"For real?" He stifled a chuckle.
After the group downstairs decided to play Truth-or-Dare, Adam and I retreated upstairs to his bedroom, and not for the reason that just flashed through your dirty mind. He wanted to talk, wanted to get to know me better. So I suggested that we tell humiliating stories. We've been telling each other our most embarrassing moments we've had this far in our lives for the last two hours. Well, I shouldn't say we because it's mostly been me talking. My entire life is awkward so there's a lot to share.
Despite the cramping in my cheeks, my smile was held in place from his continuous laughter at my current narrative.
I nod and answer back, "All of his friends were laughing at me and I just stood there because my little eight year old self didn't know that 'balls' had more than one meaning to it."
"What else?" He prodded, still wanting to know more. From his position on the opposite end of his king-sized bed, he readjusted so that he was laying down nearly right in front of me, his arms behind his head.
"What do you mean what else? I've been talking for the last hour and a half, it's your turn." I grab the bag of BarkThins chocolate that he had brought up along with us and I take a piece out to nibble on. He looks over to me, sees the food in my hand, and immediately opens his mouth for me to throw a a chunk into.
He starts to speak with the food in his mouth, something that would usually irk me but somehow with him it doesn't. "No. Though you talking about embarrassing shit that happened to you gives me great joy, I think it's time to move on. You will definitely be coming over again and I want to make sure you still have some funny stories for me." He turns and props his head up on his hand so he's facing me, dangerously close.
"I can assure you that I won't run out of stories to tell, but if it's what you want then okay. What do you want to talk about instead?" I toss another chocolate piece into his mouth and wait for his response as he thinks.
His hand not holding his head comes up to stroke his beard. My eyes dart all over his face, taking in all of his glorious features and I have to look away from him. I could feel myself slipping into dangerous emotional territory and I couldn't afford that. We were really getting along as friends and I didn't want to mess things up by being stupid. I needed friends outside of Kara.
I turn my attention to the room. It's big--at least the size of a regular person's living room. Speaking of which, there was even a small living room inside of the bedroom, complete with a some chairs and small library. I don't know if he chose the colors but they were warm and welcoming, making me instantly comfortable despite being in his bedroom alone with him. In the area with the actual bedroom portion there was a fireplace with a completely unnecessarily big flat screen television that hung anxiously from the only wall covered in bricks. Also another chair or two. And there was bound to be a closet and bathroom somewhere, though I haven't seen them yet.
"What's your favorite color?" He finally questions.
I keep my eyes on the fire that glows in the dim lights from the lamps as I poke through my mind to figure it out. My favorite color? I've guess I've never given much thought to it.
"Purple, but not just any purple. The purple of Wisconsin lilacs in May. " I say at first, staring at the sewing patterns in his comforter. "Or green, like a Washington forest, not a bright in-your-face green. Or the white that comes from the ocean foam in California or a fresh snowfall in New York City. But it also could be the pink that you see in someone's cheeks when they blush." I stop listing, realizing that I've been babbling and he's probably stopped listening.
"Why'd you stop?" His brows are crinkled together when I look up at him.
"What?"
"Why did you stop talking? About your favorite colors. Is that all?"
"I thought you stopped listening. It's fine. What's your favorite color?" I ask back.
He does a single breathy chuckle. "I didn't stop listening. Keep going." He gestures for my continuation but I shake my head.
"No, it's your turn Adam," electricity zips through my when I say his name. "I've talked too much and am surprised you haven't gotten bored of me yet."
His scoff slightly shocks me. "You're anything but boring. Quite frankly you're one of the most intriguing people I've met in my life. And I don't want to talk about me, that's all I do is talk about me. In interviews and auditions and meet and greets. It gets tiring. I want to hear you talk, so please keep talking. Now, where were you with your colors?" He falls back into his head behind his head and closes his eyes.
It's an odd feeling, having someone genuinely want to hear you talk. The feeling is almost as if you've taken a drink of hot chocolate and you can feel the warm tingle all the way as it goes down into your stomach.
"Well, I really like gray, too. You know how the clouds look during a full moon on a summer night? That's the gray I like. Blue is nice, I suppose. But too many people like 'ocean' blue or 'sky' blue. Those blues are too over used. My favorite blue is the blue of a newborn baby's eyes, so fresh and new. It's untouched by the atrocities seen in the world. It's so beautiful. I like reds and yellows and oranges but not the way I like the others. I could stare for hours at the other colors and not grow tired of it. I grow tired of red and orange and yellow." I inhale and exhale deeply, satisfied with my answer and reminiscing in them.
"Why don't you talk like that on a regular basis?" He rifles off another question. I don't completely understand what he means by this one though.
"Talk like what?"
"Descriptive. Deeply. Using words that aren't often appreciated by the English language."
"People usually don't care enough to talk to me longer than five minutes." It was partially true but also so partially a lie. People did lose interest in me quite quickly but I also didn't use diction as I did before because I worry that people wouldn't understand how much I enjoy words. I've spent a great deal trying to find words that are so achingly gorgeous to say that it's peculiar.
He studies me, obviously suspicious of my excuse. "I call bullshit on that. However, we need to go downstairs and make sure all of my guests are fully clothed. Harrison brought tequila and Domhall tanks hard after a few shots."
I reluctantly grab my purse and the bag of chocolates before leading the way down the steps into the party. They're not naked, but they are loud. I can hear them from the top of the staircase. I take a wide eyed glance behind me at Adam who nods, knowing exactly what I mean just from the look I give him.
"FUCK YOU MAN, THAT WAS ONE FUCKING TIME." I recognize the shouting voice as Oscar and I shake my head.
No one seemed to notice us when we walked in. Probably because they were all laughing too loud at the to grown men wrestling on the floor.
"Uhh, yeah let's just go back upstairs."
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Driven | An Adam Driver Fanfiction
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