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amfiguree[American Idol] [Clay Aiken/Ryan Seacrest] [NC-17 for the multiple curse words]
Helpless
Author’s Note: Because it just made all the anger bubble up in me again. What the hell do they mean, “Despite what Amazon.com has said about presale numbers that favored Aiken, the critical decision most definitely goes to Studdard, whose double-sided J Records offering of the gospel-powered “Flying Without Wings” and Luther Vandross-cloned “Superstar” easily tops his young rival’s insipid, RCA-financed reading of “This Is the Night,” a power ballad so god-awful that it even sinks the flip-side “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” (Maybe that’s why “Bridge” is being promoted as the single and “Night” as the flip side.)”?!
“Hey.” Ryan reached out uncertainly, resting his hand on Clay’s shoulder. The touch was gentle, infinitely soothing, a helpless offer to fix what they both knew he couldn’t.
Clay swallowed, shading his eyes with his hand, his breathing ragged – he’d been crying.
Ryan shifted, letting his hands fall limply to his side, clenching and unclenching his fists as he sank onto one knee. The hand on Clay’s thigh was warm, hopeful and tender. “You know. It’s all fabricated. More fucking politics and-”
Clay shook his head. “No. No, it’s not like that.” He bit his lip, disappointment and frustration stabbing his gut like cold knives. He’d tried. He’d tried so fucking *hard*, and it wasn’t good enough – it was never good enough. “Ruben is. He’s just. And I can’t.”
Taking a deep breath, Ryan reached for Clay’s hand. “You fucking idiot. How long have I been in the business? I know too much about all this, Clay. Too much. You shouldn’t be doing this. God, you shouldn’t.” Ryan wanted to make Clay run and hide, stay as far away from the media as he possibly could, retain all the goodness and innocent sarcasm that Ryan had fallen in love with.
“Then why?”
“It’s all Fox. It’s the fucking producers, and. It’s not you. That song. That song blew *everyone* away. Everyone. These people don’t know what the hell they’re saying.”
Clay felt as though his head was about to burst. Too many things to do, to say, to feel, to hide. “I can’t do this,” he whispered, drawing as much strength from Ryan’s comforting touch as he possibly could.
Ryan brushed his lips across Clay’s knuckles, “I know.”
And then Clay pulled away, nodding, the shadows casting angles on his face that shouldn’t have been there. Telltale lines and shadows clouding his face, his eyes, everything Ryan had known. Too dangerous, his head screamed, Too dangerous. And he’s too pure. Too hard. He can’t.
Clay put his head in his hands, and Ryan watched, realizing just how old he seemed. Too old, too worn down. Too much to handle.
“I just can’t.”
And then Ryan pressed himself against Clay’s back, lips finding skin, still warm and tanned, still tasting like honey and rich, pure laughter, and he mumbled words he wasn’t sure actually existed, running his hands across Clay’s arm to make sure he was still real.
Then don’t. Stop. You can’t. I know.
So many things he wanted to say, to do. But he couldn’t. That was just how it was. Ruben was. And Clay wasn’t. That’s just the way things were. Ryan could watch it happen, watch Clay fall apart, and understand all the fucking politics in the entertainment industry, but he couldn’t stop it. That’s just how it was. How it would always be.
So he set his jaw, losing himself in the scent of sweat and cologne, and sweet, warm skin that sent rushes of pure adrenaline rushing giddily through his body, and watched the shadows deepen the contours on Clay’s face – old, and dark, and cold – and wished there was something he could do to help.
-fin-
Helpless
Author’s Note: Because it just made all the anger bubble up in me again. What the hell do they mean, “Despite what Amazon.com has said about presale numbers that favored Aiken, the critical decision most definitely goes to Studdard, whose double-sided J Records offering of the gospel-powered “Flying Without Wings” and Luther Vandross-cloned “Superstar” easily tops his young rival’s insipid, RCA-financed reading of “This Is the Night,” a power ballad so god-awful that it even sinks the flip-side “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” (Maybe that’s why “Bridge” is being promoted as the single and “Night” as the flip side.)”?!
“Hey.” Ryan reached out uncertainly, resting his hand on Clay’s shoulder. The touch was gentle, infinitely soothing, a helpless offer to fix what they both knew he couldn’t.
Clay swallowed, shading his eyes with his hand, his breathing ragged – he’d been crying.
Ryan shifted, letting his hands fall limply to his side, clenching and unclenching his fists as he sank onto one knee. The hand on Clay’s thigh was warm, hopeful and tender. “You know. It’s all fabricated. More fucking politics and-”
Clay shook his head. “No. No, it’s not like that.” He bit his lip, disappointment and frustration stabbing his gut like cold knives. He’d tried. He’d tried so fucking *hard*, and it wasn’t good enough – it was never good enough. “Ruben is. He’s just. And I can’t.”
Taking a deep breath, Ryan reached for Clay’s hand. “You fucking idiot. How long have I been in the business? I know too much about all this, Clay. Too much. You shouldn’t be doing this. God, you shouldn’t.” Ryan wanted to make Clay run and hide, stay as far away from the media as he possibly could, retain all the goodness and innocent sarcasm that Ryan had fallen in love with.
“Then why?”
“It’s all Fox. It’s the fucking producers, and. It’s not you. That song. That song blew *everyone* away. Everyone. These people don’t know what the hell they’re saying.”
Clay felt as though his head was about to burst. Too many things to do, to say, to feel, to hide. “I can’t do this,” he whispered, drawing as much strength from Ryan’s comforting touch as he possibly could.
Ryan brushed his lips across Clay’s knuckles, “I know.”
And then Clay pulled away, nodding, the shadows casting angles on his face that shouldn’t have been there. Telltale lines and shadows clouding his face, his eyes, everything Ryan had known. Too dangerous, his head screamed, Too dangerous. And he’s too pure. Too hard. He can’t.
Clay put his head in his hands, and Ryan watched, realizing just how old he seemed. Too old, too worn down. Too much to handle.
“I just can’t.”
And then Ryan pressed himself against Clay’s back, lips finding skin, still warm and tanned, still tasting like honey and rich, pure laughter, and he mumbled words he wasn’t sure actually existed, running his hands across Clay’s arm to make sure he was still real.
Then don’t. Stop. You can’t. I know.
So many things he wanted to say, to do. But he couldn’t. That was just how it was. Ruben was. And Clay wasn’t. That’s just the way things were. Ryan could watch it happen, watch Clay fall apart, and understand all the fucking politics in the entertainment industry, but he couldn’t stop it. That’s just how it was. How it would always be.
So he set his jaw, losing himself in the scent of sweat and cologne, and sweet, warm skin that sent rushes of pure adrenaline rushing giddily through his body, and watched the shadows deepen the contours on Clay’s face – old, and dark, and cold – and wished there was something he could do to help.
-fin-
