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Three stories for the ontd_ai drabble meme and the Adam freckles appreciation post.

For the ontd_ai drabble meme, prompt 8. KRADAM- Car accident. Your decision whether the guys are unscathed/injured/dead. (They're dead, but trust me, it's okay. *g*)

Seventh Heaven

by astolat

"You get to decide," the angel said, popping her gum as she consulted her clipboard. She seemed like kind of a weird angel, Kris had to say. "You could go to the Christian one, you're totally cleared for that. Sound good?"

"But," Kris said, "so if I—what about my friends who aren't—?"

The angel shrugged. "You can visit them if you want to," she said, "but mostly people don't."

"That—doesn't seem right," Kris said. "I don't know. Is there even anybody else I know around here yet?"

"You've got some extended family in the Southern one," the angel offered. "And there's one guy you met a few times in the Sigma Phi Epsilon one; he had a car accident, too."

Kris paused. "There's a heaven for my brother's frat?"

"Some people have a heaven just for one," the angel said. "That one's got about three hundred." She consulted her clipboard again, flipped a few pages. "There's the guy you came in with. He went straight to the glam heaven, though."

"Wait, Adam's here, too?" Kris said.

"Yep," the angel said. "I don't think that's the one for you, though—it's not on your list."

Kris put his hand in his pocket without really knowing why; there was something squashed up in there, and when he pulled it out, it was the feathers he'd been sent in Adam's care package, with the rhinestone bits, crumpled some. The angel peered at it dubiously, and then she said, "Well, if you're sure—" and let Kris go through the sparkly gates.

Inside he had to stop and let his eyes adjust for a while: it was like a nightclub, dimness broken with flashing, glittering lights, except the smoke smelled good, and it was crowded but at the same time nobody was jostling him. He was able to walk across the dance floor to the bar without bumping into anyone. He wondered how he was ever going to find Adam in here, but as soon as he thought about it, the bartender was handing him a beer and nodding to a booth in the far back corner of the club.

Adam was in it making out with three different guys, all of them beautiful, dusted with glitter and wearing not a whole lot. By the time Kris got closer, though, it had changed somehow; it was down to just one of them, and he was in Adam's lap and, uh, riding him.

Adam looked sort of serene and pleased, head tipped back to drink from his clear cocktail, and his hand was on the other guy's thigh, stroking. He had perfect nailpolish, black and glittery and unchipped, and he had more makeup on than Kris had ever seen him wear—huge sweeps of peacock green and blue, swirls of glitter down his jawline and throat, except it didn't even look like makeup; it looked like it was just part of him.

Kris wondered if maybe he should go, except he was enjoying watching it, the way the beautiful boy in Adam's lap writhed and sighed, low and deep and happy, and bent to kiss Adam, and then someone walked in front of Kris for a second and then Adam was in the booth alone, and staring at him. "Uh, hey," Kris said, belatedly feeling awkward—he'd just been watching Adam have sex. Although it was more like he felt like he should be feeling awkward, even though he wasn't actually.

"Kris?" Adam said. The music was loud, but Kris could hear him over it just fine. "I thought you'd be going to the—"

Kris shrugged and slid into the booth next to him. "The company seemed better over here, and they let me sneak in." He waved his little feather pendant.

Adam took it, smiling, and ran the feathers through his fingers, smoothing them straight. He looked at Kris. "We could go somewhere else if you wanted," he said. "There's a music one next door."

"I don't know," Kris said, "this one seems pretty cool, actually," and he leaned in, happy, to kiss Adam's bright and glittering mouth.

For drabble meme prompt 16. Kradam, Hospital, PG - PG-13, Current Tour. Adam is on his deathbed. Possibly resulting from a tragic accident on stage or a bus accident. Surrounded by his grieving family, Adam asks for one last moment alone with Kris because he has something he needs to say. While Kris is there holding his hand, Adam closes his eyes for the last time. (NO REALLY TRUST ME)

Kris skidded into the hospital room, shoving past the startled nurse; the curtain around Adam's bed was half-drawn. He pushed it aside, his hand shaking; Adam stirred and opened his eyes. "Adam," Kris managed. "Adam—" He sank into the hard plastic chair by Adam's side.

"Hey," Adam said, a little groggily—they probably had him on heavy-duty drugs.

"Hey," Kris said, choked up. He carefully curled his hands around Adam's. It was warm and dry, and Kris bent and pressed his forehead to the knuckles, and then he couldn't help it; he brushed his mouth over them. Adam's fingers opened a little, touching Kris's lips. "How—how are you feeling?"

"Fine," Adam said, smiling at him, so fucking brave. "Did you come here from the stadium?"

"From the airport," Kris said. "I heard on Twitter—" He stopped and swallowed, and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

"Crazy world we live in, baby," Adam said, starting to try sitting up in the bed; Kris caught his shoulders and stopped him.

"No," Kris said, "No, Adam, don't—don't—"

Adam stared up at him and said, "Kris—" a little puzzled-sounding, like he didn't get—like he didn't understand why Kris would fucking care this much, like he didn't know that—"I—I don't know," Adam said, confused-sounding.

"I can't—I can't lose you," Kris said brokenly.

"Um, Kris," Adam said, and Kris couldn't bear it anymore; he cupped Adam's face in his hands, desperately, and kissed him.

Adam lay there staring at the ceiling after Kris broke it off, and then he said, "Huh."

"Don't leave me," Kris said, and buried his face in Adam's lap.


Adam petted Kris's head absently and thought about what slow terminal disease he could possibly be dying of, because he didn't think the wrist sprain was really going to work long-term.


Adam doesn't just wash his face at night. He's got this stuff that smells funny, just a little like corn, maybe; he dunks cotton pads in it and wipes them over his skin, and the freckles show up. That's what it looks like, anyway: one of those invisible-ink pictures Kris used to do on road trips as a kid, where you'd rub the pen over blank paper and things would appear.

It wasn't about the picture; it was about getting to make the magic happen. Kris feels his fingers twitch sometimes, when he watches Adam doing it—standing in front of the little spare mirror near the bunks (nobody gets to hog the actual bathroom for more than ten minutes at a time), his hips swaying a little with the movement of the bus.

Kris can't ask, for a lot of reasons, but he watches every time he gets the chance: sprawled back in his bunk pretending to read his book, while Adam paints constellations on his skin. Sometimes, in the mirror, their eyes meet; and Kris thinks if he did ask, maybe Adam would say yes.


It's ten minutes from the stadium in Baltimore to their hotel, and Adam doesn't bother taking his makeup off on the bus. Kris picks up his guitar case and his duffel—first thing in the morning they're on the train to New York to spend the day off recording—and trudges inside, tucks the guitar case under his arm to take his key card from the handler.

He dumps the bags on the couch, digs out his little toiletries kit and goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Usually he does this on the bus, too. He stares at his face in the mirror, under the fluorescents, and he's feeling every hour of the last month, in the ache in his calves and his shoulders, the way his eyes still hurt from the stage lights and flashbulbs on the autograph line.

He goes out and changes into his t-shirt and boxers, and then he's pocketing his key card and shoving his feet back into his sneakers, and crossing the hall before he can stop himself; Adam's right opposite him, in the other corner suite.

"It's me," he says when Adam asks, and Adam opens the door with a cotton pad in his hand, a blurry-edged circle on one cheek where the freckles are showing; he's only wearing boxers. Kris swallows and says, "Can I come in?"

Adam lets him in. Kris follows him to the bedroom, and Adam sits down on the edge of the bed and lets Kris take the cotton. Kris tips Adam's head back, and Adam closes his eyes. There are freckles on his shoulders, too, thickly clustered and spilling away down his arms and back and chest. Kris raises more of the secret, hidden ones with every swipe of the cotton, traveling slow and gentle over the planes of Adam's cheeks, his jaw, his nose, making sure he's filled in every corner, until he's gotten all of them, every one; and he puts the cotton down.

Adam's hands are resting on Kris's hips, holding him steady. Adam's legs are spread and bracketing his, their legs touching, bare skin on bare skin. The cleanser is drying on his skin, making him look a little shiny. His lips are parted a little to breathe, soft and steady. There are freckles on his mouth.

Kris bends down to taste them.

= End =

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