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amfiguree[American Idol] [Clay Aiken/Ryan Seacrest] [PG]
...all the while the sleeve of his shirt was pressed against his forehead, and occasionally his eyes, because it was still too hot, and he still wasn't crying. Really.
Okay
It felt completely surreal even though somewhere, deep down, he’d already known the outcome. After sneaking that glance at the card – he had realized it, right then, that he hadn’t made it, and he had tried to hold everything in, but it was so hard, *so* hard, after the roller-coaster ride of emotions and the singing and the hoping, and he’d let his eyes get wet backstage, hoping that no one would see or ask as he wiped the moisture away, and no one had – and after everything that had been said that night during the competition, it had all been made blaringly clear. But when all was said and done, when it all boiled down to that one short sentence, he found he hadn’t completely killed the hope that the results would be fair and just and.
And he hadn’t killed the hope that he might emerge the winner.
It flickered inside, dim and weak, shadowed by layers of dust and forced apathy, but remaining there nonetheless. So when it was Ruben’s name and Ruben’s title and Ruben’s talent that had been flaunted to the screaming audience, Clay felt his knees buckle.
It was a sham. He knew it. They all did. Ruben, his family, the judges, Fox. Everyone. And Clay could feel the thoughts spinning in his head, about Fox rigging the phone lines and sending out misleading signals to the whole of America, and leaning towards Ruben and god knows what other political crap there was involved in it all. And it was okay, it really was. Everything had been set up from the start, and god knows he’d tried his best, so it was okay.
And still none of his thoughts helped ease the growing disappointment.
But his feelings didn’t matter, so Clay smiled, and laughed, and pretended that it wasn’t a big deal, when it was. It was because he knew he deserved it, and he knew he should have won the title. He should have been the one up there, singing to the crowd. He should have been able to pull his mom close and laugh and tell her that yes, he’d done it after all.
But it didn’t matter. Because it wasn’t going to happen. Not now.
So he let Ryan lead him away, the smile on his face so wide and fake he thought it would crack, and he watched from the wings as Ruben took to the stage - melting in a pool of sweat and tears - and tried to ignore the growing pang of resentment in the pit of his stomach, and pretended that the glistening in his eyes was just due to the lighting, and that it was okay, *he* was okay, really. Ruben deserved it more than he did.
He rubbed his arm across his eyes and forehead, over and over, because it was just so hot. No, he wasn’t crying. It was just. So hot. And all the while tried not to notice that Ryan was standing a few feet away, watching him with those incredibly wide eyes, wondering how he could make it all okay.
Except he couldn’t. No one could.
So Clay kept up the smile, and the best I’m-so-proud-of-you face he could manage as he shook Ruben's hand, and even as his mom held him close and whispered that it was okay, and that she was so proud of him, because he was the American idol in so many ways already, his smile stayed in place, and he shrugged and said he didn’t mind when she pulled away and left his shoulder wet.
Because it was okay. Everything was under control, bearable even, right up to the after party. The music was loud and bruising his ears and his head felt like it was ten times too heavy for his body, and all Clay wanted to do was go back home and curl up on his bed and forget all the people that must be disappointed in him. Forget that *he* was disappointed in himself.
And when he felt warm bodies pressed up too close, and soft, throaty well-wishes brushing his ear a moment too long for comfort, and wet lips dragging over his skin under the pretense of humor, he ignored it. And smiled and tried not to pull away, because he couldn’t lose it here. He refused to.
So he let them have their way, and ignored the whispers around him. Ignored it when they said he was weak and pathetic, for allowing himself to be pawed so openly, ignored when they said all he had come here for was the fame, ignored when they laughed and turned away from him, and all the while the sleeve of his shirt was pressed against his forehead, and occasionally his eyes, because it was still too hot, and he still wasn’t crying. Really. He was okay.
And he held up fine, up till the moment he was saying his goodbyes. He watched the people leave, one by one, and avoided looking anyone in the eyes as he forced another smile and laughed off his failure, and told them yes, it was okay. And it would all work out.
It would have worked. He would have held back the tears till he was alone, away from the rest of the world, before letting the result of the tumultuous afternoon flow, unhidden and unashamed.
But then a warm hand clasped his, and he was pulled close, firm arms secure around him, and a voice, convicted with quiet sincerity, whispered in his ear. “It’s just us now.”
And then the tears fell. Clay closed his eyes, and tried not to think, tried not to breathe, tried not to feel, tried to pretend it never happened, tried to lose himself in the feeling of warmth and tenderness, tried to just shut up and stop crying, because Christ, he wasn’t a kid. He needed to stop crying.
But Ryan’s hand was tangled in his hair, pressing Clay’s face into his shoulder, and Clay gave up fighting the exhaustion and the disappointment and the tears, and let himself cry, and let the realization that it was really over sink in.
And the only thing Clay could be grateful for, as Ryan held him silently and pressed his lips to his temple, was that Ryan never once said ‘it’s okay’.
Because it wasn’t.
It really wasn’t.
-fin-
...all the while the sleeve of his shirt was pressed against his forehead, and occasionally his eyes, because it was still too hot, and he still wasn't crying. Really.
Okay
It felt completely surreal even though somewhere, deep down, he’d already known the outcome. After sneaking that glance at the card – he had realized it, right then, that he hadn’t made it, and he had tried to hold everything in, but it was so hard, *so* hard, after the roller-coaster ride of emotions and the singing and the hoping, and he’d let his eyes get wet backstage, hoping that no one would see or ask as he wiped the moisture away, and no one had – and after everything that had been said that night during the competition, it had all been made blaringly clear. But when all was said and done, when it all boiled down to that one short sentence, he found he hadn’t completely killed the hope that the results would be fair and just and.
And he hadn’t killed the hope that he might emerge the winner.
It flickered inside, dim and weak, shadowed by layers of dust and forced apathy, but remaining there nonetheless. So when it was Ruben’s name and Ruben’s title and Ruben’s talent that had been flaunted to the screaming audience, Clay felt his knees buckle.
It was a sham. He knew it. They all did. Ruben, his family, the judges, Fox. Everyone. And Clay could feel the thoughts spinning in his head, about Fox rigging the phone lines and sending out misleading signals to the whole of America, and leaning towards Ruben and god knows what other political crap there was involved in it all. And it was okay, it really was. Everything had been set up from the start, and god knows he’d tried his best, so it was okay.
And still none of his thoughts helped ease the growing disappointment.
But his feelings didn’t matter, so Clay smiled, and laughed, and pretended that it wasn’t a big deal, when it was. It was because he knew he deserved it, and he knew he should have won the title. He should have been the one up there, singing to the crowd. He should have been able to pull his mom close and laugh and tell her that yes, he’d done it after all.
But it didn’t matter. Because it wasn’t going to happen. Not now.
So he let Ryan lead him away, the smile on his face so wide and fake he thought it would crack, and he watched from the wings as Ruben took to the stage - melting in a pool of sweat and tears - and tried to ignore the growing pang of resentment in the pit of his stomach, and pretended that the glistening in his eyes was just due to the lighting, and that it was okay, *he* was okay, really. Ruben deserved it more than he did.
He rubbed his arm across his eyes and forehead, over and over, because it was just so hot. No, he wasn’t crying. It was just. So hot. And all the while tried not to notice that Ryan was standing a few feet away, watching him with those incredibly wide eyes, wondering how he could make it all okay.
Except he couldn’t. No one could.
So Clay kept up the smile, and the best I’m-so-proud-of-you face he could manage as he shook Ruben's hand, and even as his mom held him close and whispered that it was okay, and that she was so proud of him, because he was the American idol in so many ways already, his smile stayed in place, and he shrugged and said he didn’t mind when she pulled away and left his shoulder wet.
Because it was okay. Everything was under control, bearable even, right up to the after party. The music was loud and bruising his ears and his head felt like it was ten times too heavy for his body, and all Clay wanted to do was go back home and curl up on his bed and forget all the people that must be disappointed in him. Forget that *he* was disappointed in himself.
And when he felt warm bodies pressed up too close, and soft, throaty well-wishes brushing his ear a moment too long for comfort, and wet lips dragging over his skin under the pretense of humor, he ignored it. And smiled and tried not to pull away, because he couldn’t lose it here. He refused to.
So he let them have their way, and ignored the whispers around him. Ignored it when they said he was weak and pathetic, for allowing himself to be pawed so openly, ignored when they said all he had come here for was the fame, ignored when they laughed and turned away from him, and all the while the sleeve of his shirt was pressed against his forehead, and occasionally his eyes, because it was still too hot, and he still wasn’t crying. Really. He was okay.
And he held up fine, up till the moment he was saying his goodbyes. He watched the people leave, one by one, and avoided looking anyone in the eyes as he forced another smile and laughed off his failure, and told them yes, it was okay. And it would all work out.
It would have worked. He would have held back the tears till he was alone, away from the rest of the world, before letting the result of the tumultuous afternoon flow, unhidden and unashamed.
But then a warm hand clasped his, and he was pulled close, firm arms secure around him, and a voice, convicted with quiet sincerity, whispered in his ear. “It’s just us now.”
And then the tears fell. Clay closed his eyes, and tried not to think, tried not to breathe, tried not to feel, tried to pretend it never happened, tried to lose himself in the feeling of warmth and tenderness, tried to just shut up and stop crying, because Christ, he wasn’t a kid. He needed to stop crying.
But Ryan’s hand was tangled in his hair, pressing Clay’s face into his shoulder, and Clay gave up fighting the exhaustion and the disappointment and the tears, and let himself cry, and let the realization that it was really over sink in.
And the only thing Clay could be grateful for, as Ryan held him silently and pressed his lips to his temple, was that Ryan never once said ‘it’s okay’.
Because it wasn’t.
It really wasn’t.
-fin-
