Post by yeats on Sept 2, 2009 13:19:18 GMT -5
note: a million apologies that i sort of tweaked your prompt out of existence -- this is the only sort of "club" i have any experience with or facility writing about. composed in approximately half an hour, with all attendant failings. i love you like i love adam: unconditionally, with a side dose of perving after yr sexy, sexy being.
Adam/Kris, Adam takes Kris clubbing! Will, cough, be esp delighted if there is some dance floor action. :DDDDDD
"This was a terrible idea," Kris says, stumbling down an alley that smells like piss and beer and nothing good, his wrist caught in the vice grip of Adam's fingers. He's in Los Angeles for three days, a scheduling error that Kris chose to view as a sign from God that he really, really needs to sleep. For, say, seventy-two hours if necessary. And even though texting Adam had been reflexive -- Kris would hate to hear Adam was, like, in Arkansas for some weird reason and didn't tell him -- he should have known better than to assume he'd be able to get out of doing something together. Even if that something involved a "club you'd really like, I promise, and it's a super special night, we just have to go."
"This is a brilliant idea, shut the hell up." Adam pulls him along, into the yellow halo of a spotlight, hung from the back of a building. People mill about here, and Kris eases a little to see that they're all dressed like he is. Plenty of plaid and jeans, although the denim is a few degrees tighter than Kris', more like what his handlers prefer, and he spots several bandanas. One guy's actually wearing a waistcoat and fedora, plus a mustache that Kris last saw on Snidely Whiplash.
Adam's making small talk with the girl at the door, a petite brunette with black frames and a chest piece that peeks around the edges of her white tank top. Everyone else seems to be pulling out their wallets, but Adam just thrusts Kris' hand forward for a stamp, and they're heading in through the back entrance.
"Hipsters?" Kris says as they walk down a dimly lit hallway. "Really, Adam?" Whatever their difference on pop culture, he thought they were in agreement on the use of irony as a defining stylistic statement. He can't hear any music yet, but he's pretty sure he's not cool enough for any of it. (Except for Rilo Kiley -- Jenny Lewis is a babe.)
"Come on," Adam says, slinging an easy arm over Kris' shoulders, "don't you trust me?"
The noise from the main room gets louder the closer they get to the doors, but all Kris can hear is people talking. "Of course, but -- "
No one's dancing. Stupidly, that's the first thing Kris notices. The room is pretty full, but it's an easy kind of crowded, with people holding drinks and standing together in small social knots. His eyes adjust, and he's struck by how small it is -- two hundred people at most, and probably a lot fewer. The walls are open brick, and lights hang from the ceiling, clad in intricate circular sconces. There's a bar by the back, a girl doing brisk business behind the counter. A small cluster of tables at the front that Kris can barely see, black tablecloths and votive candles. It takes him a long moment to find the stage -- a stool, a curtain, a single mic.
Adam's behind him now, his hand on Kris' shoulder. "Come on," he says, leaning in to be heard. His breath hits the nape of Kris' neck. "Let's find a place to stand."
No one pays them any mind as they weave their way through the crowd, ending up somewhere towards the back, stage right. He makes eye contact with a few people, but their glances slip away after a beat or two. He wonders if they don't know who he is, or if they just don't give a fuck. Both could be true in a place like this, and when he turns to mention it to Adam, he finds Adam's face closer to his own than he expected.
"Where are we?" he asks. His voice starts too low, but he overcompensates, and he can feel people turn their heads at his volume.
Adam grins, squeezes his arm. "I thought you might like this kind of club better." Somewhere along the line while Kris was gawking, he wound up with a drink in both hands. He passes one to Kris: something sweet and understated that Kris doesn't recognize but feels good going down. "It's okay, right?"
Kris gives a little laugh, shaking his head. He told Allison this, once, early in the spring: it's not that Adam's shocking for big, public reasons -- in that sense, he makes perfect sense. Kris can wrangle with Adam Lambert, Theatre Queen and God of the Stage, but it's this Adam, the Adam who appears in these small moments with such thoughtfulness, with such perception and with the little line that bisects his forehead in uncertainty, that unravels Kris every fucking time.
"It's great," Kris says, letting his smile go wide and untethered. He pushes up on the balls of his feet, cups the back of Adam's skull and brings their foreheads together. Again, softer: "it's great."
If anything was ever going to happen, Kris has always thought it'd happen like this: on neutral territory, somewhere outside their usual universe of studio and hotel and meeting room and airport. The nape of Adam's neck is downy with shorter hairs that prickle Kris' palmskin, and when he digs his fingernails in, just skritching the scalp, Adam gives a little sigh.
A G-chord breaks the moment. Kris hears it, and he can't help himself; his attention wavers, listening for the next note. He glances at the stage out of the corner of his eye, and Adam pulls back with a laugh. "You boys and your guitars," he says.
"You love it." Kris takes a sip of his drink, cooling his throat, and turns to look.
A lone figure sits on stage, strumming his acoustic. He doesn't look out at the crowd, but the ambient noise slowly ebbs away, people turning to watch as he plays. Just a guy, nondescript in a plaid shirt and a beanie, but now people are setting down their drinks and sitting straighter in their chairs, turning off their cellphones and shushing their friends.
The guy settles into a melody, something slow and skeletal, with a steady beat that feels like walking; it hits Kris square in the chest. He opens his mouth, a wordless hum that's gruff and soft. The room is silent, and when he begins to sing Kris feels arms come around his waist.
Kris closes his eyes, leans back a little and lets it all hit him. He can feel the cold touch of Adam's drink against his hip, the warm puff of Adam's breath against his neck. The song grows, and Kris breathes in time with it. He moves his hand to cover Adam's wrist, taps out the chord changes on his bare forearm.
They sway together in time to the music, Kris' back pressed to Adam's chest. He doesn't gasp when Adam's lips brush the point of his jaw, just smiles, eyes still shut. Adam's mouth moves, and Kris realizes he's singing along.
"Only love is all maroon, lapping lakes like leery loons." The twinned voices, Adam's and the singer's, hit the l sounds a millisecond apart, lengthening them against Kris' skin. "Leaving rope burns -- reddish ruse."
When the song ends, Adam doesn't let go.
Adam/Kris, Adam takes Kris clubbing! Will, cough, be esp delighted if there is some dance floor action. :DDDDDD
"This was a terrible idea," Kris says, stumbling down an alley that smells like piss and beer and nothing good, his wrist caught in the vice grip of Adam's fingers. He's in Los Angeles for three days, a scheduling error that Kris chose to view as a sign from God that he really, really needs to sleep. For, say, seventy-two hours if necessary. And even though texting Adam had been reflexive -- Kris would hate to hear Adam was, like, in Arkansas for some weird reason and didn't tell him -- he should have known better than to assume he'd be able to get out of doing something together. Even if that something involved a "club you'd really like, I promise, and it's a super special night, we just have to go."
"This is a brilliant idea, shut the hell up." Adam pulls him along, into the yellow halo of a spotlight, hung from the back of a building. People mill about here, and Kris eases a little to see that they're all dressed like he is. Plenty of plaid and jeans, although the denim is a few degrees tighter than Kris', more like what his handlers prefer, and he spots several bandanas. One guy's actually wearing a waistcoat and fedora, plus a mustache that Kris last saw on Snidely Whiplash.
Adam's making small talk with the girl at the door, a petite brunette with black frames and a chest piece that peeks around the edges of her white tank top. Everyone else seems to be pulling out their wallets, but Adam just thrusts Kris' hand forward for a stamp, and they're heading in through the back entrance.
"Hipsters?" Kris says as they walk down a dimly lit hallway. "Really, Adam?" Whatever their difference on pop culture, he thought they were in agreement on the use of irony as a defining stylistic statement. He can't hear any music yet, but he's pretty sure he's not cool enough for any of it. (Except for Rilo Kiley -- Jenny Lewis is a babe.)
"Come on," Adam says, slinging an easy arm over Kris' shoulders, "don't you trust me?"
The noise from the main room gets louder the closer they get to the doors, but all Kris can hear is people talking. "Of course, but -- "
No one's dancing. Stupidly, that's the first thing Kris notices. The room is pretty full, but it's an easy kind of crowded, with people holding drinks and standing together in small social knots. His eyes adjust, and he's struck by how small it is -- two hundred people at most, and probably a lot fewer. The walls are open brick, and lights hang from the ceiling, clad in intricate circular sconces. There's a bar by the back, a girl doing brisk business behind the counter. A small cluster of tables at the front that Kris can barely see, black tablecloths and votive candles. It takes him a long moment to find the stage -- a stool, a curtain, a single mic.
Adam's behind him now, his hand on Kris' shoulder. "Come on," he says, leaning in to be heard. His breath hits the nape of Kris' neck. "Let's find a place to stand."
No one pays them any mind as they weave their way through the crowd, ending up somewhere towards the back, stage right. He makes eye contact with a few people, but their glances slip away after a beat or two. He wonders if they don't know who he is, or if they just don't give a fuck. Both could be true in a place like this, and when he turns to mention it to Adam, he finds Adam's face closer to his own than he expected.
"Where are we?" he asks. His voice starts too low, but he overcompensates, and he can feel people turn their heads at his volume.
Adam grins, squeezes his arm. "I thought you might like this kind of club better." Somewhere along the line while Kris was gawking, he wound up with a drink in both hands. He passes one to Kris: something sweet and understated that Kris doesn't recognize but feels good going down. "It's okay, right?"
Kris gives a little laugh, shaking his head. He told Allison this, once, early in the spring: it's not that Adam's shocking for big, public reasons -- in that sense, he makes perfect sense. Kris can wrangle with Adam Lambert, Theatre Queen and God of the Stage, but it's this Adam, the Adam who appears in these small moments with such thoughtfulness, with such perception and with the little line that bisects his forehead in uncertainty, that unravels Kris every fucking time.
"It's great," Kris says, letting his smile go wide and untethered. He pushes up on the balls of his feet, cups the back of Adam's skull and brings their foreheads together. Again, softer: "it's great."
If anything was ever going to happen, Kris has always thought it'd happen like this: on neutral territory, somewhere outside their usual universe of studio and hotel and meeting room and airport. The nape of Adam's neck is downy with shorter hairs that prickle Kris' palmskin, and when he digs his fingernails in, just skritching the scalp, Adam gives a little sigh.
A G-chord breaks the moment. Kris hears it, and he can't help himself; his attention wavers, listening for the next note. He glances at the stage out of the corner of his eye, and Adam pulls back with a laugh. "You boys and your guitars," he says.
"You love it." Kris takes a sip of his drink, cooling his throat, and turns to look.
A lone figure sits on stage, strumming his acoustic. He doesn't look out at the crowd, but the ambient noise slowly ebbs away, people turning to watch as he plays. Just a guy, nondescript in a plaid shirt and a beanie, but now people are setting down their drinks and sitting straighter in their chairs, turning off their cellphones and shushing their friends.
The guy settles into a melody, something slow and skeletal, with a steady beat that feels like walking; it hits Kris square in the chest. He opens his mouth, a wordless hum that's gruff and soft. The room is silent, and when he begins to sing Kris feels arms come around his waist.
Kris closes his eyes, leans back a little and lets it all hit him. He can feel the cold touch of Adam's drink against his hip, the warm puff of Adam's breath against his neck. The song grows, and Kris breathes in time with it. He moves his hand to cover Adam's wrist, taps out the chord changes on his bare forearm.
They sway together in time to the music, Kris' back pressed to Adam's chest. He doesn't gasp when Adam's lips brush the point of his jaw, just smiles, eyes still shut. Adam's mouth moves, and Kris realizes he's singing along.
"Only love is all maroon, lapping lakes like leery loons." The twinned voices, Adam's and the singer's, hit the l sounds a millisecond apart, lengthening them against Kris' skin. "Leaving rope burns -- reddish ruse."
When the song ends, Adam doesn't let go.