seperis | rec: starstruck (wip)

For the record, if the Taming of the Shrewesque fic isn't updated soon, something tragic is going to happen. I have no idea how the people who have been reading this since like, May aren't burning cities or threatening hunger strikes or something. Has no one attempted blackmail or bribery? What are you waiting for?

Wait, there may be people who aren't reading this yet. Oh, you.

Direct links to all four threads in the aianonlovefest:

Starstruck - thread one, thread two, thread three and thread four, AIRPS, Adam/Kris. Yes, you have to follow it through comments. Yes, that would in a sane world be annoying. This is not a sane world. This is an awesome world that trust me, you really won't care until you realize there is no more. Then you know, tragedy.

In which

aivilo_18 hates me and sent me a link so I, too, could connect with feeling like a heroin addict in withdrawal in a really big way (I sent it to

svmadelyn, so this is actually turning into a The Ring-like situation, except a.) giving it to other people doesn't help and b.) no one crawls out of any electronic devices, which is good, because now I'm creeping myself out, let's ignore this segue now, please). I love this story stupidly and I think have memorized key passages and have a Pavlovian response to the parts that involve food (ie I snack) and possibly an interest in wine? I don't--like wine. And yet.

Oh, and I posted In the Land of the Delta, AIRPS, Adam/Kris yesterday to LJ. Forgot about that.

Oh, come on.

Those roofies should have worn off hours ago!

Hello I just blasted through a reread of Starstruck, Not!Cthulhu, Stripper!AU and Vampire!AU. My sanity is in question.

I want to write a wip and make sure you love it and then never finish it ever.

...okay, I do that to lots of fandoms, but not this one! Not yet.

(note: I'm glad you liked Statement!)

*sprawled over bed, sulking)

I want to write a wip and make sure you love it and then never finish it ever.

I will *fire-bomb* you, I swear to god (read: cry uncontrollably).

Well, at least you're not telling at me about the cats or the meta-cannibalism. This is progress.

(I did not like Statement. I attempted to break into its house, wear its shoes and adopt some of the sentences.)

Hmm, I was just going to beg/please/cunningly point out the joys of writing about werewolves (until I remember you wrote about a reality-shifting dog, which kind'a fill the slot) so clearly this is the sort of negotiation that ends in Kevin Spacey yelling from a roof.

When he opens the door, he's confronted with a brightly smiling blonde filled with so much early morning energy that she seems to actually drain what little will he has left to live. "Uh. Yes?"

Her head cocks. "Kris?" The smile melts into worry. "You look exhausted. Late night?"

"Um." Behind the half opened door, a hand locks on his wrist in warning, still damp from the shower; yeah, thanks, got it. "Sort of? Slept badly, I think. I'd better, um, shower--"

"All right; I'm going down to breakfast." She steps back, thank God, but then stops, why, why, *why**, "and hey, if you seen Adam? He's not in his room and no one's seen him this morning."

Kris opens his mouth answer--Adam?--when the grip shifts into bone-crushing. "No," he manages, "I'd better--I'll be down soon?"

"See if you can find Adam before you come down; we only have a few hours before rehearsal."

As she turns away, Kris lets go of the edge of the door and watches it shut. A wallet is shoved in his face; Kris tries to focus, finally reaching out and pulling it away from his nose. "Oh. So you're Adam. Thanks for the broken wrist."

Adam--Adam, really?--flips open the other one, revealing an Arkansas driver's license and a really badly-lit picture of himself. "And you're Kris. Nice to meet you." Without waiting, he tosses Kris his wallet and goes back to stare at the mess of the bed and the pile of clothing around it with a speculative expression. "So. That was pretty useless, all things considered."

Sinking down against the door, Kris stares at his picture for a long time, trying to make the name and vital statistics familiar by sheer will. Absently, he finds himself thumbing the wedding band again and makes himself stop. "Maybe?" he says a little helplessly. "I--we should tell someone?" He really, really doesn't want to.

Adam looks at him from narrowed eyes. "Yeah, I'm not feeling it," and honestly, Kris isn't feeling it either. The expression changes as he looks at Kris for a second. "All right. You, shower." Pointing, and why does this feel familiar? His own name doesn't fit, but this guy's attitude is worn smooth in his head. "I'll try to find--I don't know, our phones or laptops or something and see what's going on."

If Kris had a better idea, honestly, he'd argue, but a shower sounds fantastic, and if Adam wants to play junior detective, fine.

It doesn't take long, but despite that, Kris isn't terribly surprised to find the room has been turned over and on the bed are two iphones, a netbook, and what looks like a year's worth of random magazines Cocking his head, Kris picks up the first and stares at himself. Better lighting. "Where--"

"Your suitcase, mine, and when I called down to the front desk, they were really helpful. Almost *too** helpful." Adam, seated cross-legged on the foot of the bed, pushes back still-wet black hair, blue eyes dancing a little. "And the girl's name is Megan," he says, terrifyingly--how long was Kris in the shower anyway?--"and you, baby, are the American Idol. And I made the cover of *Out**." Adam holds it up; Kris squints at the picture, then at Adam. Adam smirks. "Some things you just know, no memory required."

"Married." He holds up his left hand at Adam's raised eyebrows. Reaching across the detritus of their lives, Adam gets his hand, frowning. "What's American Idol?"

"That's disappointing." Pouting, Adam lets him go, sorting through a bewildering pile of photos, bits of newspaper, and magazines as the netbook powers up before standing up. "Everything could find in ten minutes is there, just read straight through. I'll go down to breakfast. With--" Adam flips over the pile and pulls out an open magazine with ten high-gloss, happy people smiling back at him, including himself. "--Megan. And the others, who are apparently here with us. You sort through this."

Others? Swallowing, Kris leans back against the headboard, trying to look determined. "Okay, wait. Maybe I want to go down to breakfast."

Adam braces himself on one hand, head cocked curiously. "Do you? Because let me remind you of how long it took to get you out of the closet--" For no reason at all, Adam cracks up, laughing helplessly against the mattress; Kris wonders if he was like this before. "Okay, okay, sorry, just--"

"Oh, so your *hour long shower** was really not a soapy coping device--"

Adam's eyes narrow. "Oh, don't even--really, do you want to go?"

"No," Kris admits after a moment of thought; staying here and calling for room service seems like a better idea by the second. He still knows what room service is. And what a hotel is, for that matter. That's--good. He thinks. "That's not the point."

Adam gestures, *what** with a side of *you're kind of dumb yet cute**. He's gotten that a lot so far.

"Just, you could *ask**," he adds finally, feeling stupid.

"Did you want a vote, baby?" Sleek as a cat, Adam slips to his knees, crawling across magazines and newspapers until he's nearly in Kris' lap. *Married**, Kris' mind says a little frantically. Even now he's leaning over Kris, wet black hair ticking his cheek and way too close for anything like clear thinking. "Do tell if you have any objections. I'd hate to do anything you didn't want."

Eyes wide, Kris tries to think of a rejoiner and fails. After a moment, Adam grins, pushing off the bed with a bounce and going to the closet with a low, cheerful whistle, and Kris takes a deep breath, grabbing the netbook and pulling it into his lap. Who he's hiding his erection from is anyone's guess, but he's going with himself.

Amnesia, he thinks a little despairingly, opening google, really, really sucks.

Adam is gone for about two hours, which gives Kris just enough time to learn google is not the best way to establish one's identity and start to panic. He's still staring at the minibar speculatively when the door opens and Adam comes back in with a fixed expression and taking the time to lock, deadbolt, and chain the door before grabbing Kris by the collar of his t-shirt and dragging him to the window.

"What the--" Kris tries to struggle--he has to be short why?--then he's trapped between Adam and the windowsill and Adam pokes up a blind warily. "Adam--"

"Look."

It's only a second, but it's enough. So google was right after all. "Oh my God," Kris breathes, jerking back against Adam's chest. "How many--"

"I don't know," Adam says, sounding a little nervous, "but I can tell you *they** know who we are. They have signs," he adds, so not helpfully. "And someone named Simon will kill us if we're late for rehearsal and someone named Katy left a message," Adam digs into the pocket of his jacket and holds up a folded piece of paper, "which is," and the asshole opens it, "'Honey, we need to talk, all right? Please call me'."

Kris stares at the paper for a second. "I think," he hazards from memories of Entertainment Weekly blurring together in his head, "that's my wife?"

Adam rolls his eyes and drops the paper, retreating to pick up the netbook, knocking the neatly organized piles of their known identities into a mess again when he settles himself against the headboard, combat boots crumpling what doesn't fall off the bed. "God, I just got that organized--"

"Anal retentive, check," Adam mutters, "whiny, check…" Adam looks at him with a little smile that Kris belatedly registers as *mean** before he says, "Just getting a personality assessment of you. I was told we're friends, so I'm trying to see the attraction."

Kris woke up this morning half-dressed and smelling of truly horrible things in bed with this guy and no memory how he got there; it had only slowly dawned he had no memory at all. Scrabbling through a blank canvas that was where a world was supposed to be, only two things made any kind of sense; one, he existed, even though his own mind seemed to doubt the fact, and two, when Adam woke up with a similarly shocked expression, he wasn't alone.

He can't move for a few seconds, even think; two things, and it might as well have been only one. It might have been *better** if it was only one, and it was a horrible thought, because honestly, he's not sure of the first thing nearly as much as he should be. Looking around the room, Kris tries to think through it; Adam was right, he didn't want to go down to breakfast, go out the door, go anywhere. His entire remembered life is four walls and two beds and this guy and--

"Kris, fuck," and suddenly, Adam slides his arms around him, nearly pulling him off his feet, voice muffled and weirdly tight, "get this, personality assessment, I'm a complete *asshole**, okay? Kris, Kris, don't--don't *look like that**, don't--"

"I'm scared to leave the room," Kris says blankly.

Adam laughs against his shoulder, sounding watery--pulling back, Kris tilts up his face, surprised by red-rimmed eyes and feels like crying himself. "You're not missing much," he manages, letting Kris down long enough to pull him to the bed and onto his lap, pushing aside the netbook. "You know, I get the feeling I don't like not being in a control of a situation," Adam says against his shoulder, and Kris has to laugh, because yeah, he'd gotten that impression as well. "I didn't mean to take it out on you."

Tentatively, Kris covers the arms around his waist with his own. "I can be anal," he says, thinking of reorganizing the pictures first by chronological order, then by type, then both, feeling Adam shake a little behind him. "Whiny, though, is crossing a line." Glancing at the netbook, he thinks he sees his name. "Hey, is that me--"

Adam stills. "Uh, you don't--" One hand flails out, trying to shut the cover and succeeds in sending it to the floor. Twisting around, Kris finds himself hanging half over the bed to try to get it while Adam says things like "It's not important!" and "Look, bears!" which, what the fuck, *bears?** before Kris can finally focus on the screen and figure out what the hell is going on.

Then, "Oh."

"You really can't believe everything you read," Adam is saying, hauling him upright by sheer will. "It's all lies. Exaggerations and--" Keeping an arm around Kris, Adam reaches down with his stupid height and longer arms, scooping up the netbook and depositing it on the bed. "--and stupid people with too much time on their hands--"

"I have a *publicist**?" Turning enough to look at Adam, Kris adds belatedly, "That is assuring everyone that my divorce was amicable."

"Lies and more lies," Adam says firmly. "Except the part where you have a publicist. Well, a former one, since--if this was true, which it's not--she's in Aruba with Katy and a lot of daiquiris. And there's a new one? Okay, what the fuck were you doing here while I was downstairs anyway?"

Kris stares at the wall behind Adam's head. "I was--looking up you."

Adam pauses. "I'm sure that's weird in some places that aren't here, but--"

"I got scared." Oh great, he just-- "You have a boyfriend named Drake and an ex named Brad and you should have won apparently. And there's this picture of you green that's--"

"--but here, that's normal, since that's pretty much what I did, too. With you." Sinking back into the pillows, Adam shuts his eyes, but the grip on Kris doesn't ease. "So. We're really bad at having amnesia."

Well, yeah. It's not something you can prepare for; even if you could, you'd *forget the preparation**. Kris stares at the netbook for a second. "Maybe I have catastrophic retrograde amnesia resulting from the shock of my wife leaving me for my publicist," he says speculatively. At Adams' eyebrow, he adds, "Wikipedia. You should check it out. Pretty much everything is in there. I bookmarked it."

"And I have it in sympathy for your terrible pain?" Adam asks skeptically. "Like, what, hysterical pregnancy? Except that--no, okay, I'm really uncomfortable with the turn of this conversation now. How did I even know about that? I can't even remember my *phone number**."

Kris is getting there too. "I'm sorry, did you have a better idea?"

"No," Adam admits, loosening his grip in favor of taking a death grip on the back of Kris' jeans. "Okay, so--rehearsal was canceled due to--" He looks at Kris cautious, "--the total lie. There's a lot of people scrambling around trying to rearrange our schedule and from what I can tell, we have a couple of days before our next performance, so--"

"Performance?" Kris says, voice cracking, flashing on the tabs about this *American Idol** thing that had, somehow, seemed really *theoretical**. And wasn't it over? "What do you mean--*performance**?"

Adam winces. "Apparently, we're on tour?"

Oh God.

And then you did this and my night got even better.

Awww, thank you! I didn't think anyone would see this one but akavertigo! It's actually done--a few versions of it are done, for that matter--but it's my idfic? So I never posted it.

Please post the rest of it:)

Re: Amnesia 4

From:

seperis.livejournal.com - Date: 2010-08-23 05:34 am (UTC) - expand

Re: Amnesia 4

From:

akavertigo.livejournal.com - Date: 2010-08-23 06:42 pm (UTC) - expand

After Adam coaxed him out of the bathroom with promises of food ("No oatmeal?" "That's the dealbreaker?" "Apparently?" "Fine, no oatmeal.") and got to cheerfully send the fourth person from their door (along with talking to 19E--their label?-- and ordering a second breakfast), he seemed to relax a little, which for some reason isn't nearly the surprise it should be. "Control freak," Kris says contentedly from the comfort of the bed, where he hasn't been required to do anything more taxing than pick up a fork and type search terms into google for the last two hours. Adam's better than a bodyguard and door combined. "I'm not complaining. Keep doing that."

"This," Adam says, pushing him over to sit down and steal the last muffin, "is why we get along so well." Kris gives him the netbook without a murmur; he's tired of looking anyway, and Adam is a much happier person when he has something to do.

They've figured out the following; they were on a reality TV show (American Idol, singing), and Kris won ("Hello, look at the picture of us!," Adam said, pointing at the screen. "You're adorable! God I wonder who did my hair?" which--what?), and Kris' wife divorced him and then ran off to Aruba with his publicist ("Lies," Adam said firmly, "and the woman she ran off isn't nearly as hot as you", which would be believable if Adam hadn't actually fielded a worried phone call from his new publicist, but it's nice he keeps trying). They're on tour. On a bus. And it's barely begun.

"You know," Adam says, reading his twitter with an enchanted expression after discovering the browser had all their usernames and passwords saved, "this is kind of a good thing. I mean, the tour, not the amnesia."

Kris tilts his head up from Adam's shoulder to look a disbelieving question.

"No, no, think about it. Tour. It's crazy on tours; people get high and like, have nervous breakdowns and I don't know, do drugs and whatever--"

"Where did you--"

"Internet, okay? Let me finish. No one will notice additional--weirdness. And your wife leaving you for lesbian love in the tropics--I mean, I'm thinking you could strip naked and run around talking about end times and everyone would understand." Kris raises an eyebrow. "If it were true," he adds belatedly. "Which it isn't."

"I'd probably believe you," Kris says dryly, "if you hadn't taken my wedding ring and flushed it down the toilet."

"Whatever, I'm trying to be supportive, *anyway**, moving on, thank you. Tour."

"Singing," Kris explains carefully. "That we don't remember doing."

"I've been thinking about that," Adam says, what a surprise. "Rehearsal seems to imply something in the *studio** family--"

"You told people I was prostrate with grief and lost my voice in response to my pain," Kris says wonderingly. "Which by the way, thanks for that, I sound like a fourteen year old girl. Hysterical *muteness**?"

"Danny Boy," Adam says, and not for the first time, just like that, the song pops into Kris' head, slotting into some blank spot like it's been waiting. "It could happen."

"Seriously," Kris says, trying to sit up and failing, since Adam slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him right back down. "I play *guitar**. I can't fake knowing how to play!"

"I don't think you'll have to," Adam says thoughtfully, then gets up, crossing the room to pick up the guitar that Kris has made an effort not to think about since he realized it had a reason to exist. Coming back, he holds it out. "I have a theory. Play for me."

Kris stares at him. "Um, no."

"Um, *yes**." Ruthless in his total conviction in his own rightness, Adam pulls him up and shoves the guitar into his arms. It almost pisses Kris off that his hands seem to know exactly what to do, settling into position like they know this the way Kris doesn't. "Okay, go."

"Wow," Kris says flatly, "inspire me more."

Kneeling on the floor, Adam grins, one elbow braced on Kris' knees. "Okay," and starts to sing.

For a second, Kris thinks he remembers this--not *this**, not exactly, not like this--but Adam, singing, his voice soaring over the babble of thousands of screaming people, lit up like a bonfire beneath the hot lights. He's always loved listening to him, he knows it, even if he can't remember it, he has to have, had to have; he can't imagine a life where this didn't shake him to his bones, where Adam couldn't make the world tremble with just the sound of his voice.

When Adam stops, it almost hurts. Licking his lips, Kris blinks down at Adam's curious look and manages, "That's--that's really good."

"You think so?" Adam tilts his head, pleased. "I was wondering." Poking Kris' knee, he adds, "But you didn't play."

Kris blinks, looking at his hands still on the guitar strings, then at Adam; he needs a distraction like, *now**. "You said--um, a studio?"

Adam grins, bouncing to his feet. "Don't worry," he says, which was when Kris started to worry. "I have it all worked out."

Oh. Oh God. You're one of those terrible, terrible people who always licks the post or jumps or hugs the hobo or whatever the dare is.

Aren't you?

*smug* When she posts the rest of Starstruck, I'll post my idfic of idficness.

You DO understand? Right? Drawing a line in the sand with me won't make HER do anything. She's relentless. And crazy. She has Kris off somewhere making applesauce, for god's sake.
Maybe I should just go to bed and see if one of you backs down by morning.

Ahh.....but to be the bigger person and post your completed fic...wouldn't that make you feel good? And then she would feel bad about making you wait after you graciously posted the completed fic so thennnnnnnnnn akavertigo would post hers comleted too (both starstruck and the stripper!Kris fic). And everybody is happy!

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