fic: walk a mile (1/1)

Title: Walk a Mile (1/1)
Author: Starlight_1985
Pairing: Kris Allen/Adam Lambert                                           
Rating: G

Word Count: ~1,750
Disclaimer: Don’t know. Never happened. All fiction. 
Notes: This is a little ficlet chock full of fluff. As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated! 

Summary: The type of shoes that Kris and Adam wear says a lot about them.

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Squish-Squeak

He’s always been more of a sneakers kind of guy.

Whatever the brand, whatever the color or style – there’s just something about the feel of the plush canvas covering his feet and the sound of the rubber soles clapping softly against the asphalt as he runs or squeaking slightly against the hardwood floors at home that appeals to him. Like the checked patterned fabric formed by crisscrossing bands of color that molds perfectly to his torso and the pear-shaped, maple instrument with the shiny nickel frets that lays cradled in his arms, sneakers and Kris Allen just fit: a perfect blend of familiar and comfortable, easy and unassuming; worn day in and day out and never more than one crew-socked step away.

His penchant for athletic footwear begins early in life. Always on the move, Kris wears sneakers everywhere: to school, to parties, to family gatherings and holiday functions. Much like the Boy Scouts, he believes in always being prepared for whatever life throws his way, and what better shoe to accompany him on such a journey than his dependable and practical high-tops? Certainly not dress shoes with the shiny, patent-leather exterior, the stiff sides that squeeze the sides of his feet too tight and cause his toes to curl up in painful protest, and the orthodox expectations that go hand-in-hand with wearing such stuffy shoes. He has never been a big believer in conformity, so it comes as no surprise that the one pair of dress shoes his mother buys him remain hidden away on the top shelf of his bedroom closet, tucked beneath layers of cream-colored tissue paper and the thick cardboard casings of the box.  

When he enters high school and becomes an athlete, it is only natural that the sneakers stay with him. Sure, he has to trade colorful Converse for black Adidas cleats on the diamond field, but the idea is very much the same – they are still athletic shoes, after all – and he shucks them off when he gets to his truck and slides on his trusty pair of sneakers, anyway.  It is around this time that his family really begins to tease him about his fascination with sneakers. “It’s a shame Converse isn’t looking for a spokesperson right now,” his dad would say. “With all of the free advertising you do for them, you’d be a shoe-in for the job.” Daniel would just laugh at Kris and sneak beneath the dining room table to tie his shoe laces together so Kris would stumble and shake the table when he got up, causing the trembling glasses of milk to tip over and spill across the pressed linen; cold, white liquid dripping to the floor and splattering against the tops of Kris’s shoes. Kim Allen would simply smile at Kris, shaking her head gently as she mused, “And what are you running away from today, baby?”

Somewhere along the way, the athlete becomes the musician and the shiny acoustic guitar replaces the slender, wooden bat. But the sneakers remain.

When he auditions for American Idol, the sneakers come with him: the perfect complement to light-wash denim and plaid, button-up shirts; a little touch of familiarity and home that helps him withstand the long hours on his feet at practice and the even longer seconds spent in front of the judges each week.  

At first, the shoes are silently unsure in their new surroundings, slipping quietly against the floor as if to say: “We’re just passing by. There’s nothing to see here. Move along.” Like their owner, they appear abashed, unsure of their own worth and appeal in a room where other shoes and other people seem to outshine them without even trying.

They sigh as he stands underneath the spotlight of the Nokia Theater and listens to Ryan tell the television audience the appropriate phone numbers to call, and one foot lifts slightly to brush against the back of his ankle in nervous trepidation. They whisper in the long, white corridors backstage, producing the occasional light squeak as he drags his feet against the floor after lukewarm comments from Randy and Kara and particularly nasty feedback from Simon.

Slowly and steadily, they sneak by the competition without a lot of people noticing. A lot of people, that is, except for the man in the black leather boots who click-clacks his way into Kris’s life – into Kris’s heart – with long, powerful strides and loud, self-assured movements.

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Click-Clack

Like Kris and sneakers, Adam and boots are a match made in footwear heaven. Black, gold, solid, or sparkly – the boots, like the man, himself, command attention wherever they go. While Kris’s shoes slide against the floor in whispers, Adam’s boots stomp the ground confidently: sharp barks of affirmation against the floorboards. Every footstep: an assertion; every move: a deliberate statement of purpose.  

While Kris slips his sneakers off quietly, sometimes not even bothering to untie the laces, Adam slides the silver and golden zippers on his boots down with a flourish, the sound piercing through the air of the quiet waiting rooms on the show and the crowded dressing rooms on tour. Already one of the tallest contestants on the show, the boots give him a few extra inches, ensuring that the eyes that are initially drawn to him out of budding curiosity and interest remain trained on him in admiration and excitement.

They are not running shoes, but that doesn’t matter because Adam doesn’t run anywhere; things come to him. They are with him when he struts down the scarlet-lit American Idol stairs, his swagger and confidence giving Ryan Seacrest a run for his money; they are with him when he tugs Kris along to an openly gay, but still straight-friendly bar in Los Angeles and teasingly wedges one boot-clad foot between Kris’s sneakers, dancing up against him, one hand precociously holding his martini and the other lost in the folds of soft fabric at the small of Kris’s back.

More often than not, the boots leave scuff marks on the stage: thick, black lines smudged into the manmade panels that the roadies work to scrub away show after show. The darks smears left on stage are not deliberate; but the marks left behind the curtains are. “Sometimes, you need to add a little excitement to your life, Kris,” Adam says as he deliberately scrapes the black heel of his boot against the floor backstage. “Don’t be afraid to dirty things up a bit. Make your presence known in the world.”

He smiles and Kris manages to catch a brief glimpse of his white teeth and the subtle fluttering of his eyelashes before Adam is gone, his boots screaming down the corridor in search of Allison. Kris traces the squiggle-swag of the line left in Adam’s wake with one sneaker, the top of the canvas just barely pressing against the outside of the mark, sure enough to mimic the movement of the line, but gentle enough not to erase it.

Adam’s boots and Kris’s sneakers are so different.

Except they are not.

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Clip-Tick

After the tour ends, Kris misses hearing the click-clack sounds of Adam’s boots during the day and the swooshing sound of their coordinating zippers at night. He misses the sighs that would escape from Adam’s mouth as he removed the shoes, his fingers delicately massaging the insoles of his feet while he sat with Kris on the couch and closed his eyes as Kris’s fingers strummed against tight strings, as Kris’s music soothed and inspired.

At home, Kris can only hear the clip-tick sound of Katy’s heels fluttering delicately across the cherry wood dining room floor and the white linoleum kitchen. Although he once relished the sound, although he once looked forward to the gentle, rhythmic reminders of Katy’s presence in his life, his excitement for the soft resonances of the fragile shoes soon fades. The clip-ticks of Katy’s heels in Kris’s life become few and far between before they stop altogether.

On the day the divorce papers are delivered, Kris discovers a black smear on the pristine kitchen floor: a tell-tale reminder of Adam’s presence in his house the night before – a night when he had brought over a couple of bottles of wine and several containers of Chinese food; when he had held Kris’s hand and looked into his eyes with such warmth and compassion that Kris had to swallow a few quick gulps of wine to quench his sudden thirst.

Kris slides the white rubber of his sole half-heartedly against the top of the dark scuff mark before he stops and decides to let it be.

There is no use denying the influence of the man sporting the black leather boots in his life; there is no use hiding the feelings for his best friend that bubble in his chest and threaten to burst from his heart.

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Squeak-Clack

Kris thinks his mother may have been onto something when she connected his passion for sneakers with running. The idea was good, the symbolism was there, but she didn’t get the facts entirely correct. While Kim Allen had thought Kris was running from something, he was actually running towards something: a canyon, a passion, a dream, a dark-haired, blue-eyed man in loud, fashionable boots and over-the-top clothing with the powerful voice of a rocker and the tender heart of a lamb.

It’s a connection that may seem threatening to some, heart-warming to others, but it matters not to the sneaker-obsessed Kris and the boot-loving Adam. It doesn’t change the excitement Kris feels when he hears the click-clack of Adam’s boots in the foyer and the blended sounds of squeak-clack when Kris rushes to welcome him home, his sneakers squealing against the floor before colliding with the tops of Adam’s shoes. It doesn’t change the way they remove their shoes at night, their naked feet sliding against the cool sheets before brushing warmly up each other’s calves.

Underneath the coat stand in the living room and half hidden by long trench coats, colorful cashmere scarves and patterned umbrellas, Kris’s sneakers sit next to Adam’s boots. The untied white laces spill over the sculpted black curves of leather and some metallic specks of gold float down from the tops of the boots, speckling Kris’s sneakers with tiny dots that shimmer and shine.

They are so tangled up, so joined together that it’s difficult to tell where one pair of footwear ends and the next begins.    

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