when the gales of November come early (kishmet) wrote,
when the gales of November come early

More twc/kradam!

I keep failing at life and falling asleep the second I get home, because I'm awesome like that. ;_; Fiiiinally though, here is the second half of... what is going to be a three-part ficlet, evidently, as I seem incapable of typing more than 1000 words or so at a time.

In other news, this ficlet may yet contain every Tom/Bill and Kradam cliche on record. Stay tuned!

Adam finds a couple of the songwriters for Kris, first off; it's not hard to pick them out, not just because Adam knows half of them but because they're some of the only guys besides Kris who would wear plaid to an L.A. club. This one guy, Greg, happens to be from the south himself, and he plays piano and harp, of all the crazy things. Kris is so honestly, adorably amazed that for a minute Adam just stands there watching him react to what Greg's saying.

Then as Kris and Greg exclaim over some coincidence, this online forum both of them frequent, the urge to lay a possessive hand on Kris' arm becomes too strong. "Gonna go get a drink," says Adam, slipping his excuse smoothly into the conversation. "Want anything?"

"Nah, thanks," says Greg, raising a bottle of Corona that's half empty.

"Uh, rum and Coke, maybe?" Kris suggests hopefully, in a way that makes Adam want to grab him up and kiss him, or at least get in a quick peck on the cheek.

He just laughs, though, shaking his head. "Why, Kristopher Allen. Hard liquor, really?" Adam teases, and Kris makes this face that probably isn't possible for anybody but an Allen. "I'm going, I'm going," Adam adds, backing up before Kris can nudge him with an elbow. "Have fun, kids."

Skirting through the crowd in the VIP lounge isn't too difficult, since they're all industry people, all well enough known in their own right to be here. He knows plenty of them personally, too, enough that he gets a "Hey, Adam," more than once, and he stops to chat twice, once with a cosmetologist who's getting his own show on TLC and another with a producer. It's in the middle of the second exchange that Adam's eye is caught by a flash of leather and a wild updo, and he trails off in mid-sentence.

Bill Kaulitz. All Adam can think is holy shit as Bill makes his way to the bar. Adam finishes up with the producer as quick as he can without seeming rude; fortunately, he's great at maneuvering people until they're right where he needthem to be, and she's smiling when they part ways.

Adam has to approach Bill because god, when is he ever going to get this chance again? Bill isn't Adam's Type, as Brad calls it, but there's something insanely, unearthly beautiful about him. Those proportions, for one thing. Those legs. Jesus. Adam glances down them to the floor, admiring the skintight jeans and three-inch heels.

Then Adam moves in, just as Bill turns from the bar. It's not warm and comfortable like it's always been with Kris, but it's exciting, like looking a lion in the face on the Serengeti or something. Rare and a little dangerous, and of course deserving of respect for those qualities. "Hey," says Adam. His smile is amiable, not the one he uses when he's on the prowl for a bedmate. "Bill Kaulitz, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Bill replies with a nod, in his heavy German accent. He adopts a smile of his own, though his eyes are distant. Adam wonders whether that's a simple result of fame's isolation or masks something more specific. "I'm sorry, you're...?"

Well, that's different. Adam laughs. "Sorry. I'm used to being recognized around here. Adam Lambert."

"Ah, oh." Bill smiles more widely, though Adam's not sure whether he knows the name or not. "Yeah. It's the same for us, in Europe. Some other places, too, just not here. Hi." He offers a hand to shake, and Adam takes it, unsurprised when Bill has as firm a grip as he does.

"So, any bandmates around?" Adam asks, picking up on Bill's use of the word us rather than me.

"Yeah, my twin, Tom." Bill points and Adam looks, first noting the resemblance between the two with a kind of wonder. There's no doubt they're identical twins, fauxhawk versus cornrows be damned. Then he takes in the girls around Tom at the table, and the way Tom's eyes are fixed on Bill the second Bill turns his head in that direction. Adam turns his focus to Bill, whose gaze brightens for just an instant when his eyes lock with Tom's. It's nothing that would be obvious to anybody else in the lounge, but Adam knows that look. It's the look he sees on himself whenever he watches over one of his television appearances with Kris.


Bill glances back at Adam, donning his mask of polite interest again. "We can't really go out at home because everybody knows us there, so, yeah. We do it when we're here recording and producing," Bill explains.

"Cool, yeah. I can understand that," Adam agrees. He likes being the center of attention, but he doesn't enjoy getting his hair ripped out by overenthusiastic fans. "As long as you're out having fun, care to dance a little? Not hitting on you, here," Adam goes on, when Bill opens his mouth. "You're beautiful, but not my type. Not like that."

Bill raises an eyebrow at him, and Adam cracks up, holding a hand out to him. "Really," says Adam.

"I can't, really," Bill replies, shaking his head even though there's a smile tugging at the corner of his polished lips. "I'm straight."

"So am I, for tonight," Adam tells him. "I promise, there's no cameras up here, and I won't touch more than your hands. Just a dance."

For a second Bill hesitates, then he looks over in his twin's direction again and nods. "Sure."
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