousand people waiting for us, if we’re late I’m telling them it’s all your fault.”
Kris laughs and hops onto the platform after him, staring up into the vast arena above as thousands of cheering voices rain in and the music reverberates and the energy crashes down on them in waves. He looks over at Adam and weaves their fingers together.
“We really made it,” Kris says, breathless and giddy, and even he doesn’t know if he’s making some grand scheme of things comment or just glad he’s properly clothed in time. Probably both. All he knows is Adam’s palm pressed into his and rubber bands under his skin.
Adam grins. “You better fucking believe it.”
And the lift starts to move.