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.

Comments

Amnesia

[seperis.livejournal.com]

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."