oh my god, whatever, et cetera

fic: Leaving This Behind Was My First Mistake (Glee; Blaine gen fic)

buffyx — Sun, 15 May 2011 06:30:45 GMT

Title: Leaving This Behind Was My First Mistake
Fandom/Pairing: Glee; Blaine gen fic
Warnings: There are some descriptions of violence.
Summary: "He'd become an expert at bouncing back." This is my crazy stupid long Blaine backstory fic. Spoilers through 2x20.

leaving this behind was my first mistake
and i'm not so strong
to be satisfied by all the things i've done
and the things it threw away.
--"keeping me awake," tarkio

--

Blaine had been staring for two weeks before Terrence DeLuca noticed. It wasn’t such an obvious thing; Terrence was a tenor too, though one step below on the risers and enough to the left that Blaine had to angle his head slightly to look at him properly. Well, as much as he could see, anyway, which was only the back of Terrence’s head, tufts of downy white blond hair sticking out in artful disarray. And there was the graceful line of his neck as it disappeared under whatever shirt he was wearing—usually something painfully tight across the shoulders. He almost always wore necklaces. And every so often Terrence would turn to the soprano next to him (who was really more of a mezzo-soprano to Blaine’s ear, but Mr. Collanti, the choir director, didn’t waste a lot of time bothering with such distinctions) and murmur something to her, and Blaine would catch a glimpse of his sharp features in profile.

Terrence DeLuca was a tenor, and a sophomore, and a drama kid, and Terrence was gay. That was all Blaine knew. All he’d heard. People talked, especially about the last one—and not in a good way. Terrence didn’t deny it, didn’t even try to hide it, and that officially made him the first gay person Blaine had ever met.

Except they hadn’t met. It’d just been Blaine, boring holes into the back of his head instead of focusing on scales. Until one day Terrence happened to glance over his shoulder and catch Blaine mid-staring routine. Blaine didn’t look away in time. Even though he knew it was rude to keep on staring when Terrence’s gaze met his, he felt stuck there, embarrassed as he was. Terrence narrowed his eyes at first, like he thought it was a dirty look—something he was probably used to—but he must’ve glimpsed something in Blaine’s face, because after a second he smiled, kind of, and nodded. He faced the front again before Blaine could smile or nod back, or do anything at all.

And that would’ve been the end of it, except when the bell rang and the students streamed for the door, there was Terrence, waiting, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. Staring at Blaine, this time. Blaine almost walked past him until Terrence pushed off the wall and set a hand on his arm; Blaine jerked to a stop and looked at it, and then at Terrence’s face, which was friendly, smiling.

“Hey,” he said, lightly, and Blaine wasn’t sure what to do with that. He glanced around to double-check that Terrence was addressing him—but everyone else had taken off except for Mr. Collanti, organizing sheet music at the piano. It was only them left in the room.

“Hey,” he said back, belatedly enough to be awkward. Maybe it was the fact that he’d skipped breakfast, or that his mind was on the history test he was en route to, or that Terrence was acknowledging his existence, but the mechanics of ordinary conversation were eluding him at the moment.

Terrence’s smile grew, slanting to one side. “I don’t think we’ve ever really talked,” he said. “I’m Terrence.” He stuck out a hand then, oddly formal.

Blaine knew what to do with that, though, and shook it. “Blaine,” he said.

“That’s a major appliance, that’s not a name!” Terrence joked. When Blaine just blinked at him, nonplussed, his jaw actually dropped, as if personally affronted by Blaine’s ignorance. “Oh my god, that can’t be the first time you’ve heard that. Andrew McCarthy? Pretty in Pink?” he prodded. “Ring any bells?”

Blaine just shook his head helplessly, and Terrence barked out a laugh, but it wasn’t a mean one.

“Exhibit A on how the public school system is failing us,” he bemoaned, pressing a dramatic hand over his eyes. “That is one cultural reference everyone should understand.”

He began to walk out the door, now talking about the Brat Pack and someone named John Hughes, and he didn’t even look back to see if Blaine was still there—it was like he just expected them to walk together and continue this… whatever it was. Like it was that simple.

And maybe it was, because Blaine followed.

--

It became a thing after that: choir ended, Terrence waited, they walked and chatted together until they had to split off—Blaine to world history, Terrence to Latin. (“I like dead things,” Terrence said when Blaine asked him why he chose that for his language credit; sort of a morbid explanation, but he was gathering quickly that Terrence was prone to overdramatic, embellished statements.)

Sometimes the soprano-but-really-mezzo-soprano walked with them. Blaine learned her name was Caitlin and she was a drama kid, too, and every day she wore all black and too much eyeliner and occasionally a beret, and if not, her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She rarely spoke directly to Blaine, but then, she didn’t really talk much at all, except to gripe about the drama director’s casting choices for the fall play, The Importance of Being Earnest. Terrence didn’t gripe about that; he’d been cast as one of the Earnests—quite the coup for an underclassman.

After awhile Blaine found himself rushing to the choir room every morning long before the tardy bell rang, just to catch a few minutes with Terrence before Mr. Collanti called class to order; when class ended and Terrence walked with him, Blaine would slow down his pace, trying to stretch out the trek for as long as possible. He did start to notice people staring at them in the halls, some of them trading whispers. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could guess. He knew how it must look.

It was jarring, considering he’d always felt as invisible and faceless as your run of the mill freshman typically did, and maybe he wasn’t a super popular kid, but the worst he’d ever inspired in people was indifference. But Terrence seemed immune to it all, and if he didn’t mind, Blaine wasn’t going to, either.

--

“Give me your number,” Terrence said one Friday, while they were standing at the intersection of the hallways where they would ordinarily go their separate ways.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because we’ve been friends for weeks now,” Terrence told him, and Blaine felt a little giddy at the word friends, because neither had used that word before, “and it’s ridiculous that I don’t have your number, and also we should hang out this weekend.”

“Okay,” Blaine said, rummaging through his backpack for paper and something to write with. He could only come up with a black felt pen.

“Just write it on my hand,” Terrence insisted.

Blaine did so. He had to hold Terrence’s palm in order to do it, and some senior in a letterman jacket jostled into them on purpose as he passed, coughing the word fags under his breath. Blaine had to fight the instinct to let go of Terrence’s hand at that—but Terrence had ignored it, even though he must’ve heard, and Blaine didn’t want to look like he cared, so instead he focused on etching the numbers on Terrence’s skin.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Terrence promised, and did a little air kiss as he walked away backwards, and Blaine’s blush didn’t fade away completely for the rest of the day.

--

Terrence had a boyfriend. This wasn’t news to Blaine; he talked about him a lot. His name was Evan, and he went to the private Catholic school, St. Juliet’s, and they’d met at a Bright Eyes show. Blaine didn’t feel disappointed in learning that. It wasn’t like he had a crush—okay, maybe he did, a tiny bit. But it was more just… Terrence was so cool, and fascinating, and Blaine had never met anyone remotely like him, someone who quoted movies from the eighties and shopped exclusively at thrift stores and went to the concerts of bands Blaine had never heard of. Someone who was a boy dating another boy—that maybe amazed him most of all.

He didn’t understand why Terrence gave him the time of day, when Blaine was so… Blaine, and Terrence was so… not.

True to his word, Terrence called that night to make plans, and the next day he and Evan—a junior with a license and his own car—picked him up and took him to Terrence’s house. His parents weren’t home, so they went up to his bedroom and watched Pretty in Pink at Terrence’s insistence, and afterward Terrence put on a Jeff Buckley record.

“You and your fixation on tragic figures,” Evan said dryly, shaking his head. He was smoking a cigarette next to Terrence’s open window, leaned halfway out, even though it was freezing, while Terrence and Blaine stretched out on the bed with their backs against the wall.

Blaine had never hung out with anyone who smoked. Or who listened to music on vinyl. Or who even owned a record player. It felt so… adult, even though he logically knew Terrence was only a year older, which wasn’t much.

Terrence chucked a pillow in Evan’s direction. “Shut your whore mouth, this record is amazing,” he said, and began to sing along: “You gave me more to live for, more than you'll ever know—” He stopped and elbowed Blaine in the side. “Come on, sing with me.”

“I don’t know the lyrics,” confessed Blaine, once again wondering why Terrence would opt to associate with someone as tragically uncool and lame as himself.

“Too bad. Your voice is so much better than mine.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Evan teased.

Terrence picked up singing again, obnoxiously loud, until Evan groaned and threw the pillow back. Terrence pulled it into his lap and laughed, falling against Blaine’s shoulder, and Blaine couldn’t help but laugh too.

“You don’t like my vocal stylings?” Terrence pouted, and Evan rolled his eyes.

“Please,” he said, and flicked what was left of his cigarette out the window. He came to the bed and flopped onto the mattress, dragged himself half on top of Terrence, his cheek against his shoulder. “You know I like your everything.”

And there was a moment then, where Terrence and Evan traded a look that was—secret, almost, and loaded with something Blaine couldn’t name, but he knew whatever it was, he wanted it for himself.

--

“I’m gay,” Blaine said. They were sitting in Evan’s car outside Terrence’s favorite thrift store; Evan was still inside, ringing up his purchases.

It was the first time he’d said it out loud, even though he’d known it to be true even before he knew there was a word for it. He hadn’t planned on making the declaration, though. It probably wasn’t the ideal place for it, when Evan would be showing up in a matter of minutes.

Blaine knew, rationally, that of all people to confide in, Terrence was who he could trust most, but there was still a brief moment of panic after the words slipped out while he waited for his reaction. Terrence twisted around in the passenger seat to face him. He looked unsurprised. Sympathetic, but unsurprised.

“I kind of figured as much,” he admitted.

The idea that Blaine was blatant enough that Terrence had assumed, that people could look at him and just somehow know, was somewhat mortifying. He wondered what it was that gave him away.

“Do your parents know?” Terrence asked.

Blaine thought about the summer of the Chevy, and all the times his father dragged him to the golf course and football games and the batting cages in the name of paternal bonding, and how he needled Blaine about joining a sports team, any sports team, and his mother hounding him about if he was going to ask any girls to Homecoming, and the looks on both their faces when he said he wasn’t interested— disappointed, but like Terrence, unsurprised.

“Yeah,” he said, hands twisting hard on the seatbelt strap. “I haven’t told them outright, but I think they have their suspicions.”

“Are they weird about it?” asked Terrence. “Thank god I was raised by hardcore Democrats. They’re cool with it. They have to be, or they’d drown in their white liberal guilt over all the money they donate to the ACLU.”

“Well,” Blaine said after a contemplative pause, “I don’t think they’re thrilled, but they wouldn’t kick me out of the house over it or anything.”

“Hmm.” Terrence turned back around and adjusted the rearview mirror so he could fix his hair. “You’re lucky, then.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he agreed, but couldn’t help think that his parents not disowning him just for being who he was was a pretty lousy thing to feel lucky over.

--

He started dressing like James Dean not long after that, bought straight-legged jeans and rolled them up at the cuffs, swapped out his Adidas for black leather boots, slicked down his mess of curls with gel in the closest imitation of a pompadour he could manage. He liked the retro look, and he liked how it felt to wear things that were vintage, knowing they had a history. On one of his trips to the thrift shop with Terrence and Evan, he found an old beat up bomber jacket. It was too big for his frame and there was a patch sewn over one of the elbows, but he loved how he felt in it—he felt more like himself, somehow.

He wore the jacket to school every day, until one day he came back into the locker room after his mandatory gym class and found some jerk had stuck it in a heap under a running shower, the leather soaked all the way through, beyond repair.

It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what people were saying, especially ever since he had stopped denying it. Some had started saying it straight to his face. People he didn’t even know, calling him queer and gaytard as they passed by in the halls, and then just laughing as they walked away, and tripping him in the cafeteria, and forcing him to change into his gym uniform locked in a bathroom stall because no one wanted him to see them in their underwear, and writing FAGGOT on his locker in marker.

That last one had him marching into the school office, shaking with anger and hurt, and he sat across from the assistant principal and the guidance counselor and explained what had happened. He tried to keep his voice even, and he was ashamed when it broke at the end.

They listened to every word. And then they told him they were sorry, but unless someone came forward, there was nothing they could do. They sent him off with a roll of paper towel and some Windex to clean his locker with.

The friends he did have had started distancing themselves, speaking to him less and less, smiles more and more strained, like they were afraid of something.

“They are afraid,” Terrence told him when he complained. His voice was dripping with scorn. “They’re small-minded morons, all of them. Plebeians. God, I can’t wait for college.”

Maybe Terrence was right, maybe college would be better—but it felt too distant and abstract to provide any real comfort. Blaine still had three and a half years left to endure. Practically an eternity.

“It’s not fair,” Blaine said. He was aware of what a childish thing to say that was, but it remained true.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Terrence said. “You have to find a way to deal with it. It’s just the way it is.”

But it shouldn’t have to be, Blaine wanted to say. Part of him was frustrated with Terrence for not having better answers, even though that wasn’t fair either and Blaine knew it. His advice was as good as anyone’s, and just as useless.

Anyway, Terrence was dealing with the same thing, and had been for longer. He was just better at not letting it get to him. Or maybe it did get to him—he was just better at not letting it show. And maybe that was an armor Blaine would have to build for himself. The only thing he could do. Maybe he could find a way to distance himself so that he could be like Terrence, who didn’t care what other people thought, who didn’t need to be liked, who didn’t seek anyone’s approval.

He could feel it happening with every slur hurled his way, every shove and taunt and whisper and stare; chipping away at pieces of him he in turn walled back up, closing himself off more and more. He was learning fast how to pretend that things were okay until it became second nature to plaster on a smile and carry on like everything was fine, even though sometimes in the morning when he woke up, the thought of putting on his shoes made him want to cry.

--

The school called his parents over the locker vandalizing incident, which he thought was wholly unnecessary considering their inability, or unwillingness, to actually do anything about it besides pat him on the head and send him on his way. He didn’t know what informing his parents of the fact was meant to do. All it did was lead to a conversation over dinner that Blaine had not prepared himself for in the least.

“I don’t understand why you have to make things harder on yourself,” his father sighed.

Blaine’s eyes welled up, betraying him. His hand tightened around his fork as he tried to fight back his anger. He swallowed it down, along with his bewildering tears.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said finally, voice tight and clipped. “I did nothing to deserve—”

“I’m not saying you deserved—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. "This is who I am. I’m not going to change. I can’t. I can’t be who you want me to be—”

But he wanted to, he wanted to so much, the same way he wanted people to like him. He wanted to make everyone happy and he wanted to do it without having to compromise who he was, and it wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? It felt like so little and it felt like everything.

He gauged his father’s reaction across the table. His face hadn’t changed, as hard and full of that same old disappointment as ever. It was pretty much what Blaine had expected. Didn’t mean it hurt any less, though. His mother wouldn’t even look at him. If she looked at him, she’d have to look at his face, and if she looked at his face… Blaine didn’t know. But she wasn’t looking.

They acted like this was something he had chosen, like he’d actively invited all of these complications into his own life. They wanted contrition, and he wouldn’t give it to them. He wouldn’t. He hadn’t chosen this, but it wasn’t like he’d been inflicted with some terrible disease either— there was nothing wrong with him; it was everyone else who had the problem. He wasn’t ashamed, and he wouldn’t apologize for that, because it wasn’t wrong. No part of it felt wrong.

He could only be who he was. Maybe it was hard, but the alternative— trying not to be— would be worse.

--

Terrence and Evan broke up less than a month after Christmas. After school, Terrence dragged Blaine to the tacky fifties style diner within walking distance so he could drown his sorrows in a chocolate milkshake.

Blaine sat across from him in the booth as Terrence ranted on and on, airing all his dirty laundry. That got kind of boring after the first ten minutes, so Blaine busied himself with flipping through the mini jukebox perched on their table, which was only stocked with oldies; he picked Buddy Holly because Evan sometimes wore those glasses named after him, and Billie Holiday because he actually knew her music, and someone he’d never heard of called Fats Domino, just because he liked the name. At the same time he made sure to pay attention to what Terrence was saying so he could make all of the appropriate sympathetic noises. He listened to Terrence talk about how he and Evan had been fighting more and more over the pettiest things, how Evan was always sneaking around because of his conservative parents, and not making enough time for him, and Terrence called his parents bigoted backwards assholes, and Evan dumped him via email, like a coward.

“I just want to listen to Elliot Smith forever and curl up and die,” Terrence moaned, dropping his forehead to the lacquered tabletop, dramatic as always.

Blaine reached across the table and patted his arm. “It’ll be okay.”

It seemed like the right thing to say in this situation. It was weird, but sitting there, he felt envious of Terrence’s heartbreak. That he had someone to feel that way over, someone to matter that much to him. Sometimes Blaine wanted to ask him what it was like, having a boyfriend, but he knew it would make him look like a dumb little kid. He already felt like that enough of the time; he didn’t want Terrence to see him that way.

Terrence lifted his head and sniffled, plucking the cherry from his milkshake and popping it into his mouth. “It’s such horrible timing. Valentine’s Day is coming up—” Blaine didn’t bother to point out it was weeks away, “—and if that’s not bad enough, every time I walk into school I see that banner for that stupid dance hanging there, with all the hearts and little cupids drawn on it, like it’s mocking my pain.”

“Dance?” Blaine said. “You mean Sadie Hawkins?”

“Yeah. The one where the girl is supposed to ask the guy or whatever. Which,” Terrence said, “by the way, is totally hetero-normative, and exclusionary, and I seriously cannot wait for college.” The constant refrain. He snorted and jabbed his straw into his shake sullenly. “I almost want to go just to screw with them. And that is really saying something, when you know how deep my hatred of school-sponsored functions runs.”

“We should go,” Blaine said, before he could think about it.

Terrence looked at him. “What?”

“We should go,” he said again. “It could be fun.”

“It could suck.”

“There’ll be music—”

“Terrible music.”

“—and dancing—”

“Hideous people will just be grinding on each other like animals. I’d hardly call that dancing.”

“—fine, then, think of all the mocking material you will gain as a mere bystander.”

At this, Terrence considered.

“Besides,” Blaine continued, “I understand musical elitism is a valid lifestyle choice, and I’m not judging, but I have listened to enough Sufjan Stevens thanks to you to know that it is not danceable music. And you can’t tell me you don’t like to dance. Everyone does.”

“I can’t lie, that is true,” Terrence admitted. He tilted his head at Blaine. “So are you seriously asking me to go to Sadie Hawkins with you?”

“Yes,” said Blaine, and then after a beat, perfectly serious, “Does this make me the girl?”

And then Terrence burst into laughter, loud and unabashed, and it felt like a victory, like one of the best things Blaine had done in a long time.

--

Blaine didn’t tell his parents he had a date to the dance. Even if Terrence was only a friend. He felt uncomfortable lying to them, and even more so when his mother looked ready to cry tears of joy upon hearing that he was voluntarily attending a school event, even if it was stag, but he knew they’d get weird about it if they knew the full story, and he didn’t want to poke that particular hornet’s nest.

He told them he was catching a ride from a friend, and watched out the window like a hawk until Terrence’s dad’s minivan pulled into the driveway. He dashed outside before Terrence could think of walking up to his front door and all but dove into the backseat of the minivan.

“You look nice,” Terrence said approvingly, eyeing him up and down.

Blaine felt his face get hot. He was wearing the one suit he had, black with pinstripes. Nothing fancy.

“So do you,” he said, and Terrence did, of course, because he always looked good. His suit was cream colored with a pink button-down underneath, his light hair perfectly styled.

Mr. DeLuca made small talk about the weather on the drive over, and the lapses in conversation were filled with NPR talk radio. When he pulled up to the school curb, he turned to them and said, “Have fun, boys. I’ll pick you up right here at ten thirty.”

The dance was in full swing when they walked into the gym together, since Terrence had insisted they arrive fashionably late. Pink and red crepe paper was strung everywhere, strobe lights flashed, glittery cardboard hearts were pinned on every wall.

“God, this is so disgustingly cliché,” Terrence said, the shudder evident in his voice.

“Almost too cliché to be believed,” Blaine agreed.

They went to the punch table first, serving themselves—the punch bowl had not been spiked, much to Terrence’s dismay (“Jesus, that’s the one cliché I would’ve truly appreciated!”)—and standing close together as they surveyed the dance floor. It was a mass of gawdy dresses and ill-fitted suits. For awhile they people watched and Terrence would do his Joan Rivers impression as he made disparaging remarks on different outfits, or he’d point out some particularly hideous dance moves, but it was difficult to talk over the music.

When Britney Spears came on, Blaine had had enough of standing on the sidelines. “Come on,” he said, snatching Terrence’s wrist and drawing him to the dance floor.

Terrence didn’t resist, and as they made their way toward the edge of the crowd, he surged ahead a little, causing Blaine to stagger after him. He clutched clumsily at Terrence’s waist, not even really meaning to at first, and before he knew it they’d stumbled into a dance. He almost pulled away, but Terrence slipped his arms around Blaine’s back and kept him close, spinning him around.

They didn’t bother to pull away after that. They shimmied, and bounced, and Terrence did some Molly Ringwald-inspired kicks that did not match the music at all, but it didn’t matter, because he was smiling and enjoying himself and Blaine was too, even if he could catch some dirty looks out of the corner of his eye in the flashing lights.

Terrence twirled him and drew him back in close, his laughter warm against the space above Blaine’s ear; he couldn’t hear it over Britney, but he could feel it, and he knew that it was the most wonderful sound he’d never heard. Blaine closed his eyes and filed that memory away for safekeeping.

--

He wouldn’t remember anything later about how it started. The only thing he could recall was the laughter coming from behind. There was something about it, something… ugly, there was no other word for it— it had prickled his skin, made him uneasy, and he’d glanced over at Terrence next to him, who was humming some song under his breath, staring out at the parking lot, perfectly content, oblivious, and—

And then the memory skipped ahead, and there were hands, and voices, and someone grabbed him by the throat, a thumb crushing his windpipe. It was too dark to make out a face; whoever it was was taller than him, but that didn’t mean much because almost everyone was, and they were stronger, and he flailed wildly like a wriggling worm on a fish hook, swung his arms, directionless, but he wasn’t a fighter, didn’t even know how.

Pain exploded everywhere. He didn’t know he could hurt like that.

The next thing he knew he was opening his eyes, face-first on the ground with no clue of how he’d gotten there. He breathed and it was wet and he didn’t understand why all he tasted was liquid pennies, until he touched a shaking hand to his mouth and it came away coated in something dark and sticky. Oh, he thought dully. Blood. His mouth was full of blood.

Somehow he summoned enough strength to slowly draw himself onto his knees, bracing his palms on biting pavement as he spat out blood and attempted to catch his breath. Tried to pull himself together, or at least enough. He felt utterly wrecked. Shattered.

Terrence. Where was Terrence?

It hurt to turn his head, but he did anyway, and saw Terrence curled in a heap in his beautiful cream-colored suit, now stained with blood on the collar and one of the sleeves, the lapels wrinkled and crumpled out of form.

“Terrence?” he ground out.

His voice was scraped raw, and speaking the word felt as if it’d been carved from his throat with a knife. All he received in response was a sickening silence.

Wild, animalistic panic clawed at his throat. “Terrence,” he repeated, louder this time, as loud as he could. He couldn’t tell how much volume he’d managed; his ears wouldn’t stop ringing.

The lump on the ground moved. Whimpered. “Yeah,” Terrence acknowledged, and looked up. There was a streak of blood standing out starkly against his cheek. His bottom lip was split, and Blaine saw it quiver.

He forced himself to stand. He didn’t know how he did it, but he did. Some combination of adrenaline and hysteria and sheer force of will, maybe. He wanted to—he needed to—he couldn’t think, how long had it been, why wasn’t Mr. DeLuca here yet, where was everyone, how had no one seen them, or called for help, or—?

He screwed his eyes shut tight and swayed, legs wobbling, head muzzy. The effort of staying upright made him cough, and sharp pain flared in his ribs. His feet weren’t cooperating as well as they ought to.

Perhaps he should sit down, he thought eventually.

--

It had been a mistake to ditch the dance early.

It had been a mistake to cajole Terrence into dancing together.

It had been a mistake to go at all.

So many mistakes. He’d been so stupid. He couldn’t believe how stupid.

He couldn’t believe.

He couldn’t.

--

“I’m sorry,” he said. His exhale bordered dangerously on a sob.

His father looked down at him. “Blaine,” he said, and his mouth was still open, but he let the word just hang there, suspended between them. He seemed agitated with either himself or with Blaine. Probably with Blaine, if precedent accounted for anything.

The silence hung heavy with everything unsaid. Blaine could hear the words his father hadn’t spoken aloud but knew must be sitting there, on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out. That's what you get, Blaine.

He waited for it, but his father said nothing. And said nothing. And said nothing.

--

There were people there to take his statement. He had to stop and start a few times, his puffy mouth numb and uncooperative.

When he was finally finished with his halting, fractured account, there were people saying things, but it sounded like a television in the next room, the sound turned down. They weren’t speaking to him anyway, so it didn’t matter that he tuned them out and receded into himself.

He did catch one thing— the one who’d been writing things down looked at his mother and said, “It could’ve been anyone.”

The thought settled in the pit of his stomach like a ball of ice, making him cold all over.

The room emptied after awhile, save for his mother. She stood next to him, looking, for once. If she was searching for tears, she was out of luck; they’d dried up, and all Blaine was left with was an emptiness expanding across his chest like a black hole. Bottomless. He felt hollowed out as a drum.

Her palm ran along his scalp, found the raised bump, and touched it with a tenderness that took him by surprise. He held himself very still. His head was still pounding hotly and everything was pounding and pounding.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t need anything. I’m fine,” he told her, the old lie slipping out automatically, though of course he needed her. He needed her to see how much he didn’t mean that. But she only looked away from him, as always.

So much of his life consisted of averted eyes and turned backs and closed doors. The realization was sick and awful, and he tried to push it out of his head, but once it was there he couldn’t unthink it, so instead it bounced around the sides of his skull, trapped there, burrowing.

--

He’d been at home for two days when his mother came to his room, sat on the edge of his bed, and handed him the pamphlet.

Dalton Academy for Boys. There was a glossy picture of an elegant building on the front, almost castle-like in structure.

“We think this would be for the best,” she said to him.

He looked at her for a moment before he lowered his gaze. “It’s in Westerville.”

“Your father put in for a transfer, and it was approved,” she explained. “We’ve already started looking at houses, and you’ll commute until everything goes through.” She paused and added, "We thought maybe we could all use a fresh start. Somewhere new.”

When he looked up again, she was smiling. He wished she would stop; it looked like it hurt her. He knew it hurt him.

--

Blaine only saw Terrence once after that, a week later, after Terrence texted him and said they should meet up. His mother dropped him off at the DeLuca house; as he shuffled to the front door, he wondered if she noticed his poorly disguised limp. Even though she didn’t pull away until he was safely inside the house, he doubted it.

They holed up in Terrence’s room, and it was almost like it was before, even though the record player was untouched and there was no Evan or trace of cigarette smoke in the air. For awhile they compared battle wounds. Terrence kept joking about how his swollen bottom lip looked like he’d gotten a Lisa Rinna-sized dose of collagen, and discussed the aesthetic of the black eye, but Blaine could detect the razor-sharp bitter edge beneath every word. He knew this was how Terrence operated, had always operated; he had to laugh off his scars, because if he let himself feel it… there was no coming back from that.

“Anyway,” Terrence said, breathing out the word like he was exhausted from the effort, “I return to the war zone on Monday. What about you?”

Blaine swallowed past the meteor-sized lump lodged in his throat. This was the hard part.

“I’m not going back,” he finally admitted. Terrence stared back at him with that fat lip and butterfly stitches over his cheek, unblinking, unyielding, not making it any easier. “My parents decided I should transfer to a private school. We’re actually… we’re moving.”

He saw the flash of betrayal pass over Terrence’s face before it smoothed into an inscrutable expression. “That’s good,” he said after a minute, his voice strangely flat. “It’s the smart thing to do.” He smiled, but it was all wrong, closer to a grimace, and he stared down at his hands twisted in his lap. “At least one of us gets an early escape.”

Their gazes scraped against each other briefly then, until Blaine had to look away.

He knew in that moment that some part of Terrence would hate him forever for this. Not for setting that horrible night into motion, but for taking the opportunity to run. For having that opportunity at all. Terrence didn’t have the choice, he didn’t have parents who could afford private school tuition, he was trapped for another two years, graduation his only end in sight. And Blaine knew how badly Terrence wanted a way out. How desperately he’d been waiting. Blaine, though, didn’t have to wait. Blaine could get out now and never look back, never have to face that part of his life again.

He didn’t want to abandon Terrence, but he couldn’t go back, he couldn’t— and he couldn’t deny himself this chance. Even if it was selfish and cowardly and weak of him. Even if it meant leaving everything, and everyone, and Terrence, behind.

Terrence would forgive so many things, but Blaine didn’t think he would ever forgive him for that.

--

He’d become an expert at bouncing back; each time a little less, maybe, but he’d done it because he had to, because it was all he had. He couldn’t even bring himself to try this time around. All he wanted to do was slide down the wall and cry for awhile and feel someone’s hand on his shoulder, telling him that everything would be okay, even if it was a lie.

But there was no one. His parents couldn’t, or wouldn’t. And Terrence—they were now bound by something more complicated than friendship, and the worst of it was that same exact thing that tied them together had simultaneously driven a wedge between them, irrevocable, and Terrence could never be that person for Blaine again. What they’d had was lost and could never be recovered.

He laid in bed, wide awake even with his eyes closed, the room shrouded in dark, hiding the boxes packed full of his belongings that Blaine knew were there underneath the blackness no matter if he couldn’t see them.

He opened his eyes. “That’s what you get,” he said to his ceiling, but there was no one there to hear.

--

A/N: ~~Part two will be posted tomorrow, Monday at the latest.~~ Scratch that; I've decided it's better left where it ends, even if it's angsty as fuck. Sorry world. Also novelized remains a rock star.

I've been looking for you forever.

buffyx — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 08:53:35 GMT

OKAY. This post is going to be sort of a mess, because organizing my thoughts at 4am just never ends well, but whatever, I wanted to post this for ~posterity~. Because there was a lot about Original Song that surprised me with how beautifully full circle it was and how things foreshadowed earlier were fulfilled and how a lot of loose ends tied together. This is less how I feel about them as a couple and more just pointing out the more subtle (or not so subtle, since: Glee) writing that set the groundwork.

BASICALLY EXPECT A LOT OF RANDOM WORD VOMIT IN THIS POST. I've added a few pictures to make it worth your time.

First, let's start off with...

DUETS:

KURT: I am the only openly gay kid at school. Why can’t I walk hand-in-hand down the hall with a person that I like? Why can't I slow dance at my prom?
BURT: Until you find someone as open and as brave as you, you’re going to have to get used to going it alone.

This is the first episode that really kicked off Kurt's entire arc for the season. For the duets assignment, he wants to sing with Sam, the new kid, but receives a lot of outside pressure from Finn to back out because doing a duet would lead to Sam being bullied and harassed just by mere association. Finn is afraid that the fallout would lead to Sam quitting the glee club.

The conversation Kurt has with his father venting his frustrations is not only a great character moment that highlights the way Kurt deals with unique struggles no other kid on the show does, but it also gives a lot of foreshadowing for what's to come with Blaine. Kurt has a list of things he wants to be able to do in a relationship like everyone else, and Blaine's checked them off one by one.

Walking hand-in-hand down the hall with the person he likes?

It's the first thing they do when they meet.

Dueting with another boy?

They've done it multiple times, and the last time as boyfriends in front of hundreds of people.

Slow dancing at prom?

(SPOILER ALERT: They are, in fact, going to prom together!)

You also have Burt's words about Kurt having to wait until he finds someone "as open and brave" as he is, someone who is out of the closet, in order to get those things from life. Blaine's buzz word in Never Been Kissed, his first episode, is "courage." He texts it to Kurt at random intervals during the day, just to remind Kurt to keep his head up and know he's not alone. Kurt even tapes up Blaine's picture in his locker with the word "courage" spelled out underneath it for inspiration.

Next we have:

BLACKBIRD

When Kurt is first offered the chance to audition for a solo with the Warblers in Special Education, he leaps at the chance and performs Don't Cry For Me Argentina with his typical dramatic flair, trying hard to impress them. When he doesn't get the competition solo, Blaine tells him that he needs to relax and not concern himself so much with the attention being focused solely on him-- that being a Warbler is more about being a team player. The Warblers weren't going to respond well to someone that desperate for the spotlight (you could even say this makes sense with Original Song, where it's clear that Blaine doesn't work for solos, they are just handed to him on a silver platter). New Directions, on the other hand, often rewards that kind of tenacity/pushiness (and ultimately ND's system is clearly what works better for Kurt, despite the good things he was able to learn from the Warblers).

Then we have Blackbird. Kurt bursts through the doors dramatically, dressed in his own (fabulous) clothes, and sings a song in memory of Pavarotti, his dead bird. Unlike Don't Cry For Me Argentina, Kurt is not putting on airs-- he is very much himself, but not trying to impress anyone in that moment, just singing what he feels.

This positive change in Kurt is highlighted again when Blaine says he wants to sing the duet at Regionals with Kurt as his partner. Instead of jumping at the opportunity without a second thought, Kurt is the first to point out that everyone should have a shot, recognizing the talents of the others in the group. However, the Warblers all agree Kurt should be the one to sing-- to me this was not because they're Blaine's Yes Men (even if they pretty much are), but more because of Blackbird. They were impressed by Kurt, who wasn't doing it to show off or make a play for a solo, but just being himself.

you were only waiting for this moment to arise

There's also a parallel to Teenage Dream with Blackbird. With Teenage Dream, we got to see Kurt falling for Blaine in his reaction to him singing. Of course he didn't know Blaine then, and it was only the beginning of his feelings, but we still got to see it, and it was powerful on a character level because it was the first time any boy had ever sung to Kurt like that, and powerful on a broader level because how often do you see teenage boys serenading each other with flirty songs?

I liked this quote from Tom and Lorenzo summing up the scene:

We grew unexpectedly teary-eyed watching this number. Not because sappy teenage pop songs get us worked up, but because the sight of a sappy teenage pop song being sung by one cute teenage boy to another cute teenage boy is still, sad to say, an extreme rarity. All we could think while watching this number was, "My god. What would it have been like to see this at 14?" To have the media offer up a romantic fantasy that actually reflected what we secretly yearned for.

Blaine's reaction to Blackbird is the bookend to that. At this point Blaine and Kurt are essentially best friends, support systems for each other, and know each other very well. So Blaine's epiphany is something even deeper and bigger than what Kurt's reaction to Teenage Dream was, because it's not just a surface-level crush, it's something very real being realized.

And I think it makes perfect sense that this was the moment to trigger that realization from Blaine. As Kurt said in Silly Love Songs, he and Blaine are always honest with each other, but Kurt has always been trying to impress Blaine in some way. He says as much in Blame It On the Alcohol. In Sexy he tries to make "sexy" faces and fails miserably, because he's trying too hard and going over the top in his efforts. But from the start of this episode, Kurt has dropped any pretense. He is not impressed by Blaine's performance of Misery, not even when Blaine is nuzzling his neck (the whole "oh my god! a boy is touching me! oh my god!" giddiness has worn off as this has become routine Blaine behavior); he calls Blaine out on being a solo hog and openly, unashamedly admits that he is jealous; he critiques the number as being boring and repetitive. In his preamble to Blackbird, he throws in a snarky aside about Blaine (which Blaine smiles at).

This ties back into the Pavarotti metaphor, too. Kurt and Blaine's last scene in Special Education completely spells out the metaphor, and yet people still misread it, thinking the "gilded cage" was the message when really the "molting" is much more significant. Kurt thinks the bird is sick, but Blaine explains that it's just going through a normal process of what is essentially recovering and at the end of it, Pav (ie: Kurt) will find his voice/be as good as new. Pav's death wasn't really symbolic of anything, except maybe that Kurt has grown and gleamed as much as he can from Dalton, and it is time to move on. But mostly it gives him a chance to shine as himself again via Blackbird. And it makes sense that with Kurt's "molting" complete, and he being so much himself again, that Blaine would see him in a new light.

And then we have:

THE KISS SCENE

Okay, there were a ton of touches/callbacks in this scene that I have to point out because I was so delighted by them:

--The top image is from Never Been Kissed, during the first conversation Kurt and Blaine have. It's sort of difficult to tell by the screencaps, but when Blaine walks in on Kurt decorating the bird casket and sits down, they are actually at the same exact table as where their first real interaction took place.

--After Blaine says, "You move me, Kurt," a score plays-- the same score that has been used a few times for Dalton scenes, but was first played over Kurt and Blaine running in slow motion down the hall holding hands as soon as they met. It's sort of "their" theme (and since this show doesn't use a whole lot of instrumental scores, I am fairly certain they are the only couple with their own "theme").

--Original Song was directed by Bradley Buecker. He also directed Never Been Kissed, where Blaine was introduced. As he has only directed one other Glee episode and is not one of the show's stable directors, I like to think he was purposefully tapped to direct Original Song and some of these little touches are due to him. (Yes I looked this up. Don't judge me.)

Some people thought Blaine's immediate admission to Kurt of his feelings was sudden, however, it lines up with their established dynamic. These two do not play games with each other. Kurt was upfront about his feelings in Silly Love Songs, and in return Blaine was equally upfront, saying he was bad at romance and did not want to risk screwing up their friendship. Which led to the When Harry Met Sally comparison:

KURT: So it's just like When Harry Met Sally, but I get to play Meg Ryan.
BLAINE: Deal... Don't they get together in the end?

The most memorable scene (well, aside from Meg Ryan faking an orgasm in the restaurant) is Billy Crystal's declaration of love:

"I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

And that played out here. Blaine could've hidden his feelings, or played off Kurt's question about why he wanted him as the duet partner by saying it was due to Kurt's talent or because he was listening to Kurt's criticism from the beginning of the episode, both of which I think were true in Blaine's mind, but that wasn't at the heart of it. And that kind of coyness is not how they operate. So what he answers with is:

“And this duet would just be an excuse to spend more time with you.”

I love that Blaine says this. I think it was important to throw that line in there. Kurt has always been very secure in how talented he is; he doesn’t need anyone else to validate that for him. (Not to mention Blaine has already just finished telling him how moved he was by Blackbird anyway.)

For Blaine to say, “I just want to be close to you, as a person, in any way I can,” is something Kurt needed to hear way more. Because Kurt has never been the object of anyone’s affection. Kurt has been treated like he is toxic just for wanting to sing with another boy. Then here is one seeking him out as a duet partner. Not just because Kurt is an amazing singer, which we all know, which Kurt himself already knows, but because Blaine will make any excuse just to be around him, period. We all know that in Duets, Kurt was hoping against hope that Sam would be gay and by sharing a duet that it would be something more meaningful than just singing a song together-- and that didn't happen, but it does here. This was such a role reversal from Duets, and it was so completely perfect.

And it's also important because in that moment, by not playing games or being evasive or making excuses, Blaine is exemplifying the qualities that they both share and what I love about their relationship: honesty, openness, and courage.

Also, to end this on a shallow note, the kiss was super hot. (Both of them were. The second one even more so.)

OKAY I THINK I'M OUT OF WORDS NOW. If you read all of that... I don't even know. I bow down to you.

beneath blue blazers and the smell of old books

buffyx — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 07:04:44 GMT

tv (glee)

01. 02. 03. 04.
05. 06. 07. 08.
09. 10. 11. 12.

celebs (darren criss, chris colfer, dianna agron, lea michele, kris + katy allen, donald glover)

13. 14. 15. 16.
17. 18. 19. 20.

films (the social network, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, iron man, kill bill)

21. 22. 23. 24.
25. 26. 27. 28.

fic: Plans (Kris Allen Band genfic) (3/3)

buffyx — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 07:34:55 GMT

Title: Plans
Fandom/Pairing: Kris Allen Band; Andrew DeRoberts gen fic
Rating: R (for language, not sexy times... sorry)
Summary: Um, so this is a gen fic detailing how Andrew DeRoberts's ice cold heart was melted by the likes of Kris Allen and his band. Kind of. 16k.

It’s easy to lose track of the days with all of the traveling. They hop from state to state and end up back in New York to film the AOL sessions, and it’s not until Torres mentions it that Andrew realizes there are only ten days until Christmas. He’s free for the rest of the day after they wrap, though, so he hits up Midtown and drops more money than he probably should on a diamond necklace for his mom and a set of Italian crystal tumblers for his dad. He figures it’ll help make up for skipping out on Thanksgiving.

Back at the hotel, he finds Ryland in their room flipping through the room service menu. This time they’re sharing a room, with Torres and Steve in their own, and Cale and Kris in another. They order room service and watch reruns of Battlestar Galactica, which Andrew’s never seen a single episode of, but Ryland swears it’s the greatest sci-fi series of the last ten years. Even when Ryland tries to explain what’s happening onscreen and the backstories of all the characters, Andrew is still clueless, but that’s okay. He likes listening to Ryland’s voice.

Halfway into the third episode Ryland falls asleep, and Andrew turns the television on mute since there’s nothing else on he wants to watch anyway. He pulls out a John Grisham novel he bought on impulse at the Philadelphia airport and starts to read. About thirty pages in he realizes his eyes have been skimming over the pages without taking anything in because he has no idea what he just read.

He switches off the lamp and closes his eyes, but sleep won’t come. After a few hours of tossing and turning and punching the crap out of his pillow, he looks at the alarm clock to see that it’s almost two in the morning. He gives up and changes into jeans, slips into his shoes and heads out the door.

He doesn’t get far. As soon as he steps into the hallway, he notices Kris, sitting against the door of his room across the hall, legs drawn up to his chest and cell phone in hand. He looks lost in thought, chin resting on top of his knees, face tired and drawn.

“Reception in the room sucks,” Kris says by way of explanation when he sees Andrew raising his eyebrows at him.

Before he knows what he’s doing, before he thinks better of it, Andrew jerks his head and says, “Come on. I’m buying you a drink.”

He half expects Kris to turn him down, but then he stands up and follows Andrew down the hall to the elevators. The lobby bar is still open, but no one else is there, so they sit on stools at the counter and fish peanuts from the little dish in silence while the bartender sets two beers in front of them.

“You ready for Letterman tomorrow?” Andrew asks, taking a sip.

Kris picks at the label on his beer bottle and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I just—I want it to be memorable, you know?”

“Well,” Andrew says dryly, “if playing Letterman alone isn’t memorable enough, we could try and do something to celebrate the holiday spirit. I bet Lizzie could pull some strings and get us tinsel for the mic stands. Or maybe we could all wear grandma-style Christmas sweaters.”

Kris grins at that. “I like the way you think,” he says, tipping his beer in Andrew’s direction before taking a long gulp.

“I thought you would’ve passed out the second we got back to the hotel,” Andrew says. They’re all worn down right now—counting down until the holiday break—but as always, Kris’s schedule is twice as tough as anyone else’s. Well, except for Lizzie’s, maybe. “You nervous about tomorrow?”

“Nah,” Kris says, shaking his head. “Performing’s the good part. I don’t get nervous about that. I’m just too tired to sleep.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “Yeah, I know that makes no sense.”

“Hey, fellow insomniac here,” Andrew points out. “I’m not judging.”

“Some days, man...” Kris trails off, and Andrew thinks he’s going to just let that thought float out there unfinished, but then he clears his throat and says, “Some days are just rougher than others. This is one of them, I guess.” He pauses. “I’m being stupid. I shouldn’t complain. You’re thinking I sound like a dick right now, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not,” Andrew promises. He wonders if Kris thinks that’s who Andrew is—the kind of person who judges everyone around him. He’d be offended, except it’s sort of true. “Everyone has bad days.”

“Not everyone gets to do exactly what they love,” Kris shoots back. “And I do. How many people in the world get to say that?”

“Not many,” Andrew concedes. “But it doesn’t mean—things get hard, for everyone. You’re allowed to have a hard time with things. I mean, it’s gotta be... crazy, the way this all worked out for you.”

“That’s one word for it,” Kris says with a short laugh that’s splintered and rubbed raw. He takes another long drink. “Sorry, I don’t usually—I’m not like this.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“I can’t really talk to Cale about it, because I know him. He’ll get all weird, and I don’t wanna have to worry about him worrying about me, you know? I try telling Katy, but... she’s not here, so it’s hard,” Kris explains. “I don’t know. It’s just—it’s just been a rough day. And I miss people. I miss home.” He rubs his face with one hand. “I miss knowing exactly where home is.”

The line of his shoulders is tense and upset and for a second Andrew wants to reach for him, touch one hand to the middle of his back or sling an arm around him or something, but he knows he’s not the person Kris needs right now.

“I don’t know,” Andrew says after a lengthy silence. “I don’t know what it’s like to be married. Or to be famous. So I can’t tell you anything about that. But I do know music. And I know that you’re good. You’re good, and you work harder than I’ve ever seen anyone work for anything, and that’s something. That counts for something.” Now he swivels around to look Kris straight in the eyes, because this is important. It feels really, really important that he knows this. “People are allowed to have rough days. Even you. Sometimes we need them. If we didn’t, what would we write songs about?”

It feels weird to be this honest with someone, especially Kris, and for a second Andrew’s so self-conscious he wishes he could take it all back. Except Kris is staring at him, eyes softer than they were before, his expression full of something Andrew can’t exactly place— all he knows is it makes him want to promise that he meant what he said. That he’ll always mean it.

--

“You’re kidding, right?”

Torres is holding out his sweater at arm’s length, studying it like a Picasso he’s trying to decipher. Lizzie tosses the next to Cale, and then to Ryland, and then the last to Andrew. He catches it and studies the pattern. It’s red with white reindeer embroidered across the front.

“Why, exactly, are we wearing Grandma sweaters?” Torres asks.

“To be memorable,” Kris says, and meets Andrew’s eyes across the room. They share a secret grin, and it’s all Andrew can do to stop himself from laughing. He should’ve known Kris would take his joke suggestion and run with it.

“I can’t believe you,” Andrew says. He shakes his head in disbelief, trying to hide his smile.

“I thought a hipster such as yourself would be thrilled,” Ryland says. “Don’t you people love ironic outfits?”

“What do you mean, ‘you people’?” Andrew retorts, mock-offended, and Ryland just laughs.

“I love it!” Cale says, already tugging his over his head. He holds his arms out and does a slow spin, displaying the giant Christmas tree on the front of his sweater in all its horrible, cheesy glory. “What do you think? I feel like the red complements my beard.”

“It really does,” Torres agrees with a serious nod.

“I want to step it up, take it to the next level,” Ryland says. “Do you think we could find somewhere to rent a Santa suit?”

Cale snaps his fingers. “Okay, that needs to happen. Like definitely.”

Kris doesn’t say anything, just turns to Lizzie with these big exaggerated puppy eyes, lips pursed in a pout. She rolls her eyes back at him, but she’s smiling.

“Fine, fine. I’ll make a few calls,” she sighs, pulling out her phone. “You know, you are all the biggest dorks I’ve ever met in my entire life.”

--

The Santa costume is probably the weirdest request Kris has ever made of Lizzie—he’s not the type to ask for a lot; as far as Andrew knows, the guy doesn’t even have an official rider. Sometimes he asks Lizzie to stock up on Twizzlers or Wheat Thins to munch on before shows, but that’s about it.

Unfortunately when they get to the studio, the Letterman producer nixes the Santa costume right off the bat, without citing why it’s so offensive. (“What a buzzkill,” Ryland grumbles, pulling off his hat and setting it on the dressing room counter. “Screw Letterman. Conan would’ve understood me.”) Still, it’s Letterman, it’s exciting; Kris keeps bringing up how they get to perform on the same stage as the Beatles once did.

“In Grandma sweaters,” Andrew points out. Like playing at the Garden, this is also not how he envisioned this all happening.

“John Lennon would be so proud,” Cale remarks, pretending to be choked up. He slings an arm across Kris’s shoulders, pulling him in tight, and Kris cracks up.

This time Andrew doesn’t try and hide his laugh. That’s the thing he’s learned about Kris Allen—he makes it impossible to take yourself too seriously.

--

Torres has a thing for Will Ferrell.

“It’s not a thing,” he says defensively. “I just think he’s funny!” He dodges the handful of popcorn Ryland pelts at him and holds up two DVDs. “So what do we want to watch, Old School or Step Brothers?”

There’s a brief debate—Ryland is firmly Team Old School and starts shouting, “You’re my boy, Blue!” while Cale, Team Step Brothers, yells back, “I tea-bagged your drum set!” — which Torres settles by ignoring them both and plugging Step Brothers into the DVD player. They settle back onto the couch to watch, and a few minutes later Kris finishes discussing the next day’s schedule with Lizzie and joins them in the back of the bus.

He beams when he sees the screen. “Man, I love this movie,” he says, plopping down between Cale and Andrew. “We’re definitely gonna need a copy for our new bus.”

New bus? Andrew kind of wants to ask him about that, but then everyone’s laughing at the next scene and the moment’s passed.

Half an hour in and Kris starts yawning and can’t seem to stop, leaning his head against Andrew’s shoulder for support. The weight is warm and comfortable, and Andrew tries to keep his body still, ends up focusing more on the way Kris shifts around than on the movie’s plot.

He looks down at Kris, fighting back the weird, sudden urge to pat the top of his hair. “You sleeping?” he asks in a low voice.

“No,” Kris says, eyes still closed, “I’m just... resting my eyes.”

“Go to bed,” Cale nags. “You need to get some sleep.”

Kris groans in half-hearted protest, but he doesn’t resist when Cale tugs him to his feet and gives him a gentle push toward the bunks. The rest of them finish the movie, and once it’s over, Cale and Torres both turn in for the night, leaving Ryland and Andrew alone.

Ryland goes over to pop out the DVD. As he puts it back in the case, he looks over his shoulder at Andrew and says, “Hey, there’s a record player. Do you have that Thelonius Monk record with you?”

Andrew does, indeed, have the Monk record packed in his bag, along with some Coltrane; he’d been planning to lend it to Ryland. He retrieves the records and they spend the next two hours spread out on the couch, listening to jazz, discussing the way Coltrane fills so much space with his music, which Monk album is the greatest.

“I’d say Monk’s Dream is my favorite,” Ryland says. “It’s inventive, but still accessible, and it’s just... happier than most of his other records. My favorite thing is how you can tell the whole band loves the music they’re playing, not just him. The connection between him and Charlie Rouse is insane.”

Andrew would’ve said Brilliant Corners, but he gets what Ryland means about Monk’s Dream. He’d never really thought of it that way. He pulls himself up on the couch a little so he can get a better view of Ryland. He’s lying flat on his back with his arms crossed behind his head, eyes closed, one foot tapping to the music.

Ryland looks so relaxed, all of the time. Everyone else gets stressed and shows it in one way or another—Torres has this rubber ball he carries around and will bounce hard against the nearest wall or the floor; Cale gets restless, can’t stay still and walks around a lot, even if it’s just pacing up and down a hallway; Lizzie becomes more confrontational and snappish than usual, and yells at whoever she thinks is the source of her problem, which usually ends up being whichever unfortunate soul is in her nearest proximity. Kris is the best at hiding it—maybe because he’s had the most practice. It’s harder to tell with him, but when he’s stressed out, he just gets quieter than usual, speaks a little softer, still smiles but they never quite reach his eyes.

And Andrew—well. Andrew’s kind of like Kris, he guesses. He gets quiet too, withdraws into himself, except unlike Kris, he’s incapable of putting on a happy front. So he just ends up reverting to the standoffish demeanor that makes people think he’s a dick.

But Ryland never seems to get stressed out about anything. He’s the most Zen person Andrew has ever met in his life.

“So Kris said we’re getting a new bus,” he says. “You think that means this is permanent?”

There haven’t been any formal discussions; his agreement with the label stipulates he can leave—or be replaced—at any time. But it’s become an unspoken assumption. The way Kris talks, not just about the bus, but about wanting the band to be the studio musicians for the next album, and everything else, makes it clear he expects them to stick around. Or wants them to, anyway.

“Seems like,” Ryland says. He peeks one eye open at Andrew. “Why, you thinking of jumping ship?”

Andrew shrugs. “No. I mean, this pays well, and it’s not like I have any other offers on the table,” he says. He’s full of shit, and he knows it, and he’s pretty sure Ryland knows it too. Because this has become more than that. It’s not just about having no options— he likes what he does. Really likes it. And he likes the people he’s doing it with.

“You’re going to have to do without me in Asia,” Ryland says.

Andrew sits up straighter. “Wait, what?”

“I’m going to be in Europe with Reel Big Fish,” he explains. “They’ve got dates through March. My brother Drew’s going to fill in while I’m gone.”

“Oh,” Andrew says after a moment. “Well, that’ll be cool.” Except his stomach kind of hurts, and his heart feels heavy in his chest. It takes a second to recognize the emotion as disappointment.

Which is pathetic, since of course Ryland would want to go, would want to perform with his real band. This job is secondary. He hears the way Ryland talks about Reel Big Fish— there are years worth of stories there, affection and loyalty. And it’s stupid to be resentful but Andrew is, he is, because he wants that for himself.

He misses what it’s like to feel part of something— he hasn’t since the Jive Turkeys, really. He loves playing guitar; that’s never changed. But there’s a difference between playing and performing, between running through songs just to run through them and actually feeling the music, between playing backup and being part of a group, and he feels like maybe this—this job he took at first just to pay the bills— it’s evolved into something else. It’s still evolving. It feels like maybe it’s something to be part of, something real and meaningful.

God, he hopes so.

--

“Dude, I love you.”

Andrew laughs and shifts his phone between his shoulder and ear so he can turn off the kitchen tap and wipe his hands off with one of his mom’s faded blue dish towels. “Tessa’s not with you, right? Because she might get the wrong idea...”

“Whatever,” Brent scoffs. “Forensic Files on DVD is way better than all the American Eagle crap she got me. If you had a vag, I’d be all over that shit.”

Brent goes on talking about dinner with Tessa’s family, and Andrew loosens the knot of his tie, staring out the window to the backyard and only half-listening. It hasn’t stopped snowing ever since they left the Christmas evening service. His parents aren’t that religious, but they’re twice-annual Christian types, the ones who only attend church on Christmas Eve and Easter. When Andrew was a little kid, he used to take the little donation envelopes from the pew shelf and doodle all over them instead of listening to the sermons.

Now Andrew’s an adult, so he can’t do that anymore. It hasn’t made the sermons any more interesting, though. But he knew it’d make his mother happy, so he went.

When he hangs up with Brent, he sees Ryland’s texted him a picture of him and Carrie, standing in front of a fireplace with stockings hanging, goofy expressions on their faces.

The next morning while he’s drinking a cup of coffee, waiting for his parents to wake up, Torres texts him Merry Christmas. Later, after Andrew’s opened the presents from his parents (a big box of guitar picks, some new silk ties and dress shirts, a couple of DVDs and a thick book on the history of jazz), Cale texts to say greeted kate with “ho ho ho”... she did not appreciate my wit. The next time he checks his phone Kris has sent a picture of his dog Elvis wearing a Santa hat. There’s an email from Lizzie, too, detailing their schedule for the week they get back from break, and she signs it off with Happy Holidays, which coming from Lizzie, is pretty nice.

He could be annoyed at the reminder of work, except he’s not. It’s nice having downtime and visiting his family, but his mind’s already thinking ahead to being on the road again, to getting back onstage. To being back with the guys.

--

The moment happens at B.B. King’s.

Andrew’s not expecting it. Yeah, they haven’t played Red Guitar live aside from the AOL sessions, which don’t really count, but they’ve rehearsed it to death. He spent a lot of time working with Kris to transpose the opening chords to acoustic, making it sound right without the delay. He’s heard Kris sing it dozens of times.

He’s not expecting it, but that’s when it happens. From the very start Kris seems immersed in the song, almost like he’s drowning in it. He hits this sweet spot with his voice, drawing the mic close with both hands cupped around it. They slide into the breakdown at the end, bursting into this explosion of guitars, Ryland coming in harder on the drums; Kris jumps back as he strums hard on his guitar, bent over a little, and he doesn’t even try to find the mic again in time to let out this sound. It’s not just a sound, it’s a cry, ripping from his throat like he’s so overcome by the music and the emotion he can’t contain it. It’s not planned, entirely in-the-moment, just something that comes from pure instinct, from a place deep within—Andrew knows because he’s felt it before. He feels it again, now.

Maybe it’s because Kris is refreshed after the time off. Maybe it’s because Katy is there, in the audience, watching. Whatever it is, it strikes Andrew in a way he hasn’t been by Kris before, and for the first time he looks at Kris and sees exactly what Cale has always seen. There’s an elusive It factor, something that can’t be explained but you know it when you see it, and Kris has It.

Funny how after everything—after the television appearances, performing for a full house at the Garden—this is what it takes. One song in front of an intimate crowd at a small club, and Andrew believes it truly for the very first time: Kris is more than just a nice guy who can play guitar, more than just some pretty dude who won a singing contest.

Kris Allen is the real thing.

--

If Ryland is the epitome of Zen, Drew is... not.

He’s full of energy, always talking, always moving. Even when they break between songs, he sits behind the drums twirling his drumsticks in both hands, like he has to constantly be in motion or he’ll lose his rhythm. He’s a good drummer, though, and has an arsenal of embarrassing stories about Ryland he’s eager to share, all of which Andrew mentally catalogues to taunt Ryland about later.

Also, he scores really good weed. Andrew finds this out when he visits Drew’s studio apartment in Del Rey with Steve after their fifth rehearsal together. Drew calls for a pizza, puts on some music, and then sits down on the couch and starts rolling a joint. Andrew lowers himself into the nearest armchair and relaxes against the cushions, watching the practiced way Drew rolls the joint tight and seals the papers with a lick.

The music playing is familiar, and it takes Andrew only a minute to recognize it. “Is this Third Eye Blind?” he asks, half-laughing.

Drew nods without looking up, and Steve groans from next to him.

“Fuck, man,” he says, “I feel like I’m in high school again.”

“Don’t even start with me,” Drew replies. “This album is timeless.”

He lights the joint and takes two long hits, then passes it over to Andrew. It’s been awhile since Andrew last smoked—Brent used to buy some off his co-worker sometimes and bring it home to share, but Tessa hated it so he stopped doing it whenever she was around, and eventually quit altogether. It takes some effort not to cough on the first inhale, but he manages, and hands it off to Steve.

They pass it around until it’s burned down to the stub, talking about rehearsals and the upcoming Asia shows. When the pizza arrives, Drew carries it into the kitchen, and Andrew follows after him. Steve’s in the bathroom, so it’s just the two of them. Drew hops up on the counter with the box in his lap, legs dangling, sneakers bouncing off of the wooden cabinets.

He opens the box and then pauses. “Should we wait for Steve?” he asks.

Andrew shakes his head. “He’ll find us in a minute,” he says. “He’s got like... pizza radar.”

“Oh, like a sixth sense?” Drew says around a sloppy bite of banana pepper and pepperoni. There’s a smudge of sauce on the corner of his mouth.

“Um, or maybe one of the five,” Andrew says, and then they both start laughing and laughing until they can’t breathe.

Steve sticks his head into the kitchen, right on cue. “Pizza’s here?”

They both laugh even harder, until Drew actually rolls off the counter and onto the floor, holding his stomach with one hand and the pizza with the other. Steve rolls his eyes and steals a slice for himself, muttering “what the fuck?” under his breath, but it doesn’t stop them. Maybe it’s because he’s kind of high right then, but Andrew decides at that moment that Drew is a cool guy.

--

The single hits gold status in mid-January. To celebrate, Lizzie comes to rehearsal with a white-frosted Funfetti cake, Kris’s favorite, and his favorite board game, Taboo.

“Okay,” Andrew says, glancing at his card and then up at Drew. “Um... so this is where they take babies when they’re crying in church—”

“The guillotine,” Drew answers matter-of-factly.

Everyone stares at him, and Kris immediately laughs, burying his face in his hands.

“No,” Andrew says sharply, “not the guillotine, Drew. Jesus.”

“Oh.” Drew pauses for a moment, considering. “Uh, the backyard?”

“What is wrong with you?” Lizzie snaps, cuffing him on the back of the head. Andrew wishes she was his partner. Or that Ryland was here to be his partner. Ryland would’ve known the fucking word was nursery.

Lizzie and Torres are unstoppable. By the end of the game they’ve won in a landslide. People start trickling out shortly afterward, and soon enough it’s just Kris, Cale, and Andrew left. Kris and Cale start discussing some song they’re working on together. Andrew still feels like he’s intruding on them sometimes, when they’re this close and quiet with each other.

Andrew clears his throat and says, “I should probably head out,” looking at the time on his phone. He stands up and puts his arms through his jacket. “My roommate wanted to hang out tonight, so...”

“Yeah, of course.” Kris nods and stands up too, and the next thing Andrew knows, Kris comes over and grabs him in a hug. It’s not just a pat on the back, but a real hug, arms squeezing tight, and for some reason Andrew holds his breath until Kris lets go. “Thanks, man.”

He’s not sure why Kris is thanking him—the cake and game were Lizzie’s idea, not his. But maybe that’s not what he’s thinking about.

“No problem,” Andrew says, stepping back. “Congratulations again on gold, man.” He puts one hand on the cap of Kris’s shoulder. “You deserve it.”

--

On the flight to Cebu, Andrew gets stuck between Drew and Torres. They end up narrating the in-flight movie, Mission Impossible, making up their own dialogue because they’re cheap bastards who refuse to buy headphones. He leans back against the head rest, but he can’t sleep unless he’s in the window seat, so he just turns up the volume on his iPod, trying to drown them out with the sounds of Miles Davis.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when Drew elbows him in the side. Andrew pulls out one earbud. “What?”

Drew waves a driver’s license in front of his face—Andrew’s license. How the hell did he get that out of Andrew’s bag? Sneaky bastard.

“Dude,” he says, eyes wide, “your real first name is Richard?”

“Um. Yes.”

“I didn’t know that,” Torres says beside him, a little accusatory, like it’s some big secret or something that Andrew should’ve divulged.

“Richard DeRoberts,” Drew says slowly, drawing each syllable out around a smirk. “I’m so calling you Dicky D from now on.”

“Fantastic,” Andrew sighs. He wrestles back his wallet and shoves it into his bag. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep for the rest of the flight.

He wishes he’d been able to get real sleep, because Asia is non-stop insanity from start to finish. Press conferences and performances and going out to dinner every night, seeing as many sights as they can cram into their visits. He texts Ryland to keep him updated; things like, kris ate a duck fetus and new ANS version kicks so much ass and the talk shows here are insane and wish you were here.

--

Manila, he thinks, is the best show yet. It’s the first time they’ve been able to do a real, long set as a full band, and the crowd is huge and loud, and they’re just fucking on. Andrew feels like a rock star. Kris does, too, if the way he throws himself into every song and swaggers around the stage is any indication.

It’s just one of those nights where everything seems to gel, fall into place perfectly. It’s exhilarating. When they step offstage, everybody is slapping backs and high-fiving, buzzed off the high of performing. They take it up to Torres and Steve’s room, everyone getting drunk off a bottle of vodka Steve’s procured from somewhere. Well, almost everyone—Cale never drinks, settles instead for a Sprite.

Lizzie’s the first to turn in for the night. “I’ve got an early wakeup call,” she says. She points to Kris. “Make sure he’s not up all night, okay?”

“Here, let me walk you to your room,” Andrew offers. Ordinarily Lizzie would probably tell him she can take care of herself, but tonight she’s in just as good a mood as the rest of them, so she lets him accompany her through the hotel.

“Great show tonight,” she says as they wait for the elevator.

“It felt good,” Andrew says. The doors open, and they both step through. “Kris was great.”

“Wasn’t he?” There’s this look in Lizzie’s eyes he hasn’t seen before, a soft kind of affection. “God, I swear he gets better every time I see him perform.” She looks over at him, mouth curved in a smile. “You all do.”

Andrew busies himself with hitting the button for her floor and mumbles thanks. The doors slide shut and the elevator lurches upward.

“I love my job,” Lizzie says suddenly. She must be pretty drunk; Andrew can think of no other explanation. How many shots did Steve pour for her? “Like, sure, sometimes it’s annoying, but Kris is... he’s a really good guy, you know? And I mean, god. Look at where we are.” She gestures wildly with her hands, and even though they’re inside an elevator, Andrew understands the point she’s trying to convey. “Sometimes I can’t believe this is my life.”

The elevator comes to a stop, and when the doors ping open, Andrew sets a hand against the small of Lizzie’s back and guides her through to the hall. He thinks about how tomorrow they’ll be off to Malaysia, and then to Singapore, and then back to New York, and after that—who knows? It could be anywhere.

“Yeah,” he says, “I know the feeling.”

--

When he gets back to the room, everyone’s still there except for Cale.

“I think he went to call Kate,” Torres explains, prying the vodka bottle from Steve’s hand and taking a sip.

Kris is settled on the bed next to Drew, legs stretched out and back leaned against the wall. His eyes are closed.

“Did he fall asleep?” Andrew asks quietly. Steve shrugs at him.

“M’awake,” Kris mumbles without opening his eyes. He’s smiling, looking tired but content. “Just like listening to you guys talk.”

So they talk for awhile more, until Kris falls asleep for real, head lolling against his shoulder and mouth slack with sleep. Instead of waking him up, Drew and Andrew fish the key card from his pocket and carry him back to his room. Cale sees them enter and hangs up the phone a few seconds later.

“I was wondering if he’d passed out yet,” he says as they pull back the covers on Kris’s bed and drop him onto the mattress.

Kris stays asleep, even when Andrew unlaces his sneakers and eases them off of his feet. Cale drags the comforter back up so it’s covering Kris, tucking it in at the corners and smoothing out the wrinkles. There’s something in the way that Cale does it—it’s a reminder that there are years between the two of them, a familiarity there that no one else can touch. Andrew gets that feeling again, that he shouldn’t be in the room.

“Well, I guess this is our cue to leave,” Drew finally says. “We should probably try and get, like, three hours of sleep while we can. Busy day tomorrow.”

Cale grins over at him. “Aren’t they all?”

--

The good mood from the Asia performances stretches out all the way to New York. On the bus on the way there, they sit around playing Crazy Eights with the deck of cards Torres thought to bring. Except for Drew, who instead snatches Kris’s iPod and scrolls through the music on it.

“Adam Lambert,” he reads. He looks up at Kris. “You excited to see him?”

“Yeah, I love that guy.” Kris lights up with a wide, genuine smile. “He’s awesome. We text and stuff, but it’s been awhile since I’ve seen him. It’ll be cool to really catch up.” He lays down an eight of spades. “Hearts.”

That gives Andrew a chance to lay down his last card—the Jack of Hearts. “I win. Again.” It’s the third consecutive game he’s won; he’s kind of on a roll.

“You’re cheating,” Cale accuses, jokingly throwing down the rest of his hand.

“No, I’m just good,” Andrew shoots back. His phone suddenly goes off in his pocket, and when he pulls it out, Ryland’s name is on the front screen. He smiles. “Play a hand without me. I’m gonna take this.”

He wanders into the back and climbs into an empty bottom bunk, answering the phone. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Ryland says back. “How was Asia?”

“Awesome,” Andrew answers, and there’s no sarcastic edge to it because it really was amazing. One of the best weeks of his life. “How about Europe? Where are you now?”

“Switzerland. We leave for Australia in a few days, though,” Ryland explains. “It’s been good. Nice to play with them again. But it’ll be cool to be back with you guys.”

“So you are coming back?”

“What, you thought I wouldn’t?”

Andrew chuckles. “I don’t know, I thought maybe the allure of playing with a legitimate band might’ve been too much. You could’ve decided to abandon us forever.”

“Shut your face,” Ryland says. “We are a real band.”

The use of “we” doesn’t escape Andrew; he presses his lips together to keep himself from smiling too hard.

“Besides, you didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you, Dicky D?” teases Ryland.

Andrew groans. “Oh, god. Drew told you about that?”

“Hell yes he did. And I am going to drive that joke straight. Into. The. Ground. Six feet under.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he replies, and then pauses. For a moment it’s quiet, just the faint sounds of the guys bantering in the front, the hum of the bus’s engine as it eats up the interstate. He imagines Ryland on the other line, sitting in a hotel room, or maybe in a bus of his own, four thousand miles away. “I’m glad you’re coming back soon. Drew’s cool and all, but it’s not the same.”

“I’ll be glad to be back,” Ryland says. “I’ll call you when I get in. We’ll go... I don’t know. Get coffee. Or get drunk. Trade stories.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Andrew says.

He’s about ready to hang up when Ryland says, “Oh, I just thought of something I was going to tell you. I was listening to Led Zeppelin's ‘D’yer Maker’ the other day. It reminded me of you.”

“It did? That’s... random.”

“Uh-huh. Specifically the part where it’s like, byow-wow-whoa, and then it’s like, dugga-dugga-dugga-dugga-dugga... and Robert Plant goes, ‘Oh, oh, oh, baby please don’t go.’” Ryland sings in a funny high-pitched voice that makes Andrew laugh. “You know that part?” he says. “Yeah, that's you.”

“Maybe we should see if Kris’ll let us cover it,” Andrew tells him.

“Maybe,” Ryland says, and even with the distance, Andrew knows exactly what his face must look like as he says it.

--

Andrew emerges from the bunk not long later and slides back into his spot in the booth.

“Deal me in,” he says to Kris. “I’m looking forward to kicking all your asses again.”

Kris makes a face at him. “Prepare to lose, Dicky D. You just got lucky that time.”

As he picks up his cards, he looks across the table at Kris and Cale, at Torres next to him, at Drew and Lizzie and Steve lounging on the couches glued to their phones, and he thinks Kris is right.

He is pretty damn lucky.

--end

A/N: ............Yeah. I started this months ago and was only working on it in bits and pieces and then two days ago I decided I needed to finish it, so here we are. I tried to follow the timeline correctly, though it's possible I messed it up at one point or another. Try and just go with it. I feel like I could've done more with it than I did, but really I just wanted to get it done. (Also I posted this without looking it over to edit, so forgive any accidental typos. It's almost four in the morning.)

Anyway, I tried to incorporate as much ~canon as I could (and considered linking to everything mentioned in the story, but... I'm too lazy), but a lot (a LOT) of it is total guesswork. Whatever, it was fun to write. I love this band. Like, a lot. (A LOT.)

fic: Plans (Kris Allen Band genfic) (2/3)

buffyx — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 07:33:28 GMT

Title: Plans
Fandom/Pairing: Kris Allen Band; Andrew DeRoberts gen fic
Rating: R (for language, not sexy times... sorry)
Summary: Um, so this is a gen fic detailing how Andrew DeRoberts's ice cold heart was melted by the likes of Kris Allen and his band. Kind of. 16k.

Knees are what you notice, and hands, when you sit next to someone in a car. Ryland’s knees are knobby under his tight jeans, and his hands are long and bony, just like the rest of him, pale except for discolored red patches across the base of his knuckles. He stares past Andrew out the window as the van shuttles them from the hotel to the venue and drums his thin fingers over his thighs, knees jiggling to some silent rhythm. Every so often his leg bumps into Andrew’s, but Andrew doesn’t mind.

He looks forward at the back of Kris’s head in front of him, and next to it Cale’s. The two of them turn to each other, bowing heads close, smiling and murmuring and laughing at some private joke Andrew can’t hear over Lizzie’s voice from the front passenger seat as she twists around to discuss the day’s schedule with Steve.

“Get Kris taken care of first,” she tells him. “He’s only got half an hour and then we’ve got Land Shark Stadium and the carpet right after.”

“Got it,” Steve affirms. He cranes his head back to look over Cale at Kris. “Land Shark, huh? What you doing there?”

“I’m—” Kris starts before trailing off and shooting a helpless glance toward the front. “Uh, Lizzie, what exactly am I doing?”

“Touring the stadium,” she explains as she flips through a stack of papers on her lap. “They’ll give you a jersey with your name on it, you go on the field and toss around a football, meet the cheerleaders, smile for the cameras and do some softball interviews, meet the Dolphins CEO and then more photo-ops and interviews. Just standard album promo.”

“Oh, that sounds cool,” he says, and then stops himself. “Uh, except for the cheerleaders. That could be awkward.” He thinks about it for a moment. “Though I’m sure they’re very nice ladies.”

“All these women throwing themselves at you, and it’s all so wasted,” Steve says, shaking his head like it’s a pity.

“I don’t know, man,” Ryland says, “I think they’d be more likely to throw him up in the air as part of their routine.”

Kris laughs hard at that, and soon everyone is else is laughing, too, not really because it’s all that funny but it feels like the thing to do when it’s this early and everyone’s a little tense. Even Andrew caves and laughs, a little. He has to admit the imagery is amusing.

“If that happens, I demand pictures,” Torres says.

When they eventually fight through traffic and arrive at the venue, Steve gets to work setting up the cables and amps and mics, and they spend the next half hour rushing through the set. It’s still morning and already the heat is inescapable; and by the time Kris is whisked off and returns a few hours later after the stadium tour and walking the carpet, it’s boiling.

Aside from the open air acoustics, it’s not a bad venue to debut new songs, Andrew thinks. A decent-sized crowd, but not too big. Low pressure. It won’t matter so much if it doesn’t go smoothly. The only way Andrew can tell that Kris might be a little nervous is the way he doesn’t say as much as usual during the final soundcheck, mostly only talking to Steve with gestures about adjusting the sound levels. But as soon as they come on stage and launch into the first song for real, whatever nerves might’ve been there evaporate, and Kris is just Kris— only amped up, cut loose more than usual.

Andrew tries to do what he’s supposed to; he stays in his corner, sunglasses on, standing in place and playing his parts. Except Kris makes that nearly impossible by bouncing across the stage at times with his spazzy dance moves, drawing attention to Andrew while rocking out to the music. It’s kind of distracting. He doesn’t know if he should reciprocate, play into the whole thing, or stay back, the man behind the curtain he’s always been, or what.

He doesn’t know what Kris Allen expects from him at all.

--

When Andrew gets back to L.A., Tessa has moved into the apartment.

“A heads-up would’ve been nice, you know,” he tells Brent while Tessa’s in the shower.

“Sorry, bro,” Brent says without sounding very sorry at all. “Her lease is up next month, and she got into this big fight with her roommate over an eyelash curler or something— she begged me. I was gonna tell you, but I figured it could wait until you came back.”

Yeah, when he came back and all her shit had already been moved in and Andrew couldn’t say no without looking like a complete asshole.

But he’s really not too angry about it. It makes some sense. Andrew’s going to be gone a lot over the next few months—or for however long this gig may last—and if Tessa’s living here, it’ll cut down on his portion of the rent. Besides, it’s Brent’s name that’s on the lease, not his.

Even though the arrangement works in his favor, he’s more than happy to busy himself with ten hour a day band rehearsals. Tessa’s nice enough, but she only works part-time at American Eagle, which means she spends a lot of the day hanging around the apartment. She also has this habit of sitting on the couch watching the CW and gabbing loudly on the phone to one of her girlfriends at the same time, for, like, three hours straight. It’s easier to just not be around all day and only come home at night after she and Brent have already gone to sleep.

They get about a week after the tailgate debut to practice as a full band, before Kris and Cale leave to do some acoustic radio shows. It’s not a lot of time, but enough for them to hammer out a few more songs off the album and smooth out the rough edges of the ones they’ve already learned. The last rehearsal on the Friday before Kris and Cale leave, Lizzie orders everyone pizza—a welcome break from the two closest dining options within walking distance: Ethiopian and a Subway.

“Lifesaver!” Kris exclaims when Lizzie appears, balancing three boxes in her arms. He swipes one off the top and opens it right there, stuffing his face with a slice of pepperoni until Cale comes over and takes the box from him.

“Here,” Andrew offers, relieving Lizzie of the two other boxes.

“Thanks,” she says as he sets them down on the nearest table, brushing aside some extra cables to make room. She pushes her blonde hair behind her ears and grabs a slice of veggie lover’s for herself with a napkin placed underneath it. There’s something kind of funny about watching her eat—the way she takes a small bite and chews it thoughtfully, almost dainty. Not the way he’d expect someone as brusque and no-nonsense as her to eat.

He doesn’t look for too long, though, because Lizzie would undoubtedly give him the death glare if she caught him staring in her direction. Just as he’s finding somewhere else to turn his eyes, Ryland comes up from behind and picks up the biggest pepperoni slice left. Andrew follows him over to sit on the floor with everyone else. They could probably round up enough chairs if they wanted, but everybody seems content to sit on the rug, even Lizzie.

While Andrew lowers himself to the floor, careful not to drop his pizza, he overhears Torres talking to Cale and Lizzie about Napa, where he has some family, and Kris asking Steve about the black t-shirt he’s wearing that says DEATH TO THE PIXIES across the front.

“You’ve never listened to the Pixies?” Steve is saying to Kris, all wide-eyed. “Shit, go buy Surfer Rosa right now. It’s amazing.”

Andrew says, “I’d start in chronological order with Come on Pilgrim.” When Kris looks over at him, he finds a loose thread in the rug with his free hand and tugs on it until it unravels. “It was their first release. I think—I mean, I like going from the beginning and getting context for the later releases.” He shrugs one shoulder. “That’s just me, though.”

Kris nods. “I’ll check it out.”

That night, Andrew ransacks his closet and digs out the big cardboard box full to the brim of old CDs. He rifles through it until he finds what he’s looking for— the Come on Pilgrim EP. The case is battered and half-broken when he pops it open, but the disc itself only has a small scratch or two.

He considers setting it aside to lend to Kris, or maybe burning him a copy to keep. He’s pretty sure he’s got Surfer Rosa and Doolittle somewhere in the box, too. But he only contemplates the idea for a few minutes. If Kris really wants it, he can buy himself a copy, and he probably only said he’d check it out to be polite anyway. And by the time he gets back he wouldn’t even remember the conversation at all.

He leaves the CD out for himself anyway. It’s been awhile since he’s given it a listen.

--

Lizzie tags along with Kris and Cale for the radio shows, so it’s just Ryland, Torres, and Andrew for rehearsals, with Steve observing, practicing as much as they can without two of their band members. The sessions don’t last as long, and they spend a fair amount of the time just jamming instead of actually playing Kris’s songs.

The thing is, Andrew actually likes spending time in rehearsals. At first it was nice just to escape the apartment, but now he’s starting to get used to the guys. To Ryland, who he can talk to like they’ve known each other for years and who can go toe-to-toe with him geeking over jazz musicians; Steve, who can make any story he tells (ones that usually veer on the dirty side) laugh-until-you-cry hilarious; Torres and his easygoing manner, the way you think he might be spacing out during a conversation but will pipe up with some comment that tells you he’s been listening to every word.

And the truth is he misses playing with Kris and Cale. It doesn’t feel right, practicing these melodies with no one to sing them. So it’s nice when they come back for a few days of rehearsal before they all head to New York.

“From the top!” Kris says after they’ve run through Is It Over for the third consecutive time, even though it’s one of their more smoothed out arrangements. He’s pretty sure Kris just wants an excuse to play it again. He seems to be in a good mood—not that Andrew’s ever seen him in a bad mood, but he looks particularly happy today.

As they start again, Andrew watches the way Cale watches Kris. He does that a lot— studying the way they interact with each other, the weirdly worshipful gaze Cale directs at Kris when they’re singing harmonies, the way Kris goes out of his way to include everyone else in their jokes and stories like he’s trying to make it explicitly clear how much everyone in the band is wanted.

Then he watches Kris, tries to see in him whatever it is that Cale sees—what Cale claims to have seen from the very beginning. The guy can sing, and he’s a good enough performer. That much Andrew knows.

But there has to be something else. Something more. Something he hasn’t seen yet.

--

New York comes and goes, and if it’s a blur for Andrew, he can only imagine what it must be like for Kris, whose schedule is packed with back-to-back interviews and album promo on top of the GMA performance.

Despite his busy day, the first night when Kris gets back to the hotel, he and Lizzie come straight up to Torres and Ryland’s room where everyone’s congregated. They’d spent the last half hour passing Cale’s guitar around, trying to play as many songs as they could think of about New York. Cale had already played “New York State of Mind” to start things off, and Andrew followed it up with the first song he thought of, Leonard Cohen’s “Chelsea Hotel No.2.” So far Torres won for most unique with his rendition of Kajagoogoo’s “Big Apple,” even if he couldn’t remember all the chords offhand.

When they mention the game to Kris, he takes the guitar and strums out an acoustic version of Alicia Keys’ “Empire State of Mind,” and even though it’s spur-of-the-moment, it’s uncanny how awesome it sounds, like he’s been practicing it forever.

But he stops abruptly after the first chorus. “I want to walk to the Empire State Building,” he blurts out. “Who’s in?”

Torres—always game for anything—immediately says, “I’ll go.”

Ryland glances over at Andrew, like he’s seeing if Andrew wants to go, like that’ll affect whether he decides to go or not—which is sort of strange, but sort of nice. So Andrew shrugs amiably, and Ryland looks back to Kris and says, “Yeah, why not?”

“You’re taking a cab, right?” Lizzie says.

Kris rolls his eyes. “It’s, like, three blocks away,” he says. “We’re not taking a cab. The cold air’ll be good for us.”

“Tell that to your immune system,” she replies. “I swear to god, if you get sick—”

“You worry too much, Lizzie,” Kris says—he’s the only one who can get away with saying that type of thing to her. She never bites his head off; in fact, Andrew thinks she secretly kind of enjoys it when Kris snarks back at her. “You coming or not?”

She grumbles under her breath but follows them out of the hotel. The sun has long since set, and the whole city is lit up in yellows and reds and greens. Andrew thinks there’s something almost magical about being in a city like this at night. The sidewalks aren’t too crowded, well, for New York, anyway, and everything is quiet and busy at the same time, cars rushing by and the bitter wind blowing so hard it drowns out the noises of people talking around them. Even the car horns don’t sound as loud as usual. His breath frosts out in front of him as he walks, following Kris’s lead, his shoulder occasionally bumping into Lizzie’s next to him. She’s gone quiet, too, head tipped back a little as her eyes scan the lit-up skyscrapers surrounding them on both sides. Maybe she’s feeling the same thing Andrew is.

Three blocks turns out to be closer to six, and two people recognize Kris along the way, a twenty-something couple and a gray-haired woman old enough to be his grandmother. He stops to chat briefly with both, patiently poses for a cell phone shot with the couple and signs the back of a grocery receipt for the grandmother, the only thing she has at her disposal.

Eventually they reach the building and get into the line for tickets, and Andrew can almost feel his toes again by the time they’re finally allowed up to the observation deck. He has to admit, it’s worth the wait. The view of the city is magnificent, all of it spread out before him, every building alight and twinkling. The city is almost pulsing with energy, and Andrew feels it, too, buzzing in his veins. Alive.

--

It’s a little weird to perform on a tiny stage in the GMA studio with cameras stuck in his face, but Andrew just focuses on his guitar and the music and tries to forget they’re there. Kris, of course, has no such problem. He’s used to cameras. American Idol winner and all.

There aren’t any more rehearsals until after Thanksgiving—there’s no point, since Kris will be busy doing promo every day until then. Tessa and Brent are going to her parents’ house in Santa Barbara for the long weekend, so Andrew’s looking forward having the apartment to himself, sleeping all day and watching whatever channel on tv he wants and ordering delivery from his favorite Chinese place and not having to do anything he doesn’t feel like doing.

When he learns of Andrew’s Thanksgiving plans—or lack thereof—Kris tells him he can come stay with him in Arkansas if he wants. “My mom makes, like, the most amazing Thanksgiving dinner ever. I know everyone says that, but I mean it.”

“It’s true,” Cale agrees. “I can attest to that. His mom’s cooking is awesome. Sublime, dare I say.”

“Yeah, and if you don’t want to travel, you can have Thanksgiving at my place,” Ryland offers. “Carrie and I don’t do a big thing really, but you’re more than welcome.”

“Or mine,” says Torres. “I’ll be in San Diego at my mom’s if you wanna come. She’d love it.”

Andrew waves them off—he’ll be flying back to Ohio for Christmas soon anyway, and he’s looking forward to the time alone—but he actually believes that if he wanted, they’d really let him take them up on their offers. Even Kris.

Maybe Kris, especially.

He indeed spends Thanksgiving like he planned, camped out on the couch in his pajamas with pork chow mein, fried rice and spring rolls, eating out of the carton and sleeping on and off whle watching a Friends marathon. (Of course, the one time he has the television to himself, there’s nothing on he really wants to watch.)

Ross is complaining about Rachel’s trifle tasting like feet when his phone goes off. He thinks it might be his mother again— even though he already talked to her earlier—but when he picks it off the coffee table, Kris’s name flashes up at him instead.

“Hey,” Kris says. “So what are your feelings on dump cake?”

Andrew mutes the television. “I, uh, think I need to know what it is before I can express an opinion one way or another.” He has no idea what dump cake is comprised of, but the name alone does not sound appetizing.

“It’s kind of like a baked cobbler thing,” Kris explains. “It’s got fruit and nuts and stuff. My mom made you one.”

“She didn’t have to do that.”

“Be glad she did. It’s the most delicious thing you’ll ever put in your mouth. I’d lie and tell you it sucks so I could have it to myself, but it’d be too mean to deny you when you’ve never had it before. Seriously, it’s great.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Andrew says, and he’s glad Kris can’t see his face because he’s smiling like an idiot. “Tell her thanks for me.”

“I will,” Kris says. “How’s your Thanksgiving going?”

“Fine. I’ve slept through most of it.”

Kris groans with envy. “You’re living the dream, man. My dream anyway.”

“I thought you had a break from promo?” Andrew asks. It seems really unfair to make the guy work over a holiday weekend.

“I do,” Kris says. “I’ve just been busy. You know, family stuff. Everyone wants to talk and catch up and I’m dead on my feet. Like a zombie. I’ll probably faceplant into the turkey tonight.” His laugh is a short huff of air, like he’s too tired to put more effort into it than that. “It’s good though. Nice.”

“Good,” Andrew says. “Enjoy the break. You deserve it.” And he’s not just saying it—Andrew doesn’t like saying anything just to say it; he means this. He’s seen how hard Kris works, and he never complains about it, not ever. Not in front of the band, anyway. Andrew’s worked with some good people and some bad people but no one like Kris Allen.

He guesses that’s something to be thankful for.

--

The label’s lined up radio promo all the way up through Christmas, which means jumping from state to state to play short sets. But it’s okay, because every time they perform things seem to go more smoothly. They’re ironing out the kinks, and with every show, Andrew feels like he’s getting the hang of it—he’s figuring out what Kris wants, how much he can show off, how to react when Kris comes over to him during solos. The guy just wants to jam, really.

Cale’s girlfriend Kate meets them in Chicago. They walk into the hotel lobby and there she is waiting—tall, slim, model-pretty. Her brown hair is straight and glossy, and she’s wearing this dark gray pea coat over sheer black tights and high heels, which isn’t really sensible for December in the Midwest, but they make her long legs look even longer. She breaks into a smile and holds out a big brown teddy bear with a green scarf tied around its neck to Cale. He takes it and envelopes her in a tight embrace, pulls back long enough to kiss her hello and then hugs her again.

After introductions all around, they head to the hotel restaurant for a group dinner.

“Cale’s told me so much about you guys,” Kate gushes over her wine glass. She holds it lazily by the stem, like a movie star or something. “You must be excited about Letterman!”

Kris turns to Lizzie. “When is that again?”

“Twelve days,” she answers automatically, without even looking up from cutting her food. The amount of information she has at her immediate disposal never ceases to impress Andrew. Sometimes he can’t even remember if he thought to pack enough clean underwear.

He mentions this later to Kris, back in their room. In a generous gesture, Kris gave Cale and Kate his room, the nicer suite on a higher floor. It’s the first time he and Andrew have roomed together. The first thing Kris did was go into the bathroom and shut the door to call Katy, which was stupid, since Andrew would’ve cleared out and hung with Ryland and Torres if he wanted privacy, but Kris didn’t ask.

“Lizzie’s brain is scary,” Kris remarks, shrugging off his plaid shirt and trading it for a threadbare Beatles t-shirt. His whole body sways with the movement, like it’s almost too exhausted to stay standing, and Andrew can’t remember the last time Kris didn’t look tired. “I don’t know how she does it. I love it, though. I wouldn’t even know what day it is if it weren’t for her.”

He climbs under the covers, and Andrew switches off the lamp beside him, plunging the room into darkness.

“I listened to Come on Pilgrim,” Kris says into the darkness, and Andrew opens his eyes, even though he can’t see anything anyway; he didn’t realize they were talking still.

“How’d you like it?” Andrew asks. He can’t believe Kris even remembered.

“I think I need to listen to it more,” he says. “It’s pretty... rough. Interesting, but rough.”

“You’d probably like Surfer Rosa better, like Steve said. Most people like that one best.”

“Hmm,” Kris hums, and goes quiet for long enough that Andrew thinks he’s drifted off, but then he says, “You’re good at guitar.” It’s a quiet comment, almost a half-sigh, and Andrew actually pinches his thigh to make sure he’s not asleep and dreaming this. “Like, really good.”

Andrew tries to think of some intelligent response, but all he can come up with is, “Thanks.” He pauses, and maybe it’s his own tiredness, or maybe it’s the fact that the room is pitch black, that it almost doesn’t feel real, because there’s no other reason for him to be so sincere when he adds, “You’re not bad yourself.”

“Yeah?” There’s this hopeful edge to Kris’s tone, so earnest, that makes Andrew’s heart do a painful dip in his chest. “Not like you, though,” he says. “But I wanna be. I wanna get better. I need time to work on it. I just need time,” and then his voice trails off completely, and a few seconds later Andrew hears his breathing, deep and steady, and knows he’s asleep.

--

“Raphael is clearly the best,” Ryland says. “How is this even up for discussion?”

He bunts the hacky sack over to Kris, who passes it to Cale, who drops it. Torres started them on this, with all the time spent waiting in airports for connecting flights and in the back of venues, and it’s like 2002 all over again, kicking a hacky sack around in the quad before class. It’s not the worst way to kill time at the CBS studio, waiting for the stage to finish setting up. Andrew wonders if Cat Deely’s around somewhere. He’s always had something of a crush on her.

Cale picks the hacky sack up off the ground and says, “I don’t know, my favorite was always Donatello.” He kicks it over to Torres, who bounces it skilfully off one foot a few times before sending it back to Ryland. Show-off. “I like that he’s a lover more than a fighter.”

“Yeah, and it takes a real turtle to wear purple and still kick butt,” Kris agrees. Ryland shoots the hacky sack to him, and Kris bounces it off his knee to Andrew. “But Raphael’s my favorite too. Kind of a wildcard, but in the end, he gets stuff done.”

“I have to go with Donatello,” Andrew says, deflecting the hacky sack with his ankle. His half-hearted kick only gets it halfway to Torres; he never was good at this game, even in college. “He’s the smartest. Brains over brawn.”

It’s funny because he doesn’t think there’s ever been an issue where he and Cale fell on one side and Kris and Ryland on the other. Even one as trivial as Favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Cale even leans over to give him a high-five of Donatello-loving solidarity.

“What about Michelangelo?” Torres says. “He’s the one you’d want to party with.”

“All right, they’re ready for soundcheck. Time to break it up,” Lizzie says, appearing out of nowhere—something she has a habit of doing—and tucking her Blackberry in her back pocket. “Besides,” she adds as they all file out of the green room, “you’re all wrong. Leonardo or bust, people.”

--

Everything moves so quickly that it’s almost impossible to do anything other than live in the moment. Andrew can only take one day at a time, so the fact that he’s performing at Madison Square Garden doesn’t sink in until the actual day arrives.

It’s something he’s imagined. Of course he’s imagined it; every boy who ever dreams of being a rock star someday imagines playing a show at Madison Square Garden. Okay, so maybe in his mind it wouldn’t exactly be like this—he’d seen himself front and center, headlining, even after he came to realize his voice would never be strong enough for anything other than supporting harmonies.

Maybe he’s part of a supporting band for a solo act, but it doesn’t—it doesn’t feel like that, it hasn’t felt like that in awhile. It feels more like this is a band, a real one. He can’t put his finger on when things shifted that way, but they have, and he’s pumped for tonight.

They wander around backstage while Kris does the press line alone. The place is crawling with people, staffers with headsets and other bands and techies and assistants and entourages. It’s insane.

When they spot John Mayer at a distance in the green room, Ryland bumps his shoulder and hisses, “Adam Levine beat the crap out of him once.”

Andrew laughs. “Shut up. Seriously?”

“Hand to god,” Ryland says, holding a hand up like he’s swearing an oath. “I was there. It was a glorious sight to behold, let me tell you. One punch and bam! Mayer was on the ground. Guy’s not as badass as he thinks he is.”

John Mayer’s not the only one they see— they spot Orianthi and Jordin Sparks come in and back out, and bump into some of the guys from The Fray. Joe King stops to talk with them for awhile, trading stories about the latest shows they’ve been doing, and recalling working with Kris over summer. After awhile he wanders off to track down their drummer, but not without a promise to find them later so he can catch up with Kris.

Adam Lambert’s supposed to be here too, Andrew knows, but he hasn’t seen him yet. He wonders how Kris feels about that. Adam’s only come up in conversation a few times, and Kris is always complimentary, but Andrew doesn’t know much about him. Adam was friendly when they met briefly during the guitar demo session, seemed pretty cool, but that’s about as far as his feelings on the guy go.

One time, not long after the AMAs, Kris took a phone interview in the practice space during a break, and Andrew could tell the interviewer was drilling him about Adam because Kris kept saying things like, “Adam’s just Adam,” and “He’s a great guy,” and “We’re two completely different artists.” When he’d hung up the phone and tossed it back to Lizzie, he sank down on the couch next to Cale, and Cale said in this exasperated voice, “Man, when are they gonna stop asking you about him all the time?” But Kris just shrugged and said, “That’s the way it goes, I guess,” and a minute later they were back to rehearsing.

After awhile Kris meets them in the green room with Lizzie in tow, looking happy and relaxed, so Andrew figures press must’ve gone well.

“I talked to Jim,” he says to Cale, and then explains to everyone else, “Jim Cantiello. He’s with MTV. He’s a really cool guy.”

Just then Justin Bieber comes near them to scoop some M&Ms out of a candy bowl from the table they’re all leaning against. The kid looks at Kris and says, “Hey, you’re from American Idol.”

Kris laughs and says, “Hey, you’re Justin Bieber!”

The two of them talk for a minute, a conversation which ends when Bieber punches Kris in the arm with this weird manic laugh of his and walks away. He didn’t say one word to Andrew but it doesn’t matter, Andrew decides he hates him anyway. Well, he already hated him. Which sounds callous since the kid is, like, twelve or something, but he’s the embodiment of everything Andrew hates about pop music, overproduced and contrived and auto-tuned to within an inch of his fucking life, and his bowl haircut is annoying, and that’s enough.

The enormity of performing at the Garden doesn’t hit Andrew fully until right before they’re scheduled to go on. Kris gathers everyone into a circle backstage, and for a second Andrew thinks he’s going to lead a group prayer or something since they’ve never done this before, but then he says, “Put your hands in.”

Everyone complies, Andrew putting his hand on top of Ryland’s, feeling Cale’s on top of his own. Kris says, “Let’s rock their faces off tonight, all right?” and everyone says, “Right!” and it should feel stupid, Andrew thinks, and lame, except it doesn’t—all he feels is excited and on the verge of giddy, even, pumped up on adrenaline.

That same feeling lasts when they take the stage, only amplifies when he gets a clear look out at the massive audience. It’s only two songs, going by so fast he can’t take it all in, but it’s enough. On the last, the single, the crowd sings the words back to them, and Kris lights up in this way Andrew’s never seen.

But he gets it, because he feels it too—because right as they hit the last chord, Kris locks eyes with him, and even though it’s just a fleeting moment, he’s sharing this with Andrew, sharing it with Torres and Ryland and Cale too. The energy, the music, the roar of applause and cheers. All of it.

part three

fic: Plans (Kris Allen Band genfic) (1/3)

buffyx — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 07:30:48 GMT

Title: Plans
Fandom/Pairing: Kris Allen Band; Andrew DeRoberts gen fic
Rating: R (for language, not sexy times... sorry)
Summary: Um, so this is a gen fic detailing how Andrew DeRoberts's ice cold heart was melted by the likes of Kris Allen and his band. Kind of. 16k.

There was a plan. There was a plan, and this was not it. Nowhere in Andrew’s imaginary blueprints detailing his future was a bullet point that read, “become the lead guitarist for the zillionth nobody winner of American Idol.”

It was all Haywood’s fault, really, for hooking him up with Keith in the first place, who’d booked him for Jordan Pruitt, and then some studio gigs at Westlake, and then come calling a year later to let him know about the Kris Allen job. The Jordan gig hadn’t been ideal, but Andrew was new to L.A. then, willing to swallow his pride for it, and the girl was nice enough with a good voice, even if otherwise clueless. It was easy money, playing three-to-four chord songs so simple he could finger the guitar tabs in his sleep, and he’d figured it would at least get his foot in the door somewhere.

Still, he’d spent enough time playing the kind of music that was blasted over sound systems in Limited Too stores nationwide. Things were supposed to be different by now. But the well had run dry and his bank account was looking particularly pathetic by the time Keith called to let him know of an audition for a spot in Kris Allen’s band.

“You know,” Keith prompted, “the guy who won American Idol?”

Andrew actually didn’t know that. He has a television, but his roommate Brent is the only one who watches it, and even then it’s usually all those true life crime shows Andrew doesn’t have any interest in. And Brent will probably kick Andrew out if Andrew stops making enough to pay his share of the cable bill that includes the premium channels. Okay, probably not, but Andrew agrees to the audition since he needs something to stop him from having panic attacks every time he checks his increasingly shrinking bank account.

The weirdest thing is that Andrew had actually met Kris Allen months ago, before he even won Idol. His sponsorship with Gibson meant occasionally he had to demo new models for various groups of people, usually suppliers and studio musicians at trade fairs, but maybe six months ago he’d been called in to demo the Dusk Tiger for the American Idol kids, none of whom he assumed probably even knew how to hold a guitar, nevertheless play one.

The demo went fine—even if most of the kids looked ready to fall asleep during it—and after it was finished, they all shuffled around the room, mingling and talking. Andrew sat back down on the stool and picked up his own guitar, tinkered with the tuning and strummed an Emmylou Harris song he knew by heart.

He hadn’t even noticed the guy still sitting across from him until he said, “Hey, is that a Les Paul?”

Andrew stopped mid-strum and looked up at the kid across from him. That was what Kris looked like—a kid in a Michael Jackson t-shirt and dark jeans and a pair of scuffed-up Chucks, a messenger bag tucked against his side, young and fresh-faced. He was eyeing Andrew’s guitar with a mixture of curiosity and admiration.

“Yeah,” Andrew said. He’d bought the Les Paul a year ago, and while he didn’t have any kids of his own, he thought his love for it was as strong as if it were part of himself, made of his own flesh and blood. “You play?”

The guy smiled with one side of his mouth. “A little.”

He was afraid the guy was going to ask to touch it or, even worse, play it; Andrew wasn’t great at laying the verbal smackdown, but a man’s guitar is sacred, especially a guitar like a Les Paul. If it came to that, he was willing to tell the guy off.

It didn’t come to that, though, because the dude just nodded appreciatively and smiled even wider, leaning forward as if there was some kind of a gravitational pull toward Andrew. His hands twitched in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them, like they itched for a guitar of their own. But he seemed content to merely watch Andrew’s mindless muted playing.

“Man, I would die for a Les Paul,” the kid said, and Andrew stopped playing long enough to look up at him.

“You play electric?” he asked. Small talk had never been his forte, but talking music was second nature.

“I learned on electric, actually. But these days it’s usually acoustic,” he explained, and then added, “I’m Kris, by the way.”

It wouldn’t be until later that Andrew made the connection, after the phone call from Haywood. At the time he’d just thumbed the low E and said, “Andrew.” He would’ve maybe offered his hand or something if the guitar wasn’t in the way. Though on second thought, probably not, because that seemed really lame. At least the guitar gave him an excuse not to have to make that decision.

He barely had time to get his name out before some woman in a business suit came hustling into the room and whisked the Idol kids away. Kris managed to wave one hand goodbye at Andrew as he hefted the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, and then he was gone, and that was the end of that.

Except apparently not.

--

Andrew has no idea what they’re looking for, just a date, time, and an address, and he shows up at Jive’s offices wearing a white v-neck, ratty skinny jeans and some black canvas high-tops. He brings along the Les Paul, and his Gibson acoustic, since he’s not sure what they’ll want him to play. After sitting in a waiting area with ten other guys with guitars, he gets called into a room to play in front of three people sitting behind a table.

He ends up using the electric only. The piece he plays is his fallback for most auditions— a blues medley combining pieces of Django and Hendrix and Joe Pass, ending with an Albert King solo. He had to transpose a lot of it to make the key changes sound fluent and not choppy. It’s not the most complicated, but it’s what he plays best, is the sound he likes best. It must show, because when he finishes, the three people behind the table all look pleased, and the man in the middle hands him a folder of sheet music and tells him to learn it and come back for another audition in three days.

Brent’s more excited about it than Andrew is. “Dude, it’s a good gig,” he says, managing to tear his eyes away from the screen where some forensic analyst is swabbing the rim of a vodka bottle with a q-tip for murder evidence. “Hey, gotta pay those bills somehow, right?”

“I guess,” Andrew says reluctantly. He’s feeling kind of sullen about the whole thing, which has seemed to shine a giant floodlight on all of his failures. Namely, his inability after all of this time in L.A. to do anything meaningful with his music career. So far it’s consisted of touring with and doing studio work for mediocre pop acts. At least back in Ohio the music he was making meant something, even if he didn’t get paid shit for it. L.A. was supposed to be a step up, and instead it feels like he’s becoming something he never wanted to be.

He doesn’t think he’s going to get the job anyway, but he learns the songs Jive gave him, runs them down until he’s got a good handle on all three, and when he goes in again, they tell him they want him to try it out with a full band. There’s no time for introductions; he plays through Can’t Stay Away once, and then they swap out the bass player with another, and they repeat it, and then they swap the bass player again, two more times, and run through both Can’t Stay Away and Before We Come Undone, and then Andrew is done.

He’s not sure if he’s done done, or if they’re just swapping him out for someone else, but they assure him they’ll be in touch soon.

Sure enough, a week later they call to say they want him to come in for a final audition. This time Kris Allen himself is supposed to be there.

When Kris arrives, the first thing he does is come right up to introduce himself. He sticks a hand out to Andrew and says, “Hi, I’m Kris Allen,” like the introduction is necessary. He has a friendly, unassuming smile on his face that could put the most wound-up insecure person on the planet at ease. Andrew’s not the type for nerves, though, after all of the auditions he’s done.

He shakes Kris’s hand and says, “Andrew DeRoberts,” trying not to make it too obvious that he’s sizing the guy up.

The guy is shorter than he remembered, dressed in a plaid button-down and worn jeans and sporting rumpled hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t look like he’s shaved in days. It makes him look older.

“We actually met a few months ago,” Andrew adds. “I demoed some Gibson guitars for you guys.”

“Andrew,” Kris repeats slowly. His eyes narrow just a little, crinkling up his nose. “Yeah, yeah, I remember that! You had the Les Paul.”

“Yeah,” Andrew says, startled that he has any recollection of their fleeting encounter at all. “Surprised you remember that.”

Kris just laughs. “I’m not great with faces, but I never forget a guitar.”

They have Andrew play solo—first he does the same medley he did at the original audition, and then he plays some Radiohead, and finally wraps it up with the riff from Can’t Stay Away. Mostly he keeps his eyes downward, but every time he sneaks a glance up, he notices Kris staring at him intently, head bobbing slightly from side-to-side, one foot tapping under the table in time to the music. He’s as focused on Andrew as Andrew is on the music.

As he unplugs from the amp and collects his things, Kris shoots him another beaming smile, and then leans over to say something to the blonde woman at his side. Andrew’s not sure if it’s a good sign or if he’s reading too much into things. He has a tendency to do that.

“Thank you,” the guy who’s been witness to every audition—Mark something, Andrew can’t remember his last name, which just goes to show how seriously he’s taking all of this—says. “That was great. We’ll let you know how it shakes out.”

The deliberation doesn’t take long. A few hours after the audition, he’s pulling into a gas station to refill his tank when his cell phone goes off. Apparently that look Kris Allen gave him was a good sign, since it’s someone from the label on the other end, officially offering him the job. He says yes—of course he says yes. It’d be ridiculous not to, after going through the entire process, and Brent would murder him if he didn’t. Brent also watches enough of those crime shows that he’d know how to do it without a trace, too.

Besides, Andrew thinks, what else is he going to do with his life? Nothing screams SELLOUT more than playing in the reigning American Idol’s backup band, but at this point, it’s either sell the furniture or sell his soul.

--

The first thing Kris wants them to learn is a cover of a Britney Spears song.

“Really?” Torres says, voicing the skepticism Andrew feels but doesn’t want to bring up out loud, because who wants to be that asshole during the first rehearsal?

Torres’s first name is Chris, but obviously they can’t call him that, so it’s either Torres or Chris #2, and if it were Andrew, he’d prefer the former. Torres comes across like the kind of guy who has been Chris #2 his whole life. Like when Andrew was in fifth grade and there were two Sarahs in his class, and the teacher differentiated them by calling one Sarah #1 and the other Sarah #2. Sarah #1 was of course the prettier, smarter girl; not that Sarah #2 was ugly or anything— in fact, after she went through puberty and lost the baby weight and the lisp, she got way hot and reportedly gave head to half the high school football team behind the equipment shed—she was just kind of dim and unable to decipher proper social cues.

Still, some people go through their lives as #2 people, through no fault of their own, and Torres... well, Torres seems like a #2 person.

“Wait until you hear it,” Cale says. His voice is a little too loud, a little too excited. Overcompensating. “It sounds crazy, but it’s awesome, I swear.”

All Andrew knows about Cale is that the guy’s been friends with Kris for years and years, since college. That probably means Kris pulled every string possible to get him into the band. He’d auditioned with Andrew at one point, but Andrew had been too focused inward to evaluate anyone else’s ability. He’s not holding his breath on this one. And if Cale’s going to be defensive of Kris at every turn, that’ll get tired extremely fast.

Not that Andrew’s going to complain. This is what he’s paid for, and he knows his place. Kris Allen is a solo act; Andrew’s job is to stand back, play the songs, and let Kris have the spotlight to do his thing. He’s certainly had enough practice with this type of role to know how it’s done.

“I don’t know if it’s that awesome,” Kris says, half-laughing, “but I don’t know, I think it’s fun. Those school girls seemed to like it.”

Kris and Cale share another laugh, like it’s some in-joke between them, and then he adjusts his guitar strap and turns to Andrew.

“I can get the tabs for next time,” he says. “If I play it right now, you think you can figure it out?”

It turns out Kris can actually play—he’s not Clapton, obviously, but Andrew wasn’t sure what exactly he’d be dealing with here, so it’s something of a relief that Kris knows more than three open chords. And when he opens his mouth to belt out the song, he shows he’s got a real voice. A really good one. In fact, the whole thing is actually kind of cool in its ridiculousness.

Cale jumps in immediately on his guitar, probably having jammed to this with Kris a million times already, and Ryland finds the rhythm on drums halfway through, and after the first run-through, Andrew’s figured out the chord structure. Torres tries fumbling his way through on bass, though despite valiant efforts, his part is clunky and off the beat. But Torres is a #2, so it’s not like Andrew expected anything different.

--

During the third rehearsal, Andrew meets the two blondes in Kris’s life: Katy and Lizzie.

Lizzie introduces herself as Kris’s personal assistant. Kris is quick to jump in and say, “Personal assistant? I don’t think that describes your role in my life well enough.”

“He’s right,” she agrees. “My business card should read Godsend. I don’t even want to think about how you got anything done ever before I came along.”

“It’s true, she takes care of, like, everything,” Kris admits. “It’s pretty great.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “But don’t ever piss her off, man. You don’t wanna see her when she’s angry.”

Lizzie punches Kris on the shoulder almost too hard to be playful, but he laughs it off and bounces—seriously, like he’s goddamn Tigger or something—across the room to Cale and Torres. Her Blackberry buzzes suddenly and she glances at the caller ID, cursing under her breath before ducking out of the room to answer it without a word.

Andrew decides then that, godsend or not, Lizzie’s a little scary.

Fifteen minutes before rehearsal’s over, Andrew notices a tiny blonde girl slip into the room, clutching a fast food bag and a soft drink cup, a monstrous teal leather handbag slung over one shoulder. Her thick, bright blonde hair hangs loose past her shoulders. She stands against the wall and watches them practice; at one point Lizzie comes over and says something to her, smiling, and the girl smiles back, but only keeps her eyes off of Kris for a few seconds.

“You came early,” Kris says to her, once they’ve finished for the day.

“I know, I wanted to see you guys in action,” she says, “since you’re all secretive and—hey!” She swats him away from the drink with a giggle, where he’s snuck a sip from the straw. “Stop that! I got you your own, pig.”

She thrusts the paper bag toward him, which he accepts gladly.

Cale walks up beside Kris and attempts to peer in the bag. “Ooh, can I have some? I’m starving.”

“No,” Kris says, shoving him away. “Get your own wife.”

It clicks then for Andrew, as he snaps his guitar case shut, that this must be Kris’s wife Katy that he’s talked about. She’s even shorter than Kris is. Maybe that’s why he married her. It’s gotta be hard finding girls that tiny. Or maybe they just breed a lot of short people in Arkansas. But that wouldn’t explain Bill Clinton, would it?

“Ignore him,” Katy says to Cale. “I got you a Big Mac.”

“No pickles?” he asks hopefully.

She rolls her eyes. “Just peel them off and give them to Kris, you know how much he loves them.”

“This is why I got married,” Kris says around a mouthful of fries. “For the food delivery.”

Katy smacks him lightly on the arm and says, “Introduce me already.”

Kris makes the rounds, not bothering to fully swallow his food as he makes introductions with the band. When Andrew shakes Katy’s hand, she beams at him and says, “Kris hasn’t shut up about how good you are.”

Andrew’s not sure exactly how to respond to that, so he just says, “Oh?”

“And you really are!” She laughs a little at herself. “I don’t know anything about music, like the technical side, but you sounded great.”

The band is getting there. They have six rehearsals over the next two weeks, enough to hammer out four album songs and the Britney cover. Their first date is scheduled at the Miami Dolphins tailgate— Andrew cringes at the idea of debuting new songs in shitty open air acoustics, but the rest of the guys seem pumped, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

Every so often Kris stops to ask Andrew something about the arrangement, saying, “Does this sound right to you?” or “What do you think about that chord change?” or asking for various suggestions and tweaks—not only from Andrew, but Cale and Ryland and Torres too. It’s weird because all of Andrew’s other gigs have been guitar-by-number, and here Kris not only seems to value Andrew’s input on the songs, but actually seeks it out. Maybe he’s insecure about his own ability, even though he seems comfortable enough when he plays.

Whatever the case, Andrew is not used to this hands-on approach.

“Kris is a cool guy,” Ryland says. They’re out at some bar in Los Feliz Ryland swears makes the best gin and tonics known to man. Andrew doesn’t like gin, but he agrees to go because Brent texted saying his girlfriend Tessa is spending the night, and it’s either go out for drinks or go home, seal himself inside his bedroom, and pretend he can’t hear the two of them going at it like rabbits in the next room over.

Besides, Ryland’s cool. He plays for Reel Big Fish, which is, like, an actual legitimate band, not just some random guys thrown together to support the winner of a glorified karaoke contest.

“How’d you end up auditioning?” Andrew asks, because he doesn’t get why someone with actual musical integrity—not like the hypothetical integrity Andrew used to imagine he possessed—would take this job.

Ryland shrugs, pulling the straw from his drink and licking it clean. “I usually pick up side gigs when we’re not touring,” he explains. “It’s an easy way to make money. My brother drummed for that other Idol kid—David Archuleta—so he gave me the hook up to Jive.”

They sit around and exchange stories about touring and the bands they’ve played with over the years. It feels good to be talking to someone about music like this—it’s the one topic of conversation Andrew knows without a doubt he can hold his own in.

By the time he bothers to glance at his phone, he realizes they’ve talked for two hours straight.

“I should call it a night,” he says, more than a little reluctantly, as he pushes back his empty beer. He feels a little loose and warm, but not drunk. He knows because he can still feel the balls of his feet digging into the stool stand.

“Yeah,” Ryland agrees. Neither makes a move to leave. “You ready for Miami?”

Andrew shrugs and says, “I guess.”

“Don’t get too excited there,” Ryland laughs dryly, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “Save some of that energy for the show.”

--

“This isn’t going to work,” Lizzie says.

Andrew turns around from where he’s leaned up against Ryland’s drum set, talking to him about this Thelonius Monk record he picked up on vinyl last week, and sees her looking at them.

“What isn’t?” Torres asks. He doesn’t break stride in hitting the hacky sack he’s playing with against the side of his foot, tossing it over to Steve, who promptly sends it flying into the wall with a badly-aimed kick.

“You’re all wearing plaid,” she points out. “You can’t perform in Miami all wearing plaid. It’s too matchy-matchy.”

Andrew hadn’t even noticed, but as he looks around the room, he realizes it’s true.

“What if they’re all different colors, though?” Cale asks. He and Kris are at the other side of the room, folding up old pieces of sheet music into paper airplanes. “And different patterns. Not all plaid is created equal.”

Lizzie levels him with her death glare, but then Kris says, “No, she’s right. There needs to be some kind of rule.” He throws his latest airplane in her general direction; it whizzes straight up and then nosedives. “A plaid rule. Only one band member is allowed to wear it per performance.”

“To be determined by paper airplane contest,” Cale suggests, and lets his fly. It sails all the way to Ryland’s drum set.

Ryland snatches it out of the air with a grin. “So say we all.”

--

First thing when they land in Miami, they have to go and wait for twenty minutes at baggage claim. Everyone else limited themselves to a carry-on except for Torres; Andrew figures he probably had to check a bag solely for hair products, because maintaining that look must require gallons of shampoo and gel and sprays.

They all stand around the luggage carousel shooting the shit while they wait, their assigned handler off to one side chatting away on her cell.

“Didn’t you go to school here?” Torres asks him.

For a second Andrew has no idea what he’s talking about, and then it dawns on him. “University of Miami is in Ohio,” he explains slowly, like he’s speaking to a small child.

“Oh,” Torres says, a look of confusion crossing his face. He gets that look a lot, it seems.

“I have a cousin who went to Oberlin,” Ryland offers in what is clearly an attempt to salvage the conversation. It doesn’t exactly work.

After the silence stretches out for a nicely awkward length of time, Andrew sighs and says, “I’m going to get coffee.”

As he brushes past Cale, Cale doesn’t even look up from whoever he’s texting. Probably Kris, who’s coming in on a later flight. It didn’t take long to pick up on the fact that those two are pretty much attached at the hip. He wanders over to the Starbucks vendor and orders a coffee—black, to match his mood— before sliding on his sunglasses.

This is going to be a long trip.

--

They room him with Cale. He’d hoped they’d pair him with Ryland, but Lizzie tosses a key card to him and says, “You and Cale,” and then she’s turned back to the counter signing off on something, so that’s that. Cale looks at Andrew with a half-smile and a shrug, and they start off toward the elevators.

The first thing Andrew notices is that Cale packs and unpacks methodically. Everything is organized in the suitcase, every article of clothing tediously folded and every shiny new travel-sized toiletry packaged in a small plastic bag. Cale packs like someone who has put a lot of consideration into it, who was has been waiting for this, and as he goes into the bathroom with his shampoo and conditioner and shaving cream and razor and toothbrush and deodorant in hand, Andrew realizes that’s because he probably has. Cale is completely new to this.

“Do you know what time Kris comes in?” Andrew asks, not because he’s particularly interested, but because Kris is their common ground, and God knows Cale will have the answer.

Sure enough, Cale walks out of the bathroom and glances down at his watch. “Not for another two hours,” he says. He sits on the mattress, carefully zips up his suitcase and moves it to the floor between his bed and the wall. “I think I’m going to hang out here and wait.”

Andrew considers tracking down Ryland, but that might come off as clingy and weird when they’ve been checked in for all of ten minutes, so he settles back on the bed as Cale flips through channels. The bed is comfortable and soft, the pillows feather-plush behind his head, nicer than ones in other hotels he’s stayed at. His body feels heavy and a little sore— likely from a combination of jet lag and not enough sleep.

There’s the start of a headache blossoming behind his eyes, so he closes them, and he’s halfway to drifting off when suddenly Cale says, “Man, I love this show.”

He opens his eyes and looks over at Cale, propped up with pillows and twirling the remote in one hand like a drumstick, and then at the television that’s airing some sitcom he doesn’t recognize.

“Oh?” he says, for lack of anything else.

“I used to watch it all the time in college,” Cale adds. He looks to Andrew like he expects him to say something more.

It’s tempting to let the conversation die by closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep, but that’d be a beyond obvious blow-off and a real dick move, so instead he turns his head to Cale and says, “That’s where you met Kris, right? Were you guys in a band together?”

Cale laughs. “Oh, no. I was in a band with some other friends of mine, and Kris was doing his own thing. We’d jam together sometimes though.” He pauses, and for a second Andrew thinks that’s it, conversation over, and glances back at the television, but then Cale says, “We used to talk about this. What it’d be like, playing big crowds. It sounds stupid but I always knew he would someday. I just knew.”

That sounds like quite the bullshit to Andrew. People always want to pretend they saw what no one else did. Andrew’s college girlfriend, Jenny, thought it was sexy at first that he played guitar, but once she realized he didn’t have much interest in finishing college if he could tour instead, she freaked the fuck out. Told him that yeah, he could play guitar, but a million other guys can do that, it’s nothing special, and pointed out he couldn’t even sing, either, so what was the point in trying, and really, he should be practical about this. After all, didn’t he want to have a normal life?

No. Andrew did not want a normal life.

Needless to say, things did not work out between them. Two months ago Jenny found him on Facebook, and after discovering he was making a living off music (even if it wasn’t his own)—and also having graduated, thank you very much, she left a message on his wall saying, “That’s so gr8!!!!!!! I always knew u were talented!!!!! :) :) :)” Like she’d believed in him all along or something.

The abbreviations and abuse of exclamation points and emoticons did not make him regret breaking up with her, either.

“It’s so weird,” Cale continues, “playing in front of that many people who come to see you. I mean, not me, but Kris. Still, it’s crazy.”

“You get used to it,” Andrew says with a shrug.

Cale grins over at him, and there’s something in his dark eyes, a familiar gleam Andrew hasn’t seen from anyone in a long, long time—one he thinks he probably had himself, once upon a time, back when he first came to L.A. and thought things would be different. Better.

“I hope not.”

part two

nobody said it was easy

buffyx — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 04:12:33 GMT

01. 02. 03. 04.
05. 06. 07. 08.
09. 10. 11. 12.
13. 14. 15. 16.
17. 18. 19. 20.
21. 22. 23. 24.
25. 26. 27. 28.
29. 30. 31. 33.
33. 34. 35. 36.
37. 38. 39. 40.

if you want to take: comment, credit, you know the drill!

this post is mostly an excuse to use this icon i made because i'm in love with it. :)

also, add this to the list of things that are KILLING ME OMG:

kris allen covering "the scientist"? um, seriously, wtf. i don't even care that he doesn't know all the lyrics because it is GLORIOUS. ♥

maybe some things are better left unsaid

buffyx — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 07:24:59 GMT

I just did a pretty big friends cut. As usual, it's nothing personal, and a lot of them were old journals no one's updated recently; otherwise it was just people I don't know well or who have different interests or whatever. I'm just barely reading my friends list as it is, and not updating a whole lot anymore, so I figured I'd try to cut it down some. I'm not really going to be adding anyone else to my FL for the time being either.

fic: You've Got Music (American Idol; Kris/Adam; PG-13) (3/3)

buffyx — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 10:25:50 GMT

Title: You've Got Music
Fandom/Pairing: American Idol; Kris/Adam
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is a Kradam AU of You've Got Mail. 22k. Um, forgive the awful title. And the lack of sexytimes.

**

It’s ten minutes past the time they agreed to meet, and Kris is feeling like an idiot.

It doesn’t help when a boisterous group of undergrads flocks into the café and starts to steal the extra chair from Kris’s table, and Kris has to leap up and explain that no, it is, in fact, taken. Or that he’s been sitting here for twenty minutes and hasn’t ordered more than one cup of coffee. The wait staff is shooting him death glares right about now.

The bell over the door jingles, and Kris looks up expectantly, hoping it’ll be who he’s looking for.

Instead it’s Adam Lambert.

He looks the same as he always does when Kris sees him—every hair perfectly in place, trademark black eyeliner traced on carefully, eyelashes so thick Kris wouldn’t be shocked to find out he uses mascara. Something about Adam just radiates presence. He knows how to command a room, all right. You can never ignore him under even the best of circumstances.

And this is not the best of circumstances.

Adam sidles right up to him, a swagger in his step. “Kris Allen,” he says. “What a coincidence to bump into you here. Mind if I sit down?” He plops into the seat without waiting for an answer.

“Uh, yes, I do mind,” Kris says. This night is going from bad to worse. Quickly. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Oh.” Adam glances over his shoulder and then back at Kris with a wide smile. “Well, I’ll take off when your friend gets here. Are they late?” He picks the Revolver CD off of the table, studying the cover. “Hmm. I like this one, but Sgt. Pepper’s is better.”

Kris rolls his eyes and snatches it back. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re a real expert on the Beatles’ discography.”

“Actually, I’m a big fan,” Adam says. “I think you’d be surprised by a lot if you really got to know me.”

“I know enough,” Kris snaps. “I know that the only music you care about is the kind you can make money off of. That’s all that matters to you, right? Making money. Even your own brother knows that much.” He pauses, unable to believe he actually just said something that insensitive out loud. “Now, can you go?”

Adam clenches his jaw. “Fine,” he says, standing up.

For a second Kris allows himself to breathe out a sigh of relief, but then Adam plops down at the very next table, his back right up against Kris’s.

“What are you doing?” Kris hisses.

“It’s a free country,” Adam says. “I can sit here if I want to.” He starts humming the tune to Rundown loudly, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth. He stops and says, “That song always reminds me of the first day we met.”

“Oh,” Kris says, “you mean the first day you lied to me?”

“I didn’t lie. I just… omitted certain details.”

“Yeah, and I found it so charming. ‘Just call me Adam.’” Kris scoffs. “If I’d only known—”

“And if I’d only known you’d take my ‘box of tissues’ comment and twist it into something else,” Adam cuts in, swiveling around to look at Kris. “That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”

“Poor you. Go wipe away your tears with one hundred dollar bills,” Kris snaps. He can’t help it; being around Adam makes him feel prickly and raw on the inside.

The bell over the door chimes again. Kris turns to look, but it’s just some elderly man with bifocals and a hunchback.

“I’m guessing that’s not who you’re waiting for,” Adam says, sounding altogether too smug. “So who is this mystery person? I assume it’s not your Katie Couric girlfriend. I liked her, by the way. She’s got spunk. Is she the one who taught you the art of the hurtful comment? Are you going to be this mean to your mystery date?”

“No,” Kris says hotly. “Because the guy I’m meeting is nothing like you. He is sweet, and kind, and hilarious, and thoughtful—”

“But he’s not here.”

Adam has a point. It’s twenty minutes past their scheduled time, and LA21 hasn’t shown his face. Maybe he took one look at Kris and took off running in the opposite direction. Maybe this was all some game.

No. LA21 wouldn’t do that. Kris is sure of it.

“If he doesn’t show up, there’s a reason,” Kris says. “He’s not like you—he doesn’t get his rocks off on being an insensitive ass. He cares about people. But you wouldn’t know anything about that. The only thing you give a shit about is the bottom line.”

Adam just stares at him, and for a moment, something flickers over his face. But it can’t be hurt, obviously, since that would mean Adam has a soul, and that he cared at all what Kris thought of him, which he clearly doesn’t. Anyway, a second later it’s gone and his expression is smoothed over.

“Well,” Adam says eventually. He clears his throat and rises from his chair. “I guess that’s my cue to leave.”

He walks out of the café, tossing his scarf around his neck, and Kris watches him go, feeling confused and, despite his best efforts, a nagging sense of guilt. Maybe Adam Lambert’s heart isn’t made of reinforced steel after all.

--

“He didn’t show?”

Kris pulls up the store’s grate with a grunt. “Nope.”

Cale helps him push the grate up all of the way. Damn his tallness.

“He stood you up?” Matt says. “Dude. Uncool.”

“He didn’t stand me up!” Kris unlocks the door and holds it open, waiting for everyone else to file into the store before stepping inside. “Well, okay, he kind of did, but he must’ve had a reason.”

“Maybe something happened,” Andrew says. “Maybe he’s in the hospital.”

Matt nods. “Or maybe he got trapped in an elevator.”

“Maybe one of the trains got stuck, and he had no phone service—”

“Maybe he got arrested!”

“He didn’t get arrested,” Kris says. He slings his bag onto the counter and looks around the store. “Don’t you guys have work to do?”

Andrew and Matt shoot him skeptical looks. Okay, yeah, business has been kind of dead lately. Still, there’s always something needing to be done.

Andrew grabs a rag and starts wiping down the dusty shelves. “Oh, did you guys hear about Cassidy Haley?” he asks. “He’s playing a show at Starlight this weekend.”

Kris’s heart sinks. Even Cassidy Haley’s given up on him.

“That place is amazing on the inside. And the coffee’s really good,” Matt says. Everyone turns to stare at him, and he shrugs. “What? I just wanted to check it out. The indie section’s not bad. They started stocking some vinyl, too.”

“I’m so sick of Starlight Records,” Kris grumbles. “I was waiting last night at that café, you know, and Adam Lambert walks in—”

Cale’s eyebrows shoot up. “Adam Lambert?”

“I don’t even want to talk about it.” Kris sighs. He would be more than happy if he never had to waste another second of his life thinking about Starlight Records or Adam Lambert. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”

**

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: Last night

I’ve been thinking about you. I felt like an idiot last night, sitting there by myself…

And then while I was waiting, this person came in. A person who has made my professional life a living hell. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who gets under my skin quite like he does. Something weird happened though—while we were talking (if you could call it that), I said to him exactly what I wanted to say. Some stuff that was really cutting and mean and nasty.

Right after I said it, I felt like an asshole, just like you said I would. I don’t think he could care less what I have to say about his character— but what if he did? I don’t know. Him being a scumbag doesn’t mean I’m justified in being cruel in return. There’s no excuse. In fact, I now feel worse for having stooped to his level at all.

Anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you and I hope you had a reason for not being there. If not… if you don’t even want to talk to me anymore… that’s okay. I just want you to know your friendship—or whatever it is that we have— has meant a lot to me.

--

Adam stares at the computer screen. No. He can’t keep engaging in this. Not when he now knows who is on the other end of the emails.

It’s so ridiculous. He’d told Anoop that this person could be the love of his life, and he’d actually believed it. Except he can’t be in love with Kris Allen. It’s Kris Allen, for fuck’s sake! Kris Allen, whose store is like a cockroach, who hates Adam and everything he thinks Adam stands for, who has tried to tarnish Adam’s reputation and used Neil to help do it.

When Adam called Neil to ream him out about the article, Neil said, “Get over it, Adam. Look, I’m not an idiot; my little piece isn’t going to save his store. It’s doomed. You know it, I know it. But someone’s gotta stick up for the little guys sometimes. It’s a matter of principle.”

Maybe that’s true, but did Neil have to trash his family’s business in order to do it?

Adam leaves the table and wanders into the kitchen, rummaging through his refrigerator for his bottle of white wine. He pours what’s left into a glass and scoffs at himself. This is so stupid. He needs to just… cut himself off completely. It’s best to go cold turkey.

He lasts for a solid five minutes.

He clicks on Compose New Message, and the blank email stares back at him, cursor blinking.

I am in Tokyo.

Ugh, no. Delete delete delete.

I was stuck in a meeting, and the electricity went out, and I had no cell phone reception.

Okay, that is beyond lame.

He highlights the sentence and deletes it, dropping his head into his hands. How is he supposed to explain? He can’t just come clean with the truth.

He polishes off the last of his wine and flexes his fingers. Time for a new angle.

**

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Last night

I can’t explain to you what happened last night… all I can ask is if you’ll forgive me for not being there. I am so sorry that you found yourself in that situation. And I am sure that whatever you said was provoked and deserved. I know enough about you to know you’re not a bad person. Everyone says stuff they regret when they’re under stress and dealing with people they dislike.

Some day I will tell you everything. Until then, I’m still here. Talk to me.

--

“He didn’t say anything about meeting again?” Cale asks.

Kris shakes his head, handing him a beer and sitting down next to him on the couch. “No. But I think… I think it’s for the best, you know? We can just keep doing what we’ve been doing. No expectations. I don’t want to make things weird.”

Andrew looks up from where he’s clamping down the capo on his guitar. “Does Katy know anything about this?”

“Nah. Even if I wanted to tell her, she’s been crazy busy lately with work. I hardly see her.”

“So what did you decide?” Matt asks, coming over to sit on Kris’s other side.

“We’re going to close,” Kris says quietly. It hurts so much to say out loud. To admit defeat. But at the same time it’s like a heavy weight has been lifted off of his chest. “I’m sorry, guys. I really tried, but there’s no other choice.” He breathes out hard and hugs his arms around his middle. “It feels like I’m failing. Like my uncle…”

“Hey,” Cale says, a touch sharply. He puts one strong hand on the cap of Kris’s shoulder. “The store wasn’t keeping Fisher alive. He’d understand. And so do we.” He gives Andrew and Matt a pointed look.

“Yeah,” Matt says quickly. “I mean, I can go back to waiting tables. It’s not, like, an ideal gig, but it’ll put me through school, and it’s not so bad.”

Andrew sets down the guitar. “I can try pursuing the music thing again…”

“And I’ll find something,” Cale says confidently. Kris is pretty sure it’s a front, but he appreciates it anyway. “It’ll work out. Kris, don’t beat yourself up here. You did everything you could.”

Maybe he did, but it wasn’t enough, was it?

--

He and Katy break up three days later.

They’re eating out at an expensive sushi place on Avenue A. He decided to splurge for once, since what does it matter now?

As he reaches into his pocket for a tissue, Katy suddenly blurts out, “Please tell me you’re not proposing.”

“Uh…” Kris holds open his hand and shows her the crumpled tissue. “No?”

“Oh,” she says, clearly relieved. “Thank God. I thought you were pulling out a ring box.”

She goes back to picking sushi rolls off her plate while he watches her, a little thrown. She’s acting like he just told her she doesn’t have a terminal illness. Thank God? That would be her reaction if he proposed marriage?

But actually… thinking about it… he’s not even offended. He has to agree.

When Katy notices him looking at her, she at least has the grace to look sheepish. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to—that was kind of bitchy, wasn’t it?”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” she insists. “I know this is a difficult week for you— with the store closing and all—and you take me out for this lavish dinner, and here I am, acting so ungrateful—”

He reaches across the table and grabs her hand. “Katy, it’s fine.”

She smiles back at him, almost sadly. “Kris, you’re such a sweet person.”

“So are you,” he says.

“And the fact that you’d ever want to be with me is so flattering,” she continues. “That you find me worth your time—”

“I feel the same way.”

She holds up a hand to silence him. “Don’t say that. That makes this so much harder.”

“What?” He blinks at her, and she ducks her head, unable to meet his eye. “You… don’t love me?”

Katy glances up again, biting down on her lip. She doesn’t have to say it. He can tell.

“Me either,” he admits. He cares about Katy, he does, and in theory they fit together so well, but there’s something… missing. Some spark that should be there but just isn’t. Being with her is nice, and comfortable, but it’s not—

It’s not the same as being in love.

“You don’t love me?” she says. But she doesn’t sound upset—amused, more than anything. She laughs lightly. “But we’re so perfect for each other!”

“I know, right?” He grins at her. “So… is there someone else?” he asks.

She shakes her head quickly and says, “No, no, of course not.” A brief pause. “Well, there is David Banks.”

“Your co-anchor?”

“Nothing’s happened,” she assures him. “But I think… I think I’d want it to.” She smiles a little to herself and then looks back up at him. “What about you? Is there anyone? Any girls?” Her eyebrows go up. “Or any guys?”

Kris thinks about LA21, for just a second. But he knows that’s just wishful thinking. Nothing is ever going to happen on that front.

“No,” he says. “But there will be. Eventually. Somewhere out there.”

--

The last week is chaos compared to the past several months— Kris marks down all of the inventory to just above at cost, some of it even below that, and suddenly everyone in the neighborhood descends on The Red Guitar. It should please him to see so many people packed in his store, but instead it gives him a weird, unsettled feeling, like he’s watching scavengers looting someone’s tomb.

Cale was offered a job by Starlight Records, but he insists he isn’t going to take it, even after Kris tells him he’d be fine with it if he did.

“I will not be the Benedict Arnold of music retailers,” he says. “And I’m definitely not going to be some corporate lackey.”

Everyone keeps asking Kris what his plans will be.

“I don’t know,” he says, because he hasn’t even stopped to think about it. He’s been doing this for so long that he can’t imagine doing anything else. “I have a little money saved. I think I’m going to take some time off… maybe travel.”

He doesn’t actually plan on going anywhere, but it sounds as good of a plan as anything else.

Allison, the redheaded anarchist teen who has frequented The Red Guitar twice a week for the past year, piles up as many records in her arms as she can carry and dumps them on the counter. “This is a total tragedy, man,” she says. “We should fucking fire bomb Starlight Records. I know how to make a Molotov cocktail.”

Cale laughs at the suggestion, and Kris just shakes his head as he rings up her purchases.

“Nah,” he says. “It’s not their fault. It’s just… the way things shake out sometimes.”

**

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: (none)

My store is closing this week. I don’t think I ever told you that, but I own a store. I love it. It’s an amazing place. Running it for this long has been like a dream come true—doing what I love with people who I love, which I guess should’ve tipped me off that it couldn’t last forever. Nothing good ever does.

Still, it’s been my entire life for years, and soon it will be gone, replaced by something like a Starbucks or an Urban Outfitters or something else equally unnecessary and depressing. The city’s always changing, I know that, but I always thought my store would be able to change with it. Probably that was stupid of me to believe—that my tiny little store was ever that important.

I’m trying to be strong about all of this. I think I’ve convinced everyone around me that I’ve come to terms with the loss, that I’ll land on my feet and be fine, but really, on the inside I’m heartbroken. It feels like part of me has died, and like I’ve failed all of the people I care most about in the world. And I don’t think anyone can ever make it right again.

--

Things could not be going better, business-wise, for Starlight Records. The new store is doing so well that Eber is considering opening another one in Brooklyn. And Adam is getting a raise, on top of everything else. Even Anoop, ever impassive, is visibly excited by all of the good news.

Adam should be thrilled; he’s worked hard for this and now he’s seeing all of it pay off, but he has a hard time mustering a smile as he shakes his father’s hand.

As he walks down the stairs, he looks out over the main floor. It’s crawling with customers—they browse the perfectly organized shelves, sit in the café sipping espressos and munching on tarts and strudels and lemon bars, lounge in the arm chairs by the listening stations with headphones over their ears.

And then his gaze moves to the indie section, and he sees it.

Kris.

He’s sitting on a bench, arms huddled around himself. He looks like a wilted flower in his baggy army jacket and scuffed-up Converse as customers wander all around him. The image makes his heart hurt, but Adam can’t stop himself—he comes down the stairs and lurks behind some shelves in an adjoining section, watching the scene.

An older woman with dark blonde hair steps up to one of the employees standing only feet away from Kris and says, “Excuse me. I’m looking for an album for my daughter, but I can’t remember the name of the band.”

“Okay,” the employee says, turning to her, “I can try and help… You don’t know the band at all?”

“All I know is that it’s the same guy who sings for that other band… The Decembers?” the mother tells him. “I think that’s the name. She said she wanted the album from his old band.”

The employee goes to the nearest computer and types for a minute. “Uh, well I don’t see any results for The Decembers…”

The woman sighs. “I don’t know, she just mentioned it offhand—I wanted to surprise her. I think she said the guy’s name was Colin? Colin something.”

“Colin Meloy.”

They both turn around to stare at Kris, surprised to hear his voice out of nowhere. Adam’s surprised, too. Kris hasn’t moved from his spot at all. He stares straight ahead, unmoving, except for his throat, which works as he swallows.

“Colin Meloy from The Decemberists,” Kris clarifies. “His first band was Tarkio. Circa nineteen ninety-six through nineteen ninety-nine. They only released three EPs— Fallenness, I Guess I Was Hoping For Something More, and Sea Songs For Land-Locked Sailors. The originals are rare, but you can find the re-released collection Omnibus. It has all of the songs.” He stops and wipes a little at his wet eyes. “My favorite track is Neapolitan Bridesmaid, but they’re all pretty amazing.”

“Tarkio,” the employee repeats. He turns to Kris. “Um, could you spell that for me?”

Adam sees the way Kris’s whole body pulls up as he takes a deep, shaky breath. “T-A-R-K-I-O,” he recites.

The employee thanks him and types it into his computer, chatting away to the mother about ordering and shipment times and cost. Neither of them see the way Kris slumps over, rubbing his tired face with one hand.

But Adam does.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: (none)

I’m sorry. I know that’s trite as fucking hell, but I don’t know what else to say. I know whatever I try will end up being trite, no matter what it is. So that’s all I can say to you: I’m so sorry.

--

Neil calls while he’s in a taxi on the way home. Adam considers not answering it, just out of spite, but the truth is that he’s not even really angry at him anymore, even if he should be. So he answers it, staring out the cab window as it’s pelted with thick snowflakes. The sky is gray today, just as gray as Adam’s current mood.

“I’m thinking of asking Kris Allen if he wants to work for Rave,” Neil says. “I’m talking with a few people… at the very least maybe get him to work under me, doing clerical, research, that kind of thing. Wherever we could fit him in, I think he’d be awesome at it.”

Adam frowns. “Why do you think that?”

“His taste is amazing. Legendary, even. And if you ever have a conversation with the guy—I mean, I know he’s not the most articulate person of all time, but when he comes to music, he definitely knows his shit.”

“So you’re going to offer him a job,” Adam says.

He can practically hear Neil shrug on the end of the other line. “Why not?” he says. “He’s jobless and destitute. I doubt he has many offers lined up on the table. What else has he got to do at this point?”

“Well, I can’t imagine him working for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you hate everything,” Adam says, “and Kris likes everyone. He doesn’t know how to be mean. His staff turnover is non-existent—they’ve all worked there forever.”

“Until now. Thanks to you.”

Yes. Because of him. Like Adam hasn’t obsessed over this fact for every fucking second of every fucking day over the past week.

“Well hey, look at it this way,” Neil says brightly. “Maybe after being fucked over by you he’s become a jaded, bitter, cynical shell of his former self. In other words, a true New Yorker. In that case, really, you did him a favor.”

The taxi pulls up outside of Adam’s building. He tosses a wad of money to the driver and steps out onto the slick street. Wearing leather boots today was not his greatest idea ever.

“Thanks,” Adam says dryly. “That makes me feel so much better.”

“Just trying to point out the silver lining,” Neil jokes, and Adam hangs up on him.

Silver lining his ass.

**

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: Change

It’s funny how I’ve been wary of change for so long… stuck in this rut. A comfortable rut, yes, but a rut. I forgot what it was like—even though when I moved to the city, it was the biggest change of my life. I had no idea what to expect. And now at this point, I feel like changing everything. I even rearranged my furniture.

When we first met, I thought I knew exactly how the rest of my life was going to go. What I would spend it doing, and even who I would spend it with. And now I’m back to square one, starting all over from scratch. My life is a blank slate.

--

After the last box is cleared out of the store on the last day, Kris sends everyone home. The last one to leave is Cale, and he only does so after Kris insists for the tenth time that he’ll be fine.

“I just want a minute alone,” he says.

Cale looks at him for a long time before he finally nods, reaching for his coat. “Okay,” he says. He slips his arms through the sleeves and points at Kris. “Tomorrow. Drinks at Baby Jupiter’s. We’ll drown our sorrows.”

Kris thinks that if he were to try and drink away everything that is eating at him right now, he’d end up blackout drunk. But he smiles and agrees to it anyway. He’s glad to have Cale. And he’s glad he convinced Cale to accept the job at Starlight. He appreciates Cale’s stubborn loyalty, but that encyclopedic knowledge of music shouldn’t go to waste, and the job market is shitty enough as it is.

With the store emptied out, completely gutted, it looks both bigger and smaller than normal. Kris stands in the middle of the main floor and looks around. The Red Guitar has been his home for years. Tears build up in his throat, but he fights them down. No use in falling apart now.

He detaches the bell above the door and turns it over in his hands. His uncle had it autographed by Patti Smith, way back in the day. He traces her faded signature with one finger, and then pushes out the door, into the cold night. He operates the grate, cranking it down, and after everything is locked, he steps back to admire The Red Guitar for one last time.

“We had a good run,” he says softly.

There’s no way to properly say goodbye to this place. This will have to do.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: Hey

Hey. You haven’t written in awhile… everything okay?

--

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: re: Hey

I’m alive. Barely. I have the cold from hell, and everything hurts, and I have spent the last two days hibernating under the covers listening to this Miles Davis record a friend gave me on repeat, mostly because while I enjoy jazz, I am too sick to get out of bed and change the music. I am now dreaming in jazz standards.

The worst part is that it gives me too much time to think about the future. What am I going to do with my life?

--

The apartment bell buzzing at first seems like a Nyquil-induced hallucination. Kris yanks a pillow over his head with a groan, trying to block the noise out. He feels like death, and he’s pretty sure he looks even worse than that. He hasn’t taken a shower in days, hasn’t even bothered to change his pajamas.

He tries ignoring the bell and going back to sleep, but it’s too insistent, and it hurts his head, so he kicks back the covers and stumbles out of bed, holding onto the wall as he makes his way to the door. He holds down the button on the intercom.

“Who is it?” he asks, except his voice comes out all clogged and thick and incoherent.

“Kris?”

That voice. That can’t be…

“Kris, it’s Adam. Are you there?”

“What do you want?” he grumbles, and then immediately dissolves into a coughing fit. Ugh. He hates his lungs.

“Can I come up?” Adam asks, voice tinny through the speaker.

“No,” he says quickly. “You really shouldn’t. I’m sick. You can probably hear it. Sick and contagious. Highly contagious. I probably have the swine flu. Some powerful mutant strain that bypasses vaccines. So you need to… go away. Far, far away.”

There’s a knock at the door that sends Kris practically jumping out of his skin.

“Kris?”

He peers through the peephole, and oh, shit—it is. It’s Adam Lambert.

This has to be a nightmare. A delirious, feverish nightmare.

“Uh—“ Kris glances around wildly. His apartment is a disaster area— used tissues and dirty dishes littered everywhere. “Just a second.”

He dashes around and collects all of the tissues in eyesight, stacking bowls and glasses and dumping them into the kitchen sink. He grabs a robe draped over a chair and shrugs into it, and then goes to the door and closes his eyes, steeling himself. A moment later he undoes the chain lock and cracks it open.

Adam shoots him a friendly smile. “Hello.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks suspiciously.

“Cale mentioned you were sick, so I thought I’d check up on you. Make sure you were still among the living,” he explains. “Your neighbor let me in.” He holds up a small bag. “I brought tea.”

“You put me out of business,” Kris says.

Adam purses his mouth. “Fair point.”

“What is this? Are you here to rub my face in it? You want to gloat over a cup of tea?”

“No.”

“Then… then what? You gonna offer me a job?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Because your brother already did. And I have plans. A lot of plans.” Kris lifts his chin defiantly. “Anyway. Thanks for coming. Now that you know I’m not dead, you can leave now.”

He starts to close the door, but Adam wedges a foot in to block it from closing.

“Wait,” he says. “I brought tea. Let me just—let me make you some.”

Before Kris can protest, he coughs again, so hard he doubles over, and Adam slips inside and heads into the kitchen. Stupid cold. Stupid immune system.

Once he stops hacking, Kris pads into the kitchen, watching as Adam rummages through his cupboards.

“Kettle?” Adam asks.

“Over the stove.”

Adam pulls it out and fills it with water, turning on the stove. He looks over at Kris. “Sit down,” he instructs. “You’re sick.”

Kris complies. His legs are too tired to stand, and at least he can still glare from this vantage point.

Adam says, “Cale says hi, by the way. He’s going to stop by tomorrow.” He opens another cupboard and takes out two mugs. “He’s an amazing employee. Probably the best. He has, like, a PhD in musical knowledge.”

He knows he shouldn’t, but Kris feels stupidly proud to hear Cale is doing so well.

“How’s the rest of your former staff faring?” Adam asks, unwrapping the bag of tea.

“Like you care.” Kris scowls, but Adam just looks at him, so he sighs and shrugs. “Fine,” he says. “Matt’s back to waiting tables and going to school. Andrew’s playing lead guitar for some band that’s gonna tour in spring. And I’m… you know. Weighing my options.”

The tea kettle whistles, and Adam turns off the burner, pours the water into the mugs and dips in the tea bags.

“Honey?” he asks, and Kris nods. He stirs in a few spoonfuls and brings the mugs over to the table, sets one in front of Kris. “So I’m guessing by the look of this place that you broke up with Katie Couric.”

“Her name is Katy,” Kris says, annoyed. “And yeah. We broke up.”

“What about the mystery date? Did anything happen with that?”

“No.” Kris lies his head down on the table, too tired to exert the energy necessary to hold it up any longer. “I was mean to you that night. When I was waiting for him.”

“True,” Adam agrees, “but I wasn’t exactly Mr. Nice Guy myself.”

“But I don’t have an excuse.”

“And I do?” Adam says. “Basically you’re saying, I’m a terrible person and you expect me to act terribly.”

Kris frowns. “That’s not what I—”

Adam waves him off. “It’s okay,” he says. He stirs his tea and looks down into it. “I get it. I destroyed your business. You’re entitled to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Kris says. “I just—” He stops to sneeze.

Adam hands him a tissue. “Bless you.”

Kris rubs his nose and sighs again. “What are you doing here again?” he says. His head is too fuzzy to follow this conversation.

“I guess… I guess I wanted to see if I could… be your friend,” Adam says. He smiles a little into his tea. “Stupid of me, I know.”

Adam Lambert wanting to be his…friend? Yeah, he really must be delirious.

“I need to go back to bed,” he says, pushing away from the table. He hasn’t even had more than a sip of his tea, but he’s too tired for this.

Adam follows him into his bedroom, stands there and watches as Kris climbs under the covers.

“Can I ask you something?” Adam says.

Kris pulls the comforter up to his chin. “Mmm?”

“This mystery guy,” he says. “You’re crazy about him, aren’t you? Like seriously.”

“Mmhm,” Kris murmurs.

“So what’s stopping you?”

It must be the fever, or the side-effects of Nyquil he’s ODed on, because there’s no other explanation for Kris actually admitting the truth. “I don’t really know him,” he confesses. “I met him online.”

“Huh.” Adam lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, a thoughtful look on his face. “Well. That’s not so weird. A lot of people meet each other on the internet. Maybe you should try meeting him again.”

Kris snorts. “Oh, says you? The guy who—”

Adam gently clasps a hand over Kris’s mouth. His palm is warm and smells good, like honey.

“Don’t,” he says softly. “Whatever you’re going to say… don’t. You’re just going to hate yourself for it later.” He takes back his hand and smiles, standing. “Feel better soon, Kris.”

He turns and walks out of the room, leaving Kris to sit there, a little dazed. But he doesn’t have too much time to dwell on it, though, because the second he closes his eyes, he drifts back into a dreamless sleep.

**

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: Meeting

I’ve been thinking… I’d really like to meet you. If you’re still interested.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Meeting

I am definitely interested, and I completely agree—we should meet. I’m swamped with work right now, but it’ll happen. Soon. I promise.

--

Kris is sitting in a table inside of Starbucks, plugged into his iPod and scribbling something on a notebook, when Adam walks by the window. He stops and backtracks, taking a moment just to look at him. There’s something incredibly endearing about how focused he is, the way his head bobs involuntarily to the music he’s listening to, lost in his own little world.

He knocks on the window, and Kris’s head jerks up, eyes registering surprise as he sees Adam standing there.

Adam motions to the table, and then to the door, mouthing, “Can I join you?”

Kris’s mouth is hanging open, but after a second he nods, yanking out his ear buds.

They sit together over lattes, and Kris relates to Adam the latest email correspondence.

“ ‘Swamped with work’?” Adam repeats skeptically. “I don’t know, I’m getting a vibe with this one.”

Kris makes a face. “A vibe?”

“You may have a severe closet case on your hands. Like, the Narnia type, married with kids.”

“He’s not married,” Kris says, rolling his eyes. “And there aren’t any kids.”

“But how do you know?”

“He’s never said anything. He would tell me if there were.”

“Okay,” Adam says innocently. “If you say so.” He takes a long drink, watching the look of doubt cross Kris’s face as he does.

This is too easy.

**

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: Question

This is going to sound so weird and random, but… are you married?

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Question

Uhhhhhhhhhhh no?????? Last time I checked I don’t live in Massachusetts or Vermont. (By the way how fucked up is it that we live in New York, one of the most liberal states in the country, and we can’t legalize gay marriage??? I hate the world.) (Not that I’m looking to get married, but it’d be nice to have the option.)

Let me guess… your friends told you we haven’t met yet because I’m secretly living a double life as a fake hetero? Sorry to disappoint them, but I’ve been out ever since I knew what the word ‘gay’ meant.

--

“So he’s not married,” Adam says.

They’re having hot dogs and strolling aimlessly down the block. It’s a nice day; the sun is finally shining through, the snow melting away, the start of spring. It’s Kris’s favorite season. It makes everything feel shiny and new.

“Nope,” Kris says. “And he totally saw through me. He knew why I was asking.”

Adam licks some mustard off of his thumb, and Kris stares for a little too long. To be fair, Adam does have nice hands. Adam catches him looking and smiles.

“Tell me,” he says. “What’s this guy’s screenname?” When he sees Kris’s dubious look, he rolls his eyes. “God, I’m not going to contact him. I promise. I’m just curious.”

Kris hems and haws and finally says, “LA21.”

“LA21,” Adam repeats thoughtfully. “I wonder what the twenty-one stands for. Does he have twenty-one STDs?”

Kris laughs. “You’re horrible.”

“He was born in nineteen twenty-one.”

“Maybe he owns twenty-one houses.”

“Oooh, maybe he’s had twenty-one sexual partners.”

“He speaks twenty-one languages.”

“Twenty-one pet rats.”

“He’s seen Mean Girls twenty-one times.”

Adam stops and grins. “He’s a fan of Mean Girls?” he says. “At least then you know his taste in films is fantastic.”

They stop on the corner, facing each other. A glance at Kris’s watch tells him that Adam’s lunch break is almost over.

“Guess you should get back,” he says, and finds himself weirdly disappointed to cut off their time together.

“I should,” Adam agrees, but he doesn’t make a move to leave. His face goes a little serious. “Have you figured out yet? What you’re doing?”

Kris shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “Neil keeps telling me that I have a job whenever I want it… It’s weird, having all this time. To figure things out. I’ve never had that. Never thought I’d be a writer, but I actually—I think maybe I could be good at it. Which is weird, because I wouldn’t have even considered it if—” He stops, realizing where this train of thought is leading.

Adam is staring at him, but when Kris meets his eyes again, he looks down and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I need to go,” he says. He looks back up and forces a smile. “I’ll talk to you more about Mister 21 Sexual Positions later.”

He pats Kris on the shoulder once and starts walking off, and Kris lifts his hand in a wave.

His life keeps getting more and more confusing.

**

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: Unexpected

It’s so weird how things work out… I thought my store closing meant the end of everything. But now I have all of this free time, and nothing is decided for me. It used to be that starting over from scratch scared me. Now I feel like maybe it’s a good thing. I mean, it still sucks, but maybe it won’t forever? Maybe it had to happen for me to get this opportunity.

If that hadn’t happened, I’d never be taking a job as a writer for a magazine on a subject I love. It’s a new direction, not the one I thought I’d be taking… but I don’t know. I have a good feeling about this.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: Meeting (for real this time)

What about getting together this Saturday? 4pm. I know you love the Beatles, so we can meet at Strawberry Fields. I’ll be there, standing in the middle, waiting.

--

“Today?” Adam says. “You’re meeting him today?”

“Today,” Kris confirms.

They’re eating at Adam’s favorite Chinese place, the one on St. Mark’s with the amazing kung pao chicken. Kris is poking at his dumplings, this big dreamy smile on his face.

Adam fishes out the fortune cookies and passes one to Kris. “Wow. That’s big.”

“I know,” Kris says. “I’m kind of freaking out.” He unwraps his fortune cookie and squints at the message. “‘The one you love is closer than you think.’ Huh.”

Adam has to hide his grin. It’s all he can do not to spill everything to Kris right here. Half of him wants to, and the other half is about to explode from nerves.

“It’s so weird to think about it sometimes,” Kris says, completely oblivious to Adam’s inner tug-of-war. “He could be, like, anyone. I could’ve passed him on the street and had no idea.”

“Yeah,” Adam says.

He opens his own fortune cookie and reads it silently to himself. Your heart will always make itself known through your words.

“Sometimes I wonder…” he says.

Kris looks up at him, chewing. “Wonder what?”

“If I hadn’t been Starlight Records, and you hadn’t been The Red Guitar… and we’d just met like any other people. On the street. In a bar. Online, even. If that had happened—”

“Adam—” Kris starts, almost desperate, pleading.

“—if that had happened, things would be so different,” Adam says, because now that he’s started, he can’t stop himself. “I know myself. I would’ve fallen hard, and fast, and I never would’ve let you go. Not ever.”

Kris is silent for a moment, and all Adam can hear is the lull of people’s conversation around them, his own heartbeat, rapid and loud in his ears.

“Adam,” he says again, a half-sigh. His eyes are glassy, brow creased.

Adam shakes his head. He knows that it’s pointless. “I know,” he says. “It’s stupid to even think that way. We can’t change anything. Useless to mull over the what-ifs. I just… I like to think that if things were different… if only…”

“If only,” Kris echoes softly.

For a few seconds he gazes at Adam, like he wishes that things really were different. And then he seems to snap out of it just as fast.

“I have to go,” he tells Adam. He grabs his messenger bag and peels a few bills out of his wallet, sets them down on the table. He starts toward the door, but Adam reaches out and grabs his wrist, wraps his fingers around it.

“Just tell me,” Adam says, voice catching. “Tell me… do you think you’ll ever forgive me?” He looks up, into Kris’s eyes. “God, I wish you would.”

Kris stands there and stares at him, a million different emotions warring on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I have to— I have to go.”

He shakes off Adam’s grip and bolts for the exit, and for just a moment, he pauses and turns to look at Adam one last time. And then he’s out the door.

**

When he first moved to New York, Kris never did a lot of tourist-y things. He didn’t have a strong desire for it, anyway. The one place he did seek out, though, after he mastered public transportation and felt confident in winging it solo, was Strawberry Fields.

It’s cliché, and Andrew would roll his eyes if he knew, but the Beatles are Kris’s favorite band of all time. He idolizes them, has listened to every album countless times. He thinks it’s amazing how you can take a track from almost any of their records and find countless other bands who have spent careers just imitating that one song. He could say so much about why he loves them—how Something is one of the greatest love songs of all time, how Norwegian Wood is beyond words, how Revolver is perfection through-and-through.

Seeing Strawberry Fields for the first time was more powerful than Kris had prepared himself for. He thought it would be sad, seeing the place where John Lennon was gunned down so pointlessly—but instead it wasn’t, not really. It moved him in ways he couldn’t fully explain. And he ended up being glad he had that moment to himself, because he wasn’t sure how it would have felt to share with someone else.

Now he moves down the sidewalk, hands buried in his pockets, trying to keep himself from rushing. He has no idea what to expect, but he’s waited for this for so long, and it feels like he’s on the verge of-- something. He takes a deep breath and tips his head up, looking at the gables and deep roofs of the Dakota.

He follows the pathway winding around to the memorial Imagine mosaic, keeping his eyes closed.

He doesn’t know what he wants to see when he opens them.

All he can think about is Adam’s face in the restaurant… how it was so open and unguarded, like he wanted to offer everything, but he knew Kris wouldn’t take it.

But part of Kris wants to, more than anything. Despite everything that’s happened.

He opens his eyes.

And there’s Adam. Standing in the middle of the mosaic, smiling at Kris, tentative and real and beautiful.

“Hey there, Guitarguy,” Adam whispers, once Kris has approached him, standing so close he’d only have to lean forward slightly for them to be kissing. His smile is uncertain as his eyes search Kris’s, like he’s waiting to see if Kris will push him away.

Instead Kris reaches out, knotting his hands in the lapels of Adam’s jacket. “I wanted it to be you,” he breathes. “I wanted it to be you so much.”

Adam’s smile grows, and he brushes one hand to cup Kris’s cheek, tilting it up and bringing their mouths together.

It feels like something is splitting wide open in Kris’s chest, except it’s not a bad feeling, it’s good. Amazing. Like this is how it’s supposed to be. And this is exactly where he’s supposed to be, standing in the middle of this mosaic with Adam, arms wrapped around each other, mouths finding each other, warm and soft and fitting together like adjoining puzzle pieces. Everything snapping perfectly into place.

--end

A/N: Again, sorry for the title. Also sorry for any accidental typos... I did not really read this over before I posted except to make sure the html was correct, and like most fic I write, I wrote it in a frenzied 48 hours.

This is for my girls kissoffools and oatmeal_cookie. ILU guys. ♥

fic: You've Got Music (American Idol; Kris/Adam; PG-13) (2/3)

buffyx — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 10:22:25 GMT

Title: You've Got Music
Fandom/Pairing: American Idol; Kris/Adam
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is a Kradam AU of You've Got Mail. 22k. Um, forgive the awful title. And the lack of sexytimes.

**

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: re: Hello

I randomly tried eggplant the other day. I’ve never had it before. I’m sorry to say that I just don’t see the appeal. Still, I’m glad I went out on a limb.

I was thinking about your email a lot. I think it’s good to take risks and try new things. I know it’s a cliché, but life is short. I don’t think it’s worth it to stay inside your comfort zone all the time. The things worth doing always have a risk—but at least you can say you really lived.

--

The line outside of Baby Jupiter’s stretches half a block by the time Kris and Andrew arrive. A pretty decent-sized crowd, considering it’s an hour until the show starts and the temperature’s already dropped to a chilly thirty degrees. Kris looks down the line at all of the twenty-somethings and stamps his feet against the cold.

“Katy’s meeting us here?” Andrew asks.

“Yup. She texted me a minute ago, she’s on her way.” Kris rubs his hands together. “Man, it’s freezing tonight.”

Cale snorts. “It’s not that cold.”

“Says the guy with the Brawny beard. That thing would keep you warm in the Antarctic,” Matt says. He pokes Kris in the shoulder. “Dude, look at all the chicks. I’m totally getting laid tonight.”

“Uh-huh,” Kris says, distracted. Cold weather sends his ADD into overdrive. But seeing Cassidy Haley live is worth the wait.

He looks around to see if Katy’s here yet, and suddenly notices two people walking past. It’s the two guys from the store, the brothers.

“Hey,” he says as they approach.

The brother—not Adam—stops and smiles at him. “Hey, I know you. From The Red Guitar, right?”

“That’d be me,” Kris says. He turns his head to look at Adam. He looks good—the impeccable hair, the smoky eyeliner bringing out his clear blue-gray eyes. He’s pretty striking. “You guys here to see the show?”

“Yup.” The brother holds up a laminated pass. “Bypassing the line. Beauty of the press pass.”

Andrew quirks an eyebrow. “Press?”

“I work for Rave Magazine,” he says.

“No fucking shit!” Matt crows. In his excitement, he smacks Kris on the shoulder. “I love Rave!”

As Kris rubs the spot where Matt hit him, Cale, Matt, Andrew and Adam’s brother all start yammering on about Rave. He notices that Adam is silent, darting glances around like he’s looking to escape the conversation as fast as possible.

“It’s Adam, isn’t it?” he ventures.

Adam stops fidgeting and looks at him. “And you’re Kris,” he says.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

Kris isn’t sure why, exactly, that fact pleases him so much. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and asks, “What’d you think of the record?” Off of Adam’s look, he adds, “House of Cards?”

“Oh, right. I liked it,” he says. “That song you and Neil told me about—Rundown. I get what you mean, about the opening chords. They really hook their claws in you.”

Kris nods. “They do. And Cassidy’s voice is really impressive. Distinct. It’s got that, like, scratchy raw quality to it?” Adam’s smiling at him, but he can’t tell if it’s just out of amusement or what. He can’t stop rambling on and on like an idiot. “Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat. “I, uh, I like your plugs.”

Adam touches his ears, breaking into a grin. “Thanks. I’m thinking of going to a higher gauge.”

“I kind of want to get an eyebrow piercing,” Kris says. He runs a thumb over his left eyebrow. “I don’t know, though. It’d probably look stupid.”

“I have a hard time believing anything could look stupid on that face,” Adam tells him. The comment has a flirty edge to it, especially when Kris sees the look in Adam’s eyes, the way his smirk pulls on the corners of his mouth.

He can’t really think of a proper response to that, but before he can even try, Neil reappears, grabbing Adam’s arm.

“We should get inside,” he says. He nods a little at Kris. “See you around.”

Kris stares after them as they walk up the line, flashing their passes to security and disappearing inside the venue.

“I cannot believe you!”

He snaps his head around to see Katy barreling toward him, blonde hair flying out behind her. She’s still dressed in work clothes, a conservative skirt and heels and a blue and white plaid pea coat.

“Um,” Kris says, racking his brain for what he could’ve possibly done to piss her off lately. He’s got nothing.

“You do know you’re fraternizing with the enemy, don’t you?” she says. She shoots a glare up the line.

Kris blinks at her. “I… don’t follow.”

“Do you not realize you were just talking to Adam Lambert?”

Lambert. Lambert. Why is that name familiar?

“Holy shit,” Cale breathes next to him. “That was Adam Lambert? As in, Lambert of Starlight Records?”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Kris shakes his head. “You can’t be telling me—I mean, there’s no way—” He stops, the realization settling over him like a cold, wet blanket. “It can’t be.”

“But it is,” Katy says. She makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “The nerve of him—”

“Dude,” Matt says, shaking head sadly. “You were totally played.”

“Rat bastard,” Andrew chimes in.

Kris is inclined to agree with Andrew on this one.

--

Kris is fuming.

It’s a weird feeling; Kris never fumes. He can’t remember the last time he was truly angry. Annoyed? Irritated? Yeah, sure, but he’s good at letting things roll off his back. He never, ever yells, but right now, looking at Adam standing calmly at the bar, nursing a vodka cranberry, he feels like yelling.

Even now, though, the most Kris can manage is a frustrated, accusatory, “Your last name is Lambert.”

Adam turns around, eyes widening a little with surprise, but then his face smoothes over into a cool expression, the epitome of detached disinterest.

“Four for you, Glen Coco,” he says. “You go, Glen Coco.”

Kris has absolutely no idea what Adam is talking about. He may as well be speaking a foreign language.

Adam rolls his eyes at Kris’s blank look. “It’s a Mean Girls reference,” he says, exasperated.

“What were you doing at my store?” Kris presses. “Were you, like, spying on me?”

“Why would I spy on you?”

“Because! We’re your competition.”

“Competition?” Adam laughs—like, really laughs, as if Kris just cracked a hilarious joke. “Do you really think your little store is a threat? Oh my god, that’s adorable.”

“Then why were you there?” Kris demands.

“I only stopped in because I happened to walk by, and I was curious,” Adam tells him. “It’s a cute little place. Really. Very… cozy. But my visit just made it clear that I have absolutely nothing to worry about. You, on the other hand…” He trails off with a smirk.

Kris stares at him, speechless. He can’t believe he’s standing here and listening to someone trash his store. His uncle’s store.

He can’t believe he’s completely and utterly tongue-tied. He has no idea what to say to this.

Adam sips his drink and levels Kris an amused look. “What?” he says, eyebrows raised.

Kris is still gaping at him like a floundering fish when Katy shows up, smoothing out her hair with one hand.

“Adam Lambert, is it?” she says with narrowed eyes.

Adam offers her a tight smile. “It is.” He tilts his head to the side. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Katy O’Connell, Channel Nine News,” she bites back evenly. She lifts her chin to look him in the eye. “So you’re the infamous Adam Lambert. Destroyer of Mason Music, enemy of the independent music retailer, spreading your cloned super centers like a venereal disease, unraveling the fabric of this country’s moral fiber one chain store at a time. Tell me something—how do you sleep at night?”

“Well, to be fair, my father is responsible for most of that,” Adam says modestly. “But it’s sweet of you to credit me with so much. I mean, wow, really, who knew one company could single-handedly destroy America by providing consumers with affordable music and a relaxing, clean, comfortable atmosphere to enjoy it in? Please. If I could sell music at the same price as, say, a box of tissues— I’d do it. That doesn’t make me the devil.” He stirs his drink with a patronizing chuckle. “But now that I’ve been thoroughly chastised by the model of righteous virtue, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m going to go enjoy the show.”

And then he saunters off, just like that, leaving Kris to fume some more.

Kris fumes all through the concert, so much that he can barely pay attention to it, and on the train ride home, barely able to listen to Katy babbling away about her day at work, and even when they get home, he’s still fuming. Silently, of course. Since that’s the only way he knows how to do it.

“That man is insufferable,” Katy says as she scrubs off her face with a wash cloth. “You know the type—hopelessly driven by money and power. I feel sorry for him, I really do. It’s a sad life.”

Yeah, pity isn’t high on the list of emotions Kris is feeling right now. Why feel sorry for Adam Lambert? He gets to comfort himself with his piles of money. His family is insanely rich. Kris imagines Adam probably has a room devoted to gold coins and jewels he can swim in, like that Disney character, Scrooge McDuck.

Kris doesn’t answer, just brushes his teeth with more aggression than necessary, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. He hates himself for how he acted tonight, like some spineless idiot. But he is a spineless idiot. He never knows how to say what he’s feeling. Not when it actually matters.

He spits, rinses out his mouth, and then starts to walk out of the bedroom.

Katy calls after him. “You’re not coming to bed?”

“I’m not tired,” he calls back, without turning around. It’s true—he’s too riled up for sleep right now.

--

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: The right moment

Do you ever have moments where you wish you could say something perfectly scathing, and cutting, but your brain short-circuits and you’re left completely speechless? And it isn’t until later, after you’ve mulled it over for way too many hours to possibly be healthy, that you come up with the exact response that would have put the person who provoked you into place.

This happens to me all of the time, and I hate it. My mind goes blank when I’m under attack. I never know what to say until the moment’s already gone. I wish just once I could have the exact right comeback at the exact right time.

--

Kris clicks send, and then goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He feels a little better for having let that off of his chest.

When he comes back to his laptop to shut it down, he’s surprised to see a new message sitting in his inbox.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: The right moment

Actually, I’m the opposite. I always have the feeling that whatever I do, like whether I go totally apeshit or go Mother Teresa, I’m going to end up the one being an asshole. And then I’m like, why step on the brakes when I’m going to end up looking like a douche bag anyway?

Which means I’m always saying the worst, most hurtful things—they slip out so easily that it scares me sometimes. I can never just take the high road and bite my tongue, and then afterward I’m left to wonder what it says about me as a person. That I can be so carelessly cruel. The worst parts of me—the parts that are spiteful and ugly and just mean-- bubble up to the surface so effortlessly.

So you may think you are cursed, but trust me, it’s a blessing. Because whatever satisfaction you may get from having the perfect cutting remark, I assure you, you will always be hit with a wave of crushing remorse when you realize what you’ve said. Unless you are a sociopath… which I am not.

I don’t think you need to worry about that, though. You’re clearly a better person than I.

Do you think we should meet?

--

Meet?

“Meet?” Kris whispers, out loud, because the idea is just that absurd.

Part of him wants to, actually. Meet LA21. See what the guy behind all of the poignant, funny, engrossing emails is really like.

But he knows, deep down, that it isn’t a good idea.

--

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: re: re: The right moment

I think it’s best if we don’t meet. I don’t know about you, but with everything going on in my day-to-day life, I really value having someone to spill to in such an uncomplicated way. And I feel like meeting you would inevitably complicate things. Let’s not ruin a good thing, okay?

**

Opening day goes more amazingly than Adam had ever dared to dream. Everything has pulled together. The store itself is beautiful—a gleaning staircase, a café for people to order coffee and little pastries from, plush armchairs to sit, a bank of cashiers, a maroon velvet rope for the checkout line, and seven cash registers with seven cashiers.

And, of course, music, music, music, as far as the eye can see.

But what makes it truly beautiful is the amount of customers flooding the store. The place has been jam-packed ever since the doors opened early this morning.

“They love us,” Adam says, looking around, somewhat in awe of the spectacle.

“Well, no one’s raised any pitchforks,” Anoop says, and then, after a considerable pause, “Yet.”

Adam shakes his head. “They’re not going to,” he insists. “They’ve been wanting this. We’re providing the neighborhood with a much-needed service. They’re like a thirsty man in the desert, and we—”

“—are carrying highly discounted bottled water?” Anoop says.

Adam nods. “Exactly.” He ambles slowly through the main floor, taking everything in. “How are all the sections doing?”

“Pop seems to be thriving the most,” Anoop says. “Not that that’s a big surprise. R&B and Latin look like they’re up there, too.”

“What about Jazz? Indie?”

He’d gone out of his way to make sure the store was stocked with sizeable indie and jazz sections, doing the research and calling up suppliers himself to order some lesser-known albums.

“Well, it’s still too early to tell. And there is that store down the street—”

“The Red Guitar.”

“Yes,” Anoop says. “They do have a foothold in that department… however tenuous it may be.”

That’s the last time Adam thinks about Kris Allen and The Red Guitar, until one morning a week later he sees Kris ahead of him in line at the newsstand. Adam stands back out of sight, watching as Kris picks up a copy of the Village Voice and leans down to pet the little yappy dog tied to the vendor’s stand.

And then he sees him again, a few days after that, inside of the nearby Starbucks. He’s standing at the counter, iPod plugged in, humming and tapping his foot as he dumps sugar packets into his coffee. Adam actually ends up positioning himself behind a potted tree in order to stay out of sight.

It makes him feel ridiculous, but he’d rather feel like an idiot for two minutes than have to come face-to-face with Kris Allen again.

**

Thursdays have become Kris’s most dreaded day of the week. Thursdays are when Ryland comes.

The sense of dread has nothing to do with Ryland himself. Kris likes Ryland a lot—like every other employee, he was a hire Uncle Fisher had made back in the day. He used to be three days a week part-time, but a year ago he’d told Kris point-blank that Kris needed to cut his overhead. And then he said he had another, slightly more lucrative job offer for a CPA firm, but still agreed to come in once a week to help out Kris. Kris doesn’t know what he would do without Ryland.

Ryland isn’t the problem; the problem is that Ryland is the only one who can make sense of the numbers, and the numbers these days aren’t looking so good.

“You’re nine hundred shorter than the same week from last year.”

Kris looks up from his guitar, where he’s been strumming random chords while Ryland sorts through the sea of receipts and punches numbers into his calculator.

“That can’t be right,” Kris blurts out.

The look Ryland gives him behind his black-framed glasses tells him that it is, in fact, right. Of course it is. Ryland doesn’t screw up when it comes to numbers.

“Maybe it’s just a fluke,” Kris says, scrambling for something to explain the difference. “I mean, the economy’s tanked, everyone knows that, and Starlight is still new. They’ve only been there for a month. It’s, like, a novelty. But it’ll wear off. People will get over it. They’ll realize it’s not…” He lets himself trail off. It’s too much energy to try to spin this into something he knows it’s not.

Matt bounces a rubber ball against the floor. “What if we have to fold? Dude. Dude. I cannot go back to waiting tables.”

“We’re not going to fold,” Kris says tiredly. He puts down his guitar and stands up. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore. “I’m going to go rearrange the front display.”

--

The whole situation sinks in a little more when Cassidy Haley calls him.

Kris hasn’t talked to Cassidy on the phone in over three years—back when Cassidy used to play tiny little shows at The Red Guitar to an audience of ten. That was before he got signed to an indie label and put out an album full of wandering songs comprised of downtrodden poetry.

The first thing Cassidy says is, “Are you surviving?”

“Huh?” It takes a second for Kris to realize he means the store. Not, like, his general state of health. “Um. Yeah. We’re… you know. Chugging along.”

“I’ve been freaking out,” Cassidy says. “I keep hearing shit about fucking Starlight Records—”

“We’re doing fine,” Kris tells him. Of course it’s a lie, but what else is he going to say?

“Good. Just tell me if you need anything. I can do a show there sometime after Christmas, if you’re still open. And I can try rounding up people for picket lines, rallies, whatever support you need. I know someone who works for Rave, I can get him to write a spotlight on you guys. And maybe you can try for some local news coverage.”

Kris doesn’t want to think that far ahead. Maybe things will turn around. Maybe it won’t have to come to that.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: Never say goodbye

After I broke up with my ex and was moving out of his apartment, I made myself a mix CD of some songs from the records that I couldn't fit in moving, and My Bloody Valentine's song “Never Say Goodbye” was the last track on the mix. While I was packing all my things, boxing everything up and totally heartbroken and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I kept replaying that song over and over and eventually just set it on repeat after I’d flipped it back ten times.

The song just came up on my iPod shuffle playlist when I was on the train tonight, and I almost teared up right there. It’s crazy, isn’t it? How a song can take you back to an exact moment and place in your life. Nothing else can really do that. Not the way music can.

--

The day before Thanksgiving, Kris makes a run to the corner market for some last-minute meal preparations. This year he was supposed to go to Seattle with Katy to her family’s, but he felt uneasy about leaving the store unmanned for so long when things were like this. Katy had understood.

“Your parents are going to hate me, aren’t they?” he’d said as she stuffed a bag with the things of hers that had accumulated in his apartment.

She just shrugged and tossed in some shoes—her third pair he’d counted so far. “Who cares what they think?”

“Well, I don’t want them hating the guy you’re practically living with. I haven’t even gotten to meet them and—”

“And what? Woo them with your irresistible charm?” she teased. She came over and pecked him on the mouth. “Don’t worry. You need to be here. I get it.”

Matt was spending the weekend with his parents in Queens, but Cale and Andrew were planning to come over for dinner. It isn’t exactly going to be a giant feast—Kris’s culinary skills are too limited for that—but he figured he could at least throw together some potatoes, buy a roasted chicken, a few cans of corn and string beans. Cale had promised to bring a key lime pie, and Andrew said he’d be in charge of beer and haul along some of his favorite jazz records on vinyl.

He’s filled his cart with everything he needs and is heading to the registers when he sees Adam waiting in line with a bottle of vodka and some cheese. Kris’s heart picks up speed in his chest. He hasn’t seen Adam since the concert, when he made Kris feel about two inches tall with just a few words, and Kris had been too chicken shit to say anything back to him. He really doesn’t need a repeat performance tonight. Or ever.

Kris veers his cart into the next lane, hunching down and hoping Adam won’t look over in his direction and see him there. The line moves agonizingly slow—apparently he’s not the only one making a last-minute Thanksgiving purchase—but eventually the female cashier rings up all his orders.

When he digs out his credit card and passes it over, the woman regards him with a scowl.

“This is a Cash Only lane,” she tells him.

He stops and stares at her. “What?”

“Cash. Only,” she repeats, and points to the sign over her head for emphasis.

“Oh,” he says dumbly. “Um. I’m sorry, I missed that. All I have is a credit card. Is that okay?”

The gray-haired man behind him in line scoffs. “There’s a fucking sign! It’s cash only! Are you stupid? Of course it’s not okay!”

Kris closes his eyes, feeling his face flush red with embarrassment as the line behind him buzzes with irritated and impatient murmurs. Couldn’t the universe cut him a break already? Just this once?

“Having trouble?”

Apparently not, because Kris is pretty sure that voice belongs to—oh, yes, he turns around, and there is Adam Lambert. This is like a nightmare he’s had, except he’s not naked and there aren’t any purple cheetahs roaming around.

“No,” Kris says automatically, even though obviously he is. He looks to the cashier pleadingly. “Please, all I have is the credit card. Can you just run it?”

“Get on another line,” she says flatly, unmoved by his plight. Damn.

Adam intercedes, leaning past Kris to look at the cashier’s nametag. “Hi. Valencia? Lovely name,” he says smoothly, flashing a bright smile. “Valencia, I’m Adam. This is Kris. I know you must have an unfavorable impression of him for making such a stupid mistake—” Kris glares, but Adam ignores him and continues, “—but really, it’s Thanksgiving, and I know one thing I’m thankful for are credit card machines. Like this one here.” He raps his knuckles lightly against it. “So could you please do me a favor and zip this card through so we can all go on our merry way?”

Valencia hesitates. “Well…”

“Please?” Adam puts on a puppy face, batting his eyelashes. “Do it for me, V?”

She rolls her eyes a little, but it’s clear she’s barely suppressing a smile. “All right,” she sighs, taking the card.

She slides it through, and Kris quickly punches in the pin number and signs off on the charge slip.

“I’m so sorry, that’s never happened to me before. I promise, I’ll never do that again,” he blurts out, but Valencia just glares. He makes a mental note to avoid her lane at all costs in the future.

“Thank you for that,” Adam says to her, and then winks. Winks! Kris is kind of appalled. Adam turns to him and says, “So you’re good?”

“Fantastic,” Kris snaps, snagging his plastic grocery bags with both hands.

He storms off, but not before Adam shouts out a cheerful “Happy Thanksgiving!”, like they’re old friends or something. What a jerk.

**

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: Holidays

Christmastime this year is really weird for me… I won’t go into detail, but someone in my family who I cared a lot about died not too long ago, and ever since then the holiday season just makes me depressed. I think it’s worse this year because I’m not planning to go home for the holidays like usual. And because I need some advice, but the only person I need to hear it from isn’t here anymore.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

I think Christmas makes everyone in the world depressed. I’m Jewish and even I get depressed by it.

But I’m sorry about your family member… and sorry that you won’t be able to go home. My family all lives here in the city. Sometimes I wish they lived a few hundred miles away, but most of the time I think it makes me lucky.

So what kind of advice do you need? Maybe I can help.

--

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

I don’t think you can help.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

Come on, I’m great at advice. What’s it about? Family? Love? Sex? Money?

--

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

My business is in trouble. I think we may go under.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

It’s your lucky day. I am an amazing businessman. Now, what’s your business?

--

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

I can’t tell you. No specifics, remember?

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

Well, that does make it somewhat more difficult… my best advice to you is that you need to be like Cady Heron when she infiltrated the Plastics.

--

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

...???????????????

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

It’s from Mean Girls. It means you go to war on your enemy’s ass.

You need to fight dirty, with everything you’ve got.

--

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

What is it with people quoting Mean Girls all the time????

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Holidays

Mean Girls is always applicable. Especially to business. Because business is like high school social politics. Only the truly ruthless prosper.

You’ve told me before that you don’t think you can be brave… but you can. This is your chance.

Fight. Fight. Fight until your hands bleed.

**

Something is wrong. Adam can tell by the look on Anoop’s face.

Not that Anoop is a normally smiley kind of guy, but there’s definitely something going on.

“What?” he says warily, slowing down his treadmill and pulling out his headphones. This better be important if it’s interrupting his morning workout. He was listening to Gaga, and when he’s in the zone, he doesn’t stop for just anyone.

Anoop just silently passes him a magazine. It’s the latest issue of Rave, turned open to Neil’s column. Of course, the byline is credited to Neil’s pseudonym, Paul Harrison, because if anyone knew his true identity, his indie cred would be shot to hell.

Adam holds it up so he can read. “‘The Red Guitar is a symbol of how music should be distributed: with a discerning ear, an eclectic taste not limited to mind-numbing garbage churned out onto Top 40 radio, and by people with a comprehensive knowledge and passion for music itself. If this precious resource is killed by the cold, corporate cash cow of Starlight Records, it will not only be the end of Western civilization as we know it, but the end of something even dearer: our neighborhood as we know it. Save The Red Guitar and you will save your own soul.’”

Jesus Christ.

Adam throws the magazine on the ground. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Afraid not,” Anoop says. He steps onto the treadmill next to Adam’s, changing the settings, and points up at the television fixed in front of them. “Hey, look at this.”

On the monitor is an Asian Channel Nine News reporter stationed outside of The Red Guitar. She holds a microphone up to her face and says, “We’re here in front of The Red Guitar, the famous East Village independent music shop now on the verge of having to close its doors because the Goliath of music retailers, Starlight Records, has opened only a few hundred feet away, wooing customers with its steep discounts and designer coffee.”

The footage cuts to a shot of Kris Allen, looking a little nervous but nonetheless determined. “They have to have discounts and lattes,” he says, “because, uh, most of the people who work there know more about coffee than they do music.”

Adam scowls, wiping his sweaty face off with a towel. “He’s not as nice as he seems on television.”

“Is he as pretty?” asks Anoop.

“Oh, he’s very pretty,” Adam concedes. “But snippy.”

“And his snippy mood has nothing to do with you?” Anoop says. “I mean, you’re only destroying his livelihood… endangering the jobs of his other employees… obliterating a neighborhood legacy…”

“First off— ‘neighborhood legacy’? The place has been around for thirty-seven years, not a century,” Adam points out. “Secondly?” He shrugs. “It’s not personal. It’s business.”

He turns back to the television, taking a swig of his water bottle. This time his own face is on it, his name and title underneath.

“I sell cheap music,” his face on the monitor says. “So sue me.”

It immediately cuts back to the newscaster. Adam chokes on his water. What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” Anoop says, voice rising. “That’s what you said?!”

Adam growls. “No, that is not what I said! I mean, okay, that’s part of what I said. A tiny little part. A sliver! We did a whole walkthrough of the store. I talked up our amazing inventory! I showed her the whole section we have dedicated to local artists from the neighborhood! I said how great the store is, how people can easily find whatever they’re looking for, and have delicious coffee and snacks, and sit and listen to music and relax! I was fucking eloquent, goddammit!” He slams his hand against the treadmill handle. “Those fucking assholes!”

Kris’s face shows up on the television again. As pissed as he is at the moment, Adam has to admit, the camera loves that guy. Even with his brown hair all windblown and his puppy dog eyes squinting against the sunlight, he is ridiculously good-looking. And there’s something a little vulnerable about him, too, that makes you automatically want to root for him.

“I just want to say, I’ve met Adam Lambert, who, you know, runs Starlight Records,” Kris says. His throat bobs up and down as he swallows hard. “And he… he actually compared music to a box of tissues. I guess he doesn’t have a lot of respect for it if he thinks it’s all disposable like that.”

Okay. Maybe not so vulnerable.

Things get worse when later that afternoon at the store, Anoop draws his attention to the small rally not twenty feet away from Starlight’s main entrance. An anti-Starlight rally. Completely with crowd chants, picket signs, and whistles. Oh, yeah, and Kris fucking Allen standing on top of an upturned crate with a megaphone to his mouth.

“What is this?” Adam cries incredulously, staring out the window. “Do they think this is the fucking Republican National Convention? Am I suddenly a war criminal?”

“Worse,” Anoop says. “They think you’re Goliath.” He taps a finger against the glass, pointing to Kris, who is urging the small crowd on. “And your David is all revved up and ready to go.”

**

The publicity—the newspaper article, the television coverage, the rally—does nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Kris’s whole body slumps involuntarily at the news. “You’re sure?” he asks, even though he of course knows what Ryland’s answer will be.

“I’m sorry,” Ryland says, uncharacteristically gentle instead of his usual matter-of-fact self. “I double-checked everything. There’s no difference.”

“Oh, God,” Kris groans, burying his face in his arms. “How is that possible? What am I going to do?”

“Kris, the thing is… even if you discounted… or if you laid someone off—”

“I’m not firing anyone.” The very idea of it is like a punch to the stomach.

“Even if you did, it wouldn’t fix the budget. You’d still have losses.”

Kris rubs his hands through his hair and looks back up. “Ryland. You knew my uncle… What do you think he would do, if he were here?”

Ryland falls silent for a long time. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “But I do know he’d be proud of you for fighting this hard. No matter what happens.”

**

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: Help

I need help. Do you still want to meet me?

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: Help

Where? When?

--

“This is a bad idea,” Anoop says.

Clearly Adam does not keep him on payroll for the morale boost.

“Just shut up and come with me,” Adam says, giving him a push down the sidewalk.

“How are you even going to know it’s him?”

“He said he’s going to have a copy of that Beatles record, Revolver, with him.”

“Why Revolver?”

“I don’t know, it’s his favorite, I guess. He said it’s the album countless kids listen to and realize music is their calling.”

“He sounds like a douche,” comments Anoop. He glances at Adam sideways and adds, “No offense.”

They walk along in silence for a few steps.

“What if he’s ugly?” Anoop asks.

“He’s not ugly. He could very well be the love of my life.”

“Yeah, but he could still be ugly.”

“Whatever,” Adam says. “I’m only staying for ten minutes. Quick hellos, a cup of coffee, and I’m gone.”

While they walk, Adam can’t stop thinking. What if this guy is ugly? God, it’s not that he’s so shallow-- okay, maybe he’s a little shallow. He’s just freaking out because he’s built this up way too much in his head. He doesn’t want the illusion to come crashing down.

By the time they reach the café, Adam’s a total wreck. His hands won’t stop shaking. He shoves Anoop toward the front window.

“Please,” he begs. “Just look for me. Tell me if you see him.”

Anoop rolls his eyes. “You’re pathetic,” he says, but he steps up to the glass plate anyway.

He cups his hands over his eyes, peering in.

Adam bounces up and down on his toes anxiously. “Do you see him?”

“Hmm,” Anoop says. “Okay, I see a CD sitting on the table… that’s gotta be the guy. Hang on, there’s a waiter blocking… okay, waiter’s gone—” He stops, tilting his head. “Huh.”

“Huh?” Adam echoes. “Is that a good ‘huh’ or a bad ‘huh’?”

“It’s…” Anoop pauses again. “I can tell you that he’s… definitely good-looking.”

“I knew it!”

“He reminds me of Kris Allen. From the indie store.”

“Kris Allen?” Adam furrows his brow. “Really?”

“I thought you said Kris Allen was attractive.”

“So what? Who cares about Kris Allen?”

“Well, I can tell you right now if you don’t like Kris Allen, you’re not going to like this guy,” Anoop tells him.

Adam frowns. “Why not?”

“Because it is Kris Allen.”

Adam actually reels back a step, shocked. Guitarguy… is Kris Allen? No. No, there’s no way… how is that fucking possible?

He elbows Anoop aside, pushing his face to the glass to get a look for himself. And Jesus fucking Christ, it is. Kris Allen is sitting at a table, glancing around nervously, one hand sliding a Revolver CD back and forth across the tablecloth.

Of all the people in the world…

“Oh my god.” Adam grabs the sides of his head with both hands. This cannot be real. “Oh my fucking god.”

“I didn’t know Kris Allen was gay,” Anoop says. “Didn’t you say he has a girlfriend?”

“He’s bi,” Adam corrects, and when Anoop shoots him a look, he throws his hands up in the air. “He talked about it, in some of his letters.” He rubs his face again. “Oh my god.”

“What are you going to do?” asks Anoop.

“Nothing,” Adam says hastily. “I mean, I can’t… obviously I can’t do anything.”

Anoop stares at him incredulously. “You’re just going to let him sit there and wait?”

“Yes.” He nods, resolute. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“But he—”

“No. We will never speak of this again. Never. As far as you’re concerned, this never happened.” Adam turns and starts walking away briskly, taking a shaky breath of frigid night air. “Goodnight, Anoop.”

part three

fic: You've Got Music (American Idol; Kris/Adam; PG-13) (1/3)

buffyx — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 10:18:02 GMT

Title: You've Got Music
Fandom/Pairing: American Idol; Kris/Adam
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is a Kradam AU of You've Got Mail. 22k. Um, forgive the awful title. And the lack of sexytimes.

Kris has a tried and true routine every morning: hit his snooze button five times, stumble into the bathroom for a five minute cold shower (not cold by choice, but because Katy has a habit of using up all the warm water before he can drag himself from bed), go to the kitchen to toast a bagel which he then slathers liberally with cream cheese, pour himself whatever is left from the coffee pot Katy put on earlier, and crawl back into bed, where first thing he does is open his laptop.

This system is carefully timed so that when he slides his laptop out from underneath his bed, Katy is in the bathroom blow-drying her hair, which gives him a solid twenty minutes free of interruption. It’s not that he’s doing anything wrong, but she already razzes him enough for spending too much time glued to the computer.

“We live in Manhattan,” she always reminds him. “There are a million things to do, and you choose to spend it behind a computer screen?”

He doesn’t think he’s really that bad about it—it’s just that Katy never likes to stay in one place for more than five minutes. Keeping up with her can be exhausting at times. Besides, she’s all but permanently attached to her Blackberry, and the difference between texting and email is really splitting hairs if you ask him.

This morning, he only has two new messages sitting in his inbox: one, a stupid chain letter forward from Matt, and then another—the one he’s actually interested in reading. He bypasses Matt’s and instead clicks on the newest.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: re: New music

So I gave that United Fuse album you so heavily touted in your last email a listen… It’s a good record, especially for a debut, a total head-bopper, but I think I would appreciate it more if I’d listened to it three months ago in the summer. Music is very seasonal to me. For example, I can only listen to Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust in the depths of winter, and Lady Gaga in spring, once the cold is gone and the sun is back out. Is that weird of me?

Anyway, now that it’s fall, I’ve been revisiting Kings of Leon’s album Aha Shake Heartbreak. Basically this means I put King of the Rodeo on a loop while I strut down the city streets pretending I’m starring in a music video, hoping the assault on my eardrums will distract me from the putrid smell of all the garbage trucks lined up in my neighborhood. Oh, New York, never change.

There really is nothing better though than plugging into my iPod and people-watching from a bench in Washington Square Park, surrounded by trees with changing leaves and kids playing and people jogging and couples strolling through hand-in-hand. It’s all very peaceful. I’d invite you to come with me some time, but that would really screw with this whole anonymity deal we have, wouldn’t it? Oh well. You should still do it on your own though. Just trust me on this one. You won’t regret it.

--

Kris grins around the last bite of his bagel, rereading the email for a second time. If he had the time, he’d respond right then—but a glance at his alarm clock tells him he’s already running late, so instead he reluctantly closes the laptop.

He knows that he’s lucky—most people don’t have a job doing what they truly love. Kris has no idea what he’d be doing with his life if he wasn’t running The Red Guitar. Probably he’d still be struggling through business school. His uncle, the owner, had offered him a job halfway through Kris’s sophomore year, and Kris had dropped out of college and moved to New York from Arkansas on an impulse. The only thing Kris had ever been passionate about in his life was music, so working for a record store specializing in the same underground indie artists he always obsessed over was a natural fit. And New York was of course the opposite of the small town he’d grown up in, but he’d quickly fallen in love with the city, too, couldn’t imagine living anywhere else at this point.

Two years ago his uncle passed away from a sudden heart attack, willing to Kris both the shop and his rent-controlled apartment in the East Village. Stepping into the role of boss had taken some adjustment, and a lot of work, but it was worth it. He still got to spend every day surrounded by music, and surrounded by people who loved it the same way he did. What more could he ask for?

“You’re going to be late,” Katy calls.

He rolls out of bed quickly as she emerges from the bathroom, her blonde hair sleek and straight, dressed in an immaculate bright red suit and skirt. She has a dozen different versions of the same outfit, all in bold colors.

“Weren’t you supposed to be gone, like, ten minutes ago?” he counters.

She sighs, gathering her purse from the dresser. “Yes, and it’s Bob’s tenth anniversary at the station, so we’re supposed to go out for drinks after work. I don’t know when I’ll be home. You don’t need to wait up for me.”

“I will anyway,” he assures her. He comes over and pecks her on the lips briefly, so as not to ruin any of her makeup. “Or I’ll just see you on the news like everyone else.”

Katy flashes him a smile—the same one that dazzles all of the viewers who watch her anchor the Channel Nine six o’clock news every night—and squeezes his shoulder before tearing out of the room. A minute later the apartment door opens and shuts.

Kris returns to his laptop and unplugs it. There’s no internet connection at The Red Guitar—he can’t afford Wi-Fi for the store, even though Andrew’s been harping him about it nonstop for the past six months—but during his lunch break he can scoot over to the café across the street to respond to the email properly.

The Red Guitar is only three blocks from his apartment, so he straps on his Converse, grabs his coat, stuffs his laptop in his messenger bag and hurries down the three flights of stairs to the street below. He shoves his earbuds in his ears and scrolls through his iPod to find his Kings of Leon songs. No King of the Rodeo on there, so he ends up listening to Revelry on a loop as he winds his way past pedestrians.

He comes up to the shop halfway through another listen, and stands outside the storefront, waiting for the song to end. The Red Guitar is a small store, tucked between a dry cleaners and an Ethiopian eatery; you probably wouldn’t take a second look at it if you weren’t specifically looking. The sign outside is old and faded and in desperate need of a new paint job. Kris mentally adds it to his insanely long list of ways-to-improve-business.

When he pushes open the door and steps inside, the first thing Andrew says is, “You’re late.”

Kris takes out his headphones, tucking them in his pocket, and smiles. “Good morning to you, too.”

“You’re in a good mood today,” Andrew says suspiciously. He’s reorganizing the jazz section in alphabetical order. They didn’t even have a jazz section until Andrew insisted on it. He’s got a total hard-on for Thelonius Monk and Coltrane and Hoagy Carmichael.

“Someone got some last night,” Matt sing-songs. He hops up on the counter and sits there, legs dangling, all the while waggling his eyebrows at Kris.

Cale stops counting the register long enough to shoot Matt a look. “At least one of us is.”

“Speak for yourself,” Matt says. “I get plenty.”

The two of them begin bantering back and forth, and Kris doesn’t even bother to respond with anything more than a half-hearted eye roll as he brushes past them to the cramped, closet-sized back office. He’d rather let them believe his lack of punctuality comes from a long night of sex than have them know the truth—that he was too busy reading an email from a stranger to get here on time.

The whole situation is weird, even to him. A few months ago he was browsing Craigslist, looking at the guitar ads to see if he could afford to replace the Takamine he’d had for years. It was a trusty instrument, and had seen him through a lot, but he’d wanted to upgrade for awhile now, even if all he did was mess around from time to time. Somehow he ended up stumbling upon the personals—not the romantic ones, or the sex-without-strings ones (okay, he gave those a cursory glance, and wow, never again, because people had some seriously out-there kinks). It was the platonic section that caught his eye—specifically the anonymous ad seeking an equally anonymous pen pal.

Responding to it was probably the strangest thing Kris had ever done, and potentially the stupidest, except LA21 turned out to be a pretty cool person to talk to. They didn’t know much about each other aside from the fact that they were both in their twenties, male, and living in New York. And they agreed to keep it that way—no personal details. Not their names, not their careers, nothing to identify them in the real world. It was an odd arrangement, but Kris kind of enjoyed the mystery of it all. It was sort of freeing to have this person as a soundboard to share his more random thoughts with, whether they be on music, books, film, the city, life in general.

He slumps into the wobbly desk chair, powering up the ancient desktop computer, and looks down at the mess of paperwork piled on the desk. Ryland, his books guy, only comes in once a week to help with payroll and vendor records and everything else that is far, far out of Kris’s league. Like, stratospheres out of his league. A year and a half spent half-assing his way through business school and he can barely handle inputting raw data into an Excel spreadsheet, nevermind crunching the numbers.

All of this needs to be sorted through before Ryland comes in tomorrow, but Kris isn’t halfway near awake enough to deal with it yet. He shakes off his coat and wanders back out onto the floor.

“Hey,” he says, “do you guys know if we have any Kings of Leon?”

Andrew abandons the jazz section and searches through the racks on the other side of the room. “Nothing past 2007,” he says. “What’re you looking for?”

“Aha Shake Heartbreak,” Kris says. He can feel Cale staring at him curiously, but he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge him.

After a minute Andrew comes over with the CD in tow. He hands it over and mutters, “Sellouts,” underneath his breath before walking away.

“Why’re you looking for that?” asks Cale.

“No reason,” Kris lies. “I was just thinking about it. It’s good fall weather music, don’t you think?”

Cale lifts an eyebrow. “If you say so.”

Kris takes the CD back with him into the office, studying the cover art for a minute before he tosses it aside. Whatever. He doesn’t have time for this. Too much work to get done and too little time.

He really needs more coffee.

**

There is not enough coffee in the world, Adam thinks, for him to face the day. Not this early in the morning, anyway.

He takes the mocha latte from the pudgy girl behind the counter and blows steam off the top. God bless whoever created Starbucks. There’s one practically every fifty feet. If anything’s going to get Adam through this day, it’ll be the power of caffeine. Sweet, sweet caffeine.

“—so the contractor’s all set, they’re installing the shelves tomorrow. The electrician says the wiring will be finished by next week, tops, and—” Beside him, Anoop halts mid-sentence. “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

“Blah blah contractor, blah blah wiring.” Adam rolls his eyes, all the while knowing the effect is lost on Anoop since they’re hidden behind his dark sunglasses. “Give me the Cliff’s Notes. Construction’s on schedule, then?”

“Yes,” Anoop says, “and you have a meeting with your father in half an hour.”

“Lovely,” Adam says, taking a sip of his latte.

Bad idea. It nearly scalds his tongue. He starts coughing, and Anoop, always at the ready, hands him a napkin.

Adam mops off his mouth, trying not to wheeze. “So I guess this means we’ll be making the announcement soon.”

“Probably,” agrees Anoop. “You worried?”

“Why would I be worried?”

“I don’t know, maybe because neighborhood response to large commercial chain stores cropping up and contributing to ever-increasing gentrification is not generally favorable?”

Adam waves him off with one hand. “Please,” he snorts. “They always say that. But only at first. Hasn’t ever stopped Wal-Mart or—” He turns and gestures to the counter behind them, “Starbucks, has it? People will hate us for maybe two seconds. And then they’ll see our prices, our amazing selection, our beautiful interior design, and the mom-and-pop shop loyalty will disappear. It’s unstoppable. It’s capitalism, baby. And Starlight Records is American capitalism at its finest.”

“Uh-huh,” Anoop says, only half-listening because he started texting halfway into Adam’s diatribe. He tucks the phone back into his pocket and jerks his head toward the door. “Let’s get you to that meeting.”

--

The thing is, Adam was never supposed to be heir to Starlight Records. Even though technically he’s first in line of succession, his younger brother Neil was always the star student, the one who seemed to be primed to take the reins when the time came. However, Neil had eschewed any inherited responsibility to the family business and instead gone in the opposite direction— working for Rave, a music magazine with a political bent that covers the underground music scene. It’s the opposite of the very commercial, very slick Starlight Records empire.

Music is in the Lambert blood, though; no one in the family escaped it. Adam didn’t plan on being his father’s successor, but it actually worked out pretty well. He was savvy and a quick learner, he’d always loved music, and he knew what appealed to the masses more than anything. It’s a job he’s good at—and one where no one will bat an eye at his dyed hair and eyeliner and peculiar fashion choices. After managing the L.A. store for three years, he felt more than ready to oversee the newest New York one. Especially when the offer was so well-timed—coming on the heels of a nasty breakup with his long-term boyfriend Brad, a time when Adam jumped at the chance to put a couple thousand miles between the two of them.

Staring out at the gray Manhattan skyline from his father’s office on the Upper West Side is a stark reminder that yes, New York is definitely not L.A.

“So, Anoop,” Eber says, “what’s the latest?”

Anoop stands up from the expensive leather couch and pulls out a notepad. “Well, apparently Mason Music on Bleecker Street has gone under.”

“What a shame,” Eber says, grinning from behind his massive mahogany desk. He twirls a pen between his fingers. “What other competition do we have left, then?”

“Not much in the neighborhood,” Anoop says. “Looks like there’s a Christian music store called Gokey’s, but that’s nothing, really. And…” He flips through a few note pages. “Oh, here it is. The Red Guitar.”

Eber tilts his head. “Never heard of it.”

“I did some research, but I couldn’t turn up much info,” Anoop reports. “All I know is that it used to be owned by a guy of the name Fisher Allen, but looks like he died a few years ago. His nephew, Kris Allen, runs the place now.”

“Hmm,” Eber says. “Okay, where are we at with construction?”

As Anoop launches into the same spiel Adam already heard earlier, Adam looks out the window again. He misses L.A. sometimes, but he does appreciate how New York has, like, actual seasons. The thought reminds him of the email he sent out late last night, and he smiles a little to himself.

It was so ridiculous—his first birthday post-Brad, still new to New York and surrounded by cardboard boxes he was too depressed to unpack, drunk off too much vodka and so lonely it hurt, he’d made that stupid post on Craigslist on a whim. The next morning he’d forgotten about it completely until he checked his inbox and saw a slew of messages replying. He almost deleted them without looking, but curiosity had gotten the better of him, and even through the haze of a hangover, Guitarguy’s had stuck out to him—somehow sweet, earnest, and intriguing all at the same time.

From that random, drunken night had blossomed a surprising—well, it seemed weird to call it a friendship, since Adam doesn’t know if you can consider someone whose name you don’t even know to be a friend, but that’s what it is. Kind of. In any case, it’d been the last thing Adam ever expected. Funny how things work out sometimes.

But even though he likes his odd kinship with Guitarguy, he still made a vow to himself to never drink and net surf again. Next time he’ll probably accidentally put himself up on Ebay as a sex slave or something.

--

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: Quarter well spent

There’s this homeless guy who sits outside of the café I eat lunch at, and every day I give him a quarter, and then later on my way out, I give him a bread roll. When I first moved here, I had a really hard time learning not to give something to every person on the street who asks for it. There aren’t any homeless people where I grew up. It was so weird to me how easily everyone could just ignore them here, act like they don’t even exist. But I guess you get used to it—I’m sort of used to it now. I don’t know how to feel about that.

I don’t mind giving things to Gus, though. Gus is the name of the guy outside the café every day. We have the same exchange every afternoon. I walk up to him and say, “Hey Gus.”

Gus says, “Hey.”

I say, “How’s it going?”

He says, “Right as rain.”

I say, “Good to hear,” and hand him a quarter.

In five minutes—after I send this email and eat the rest of my eggplant sandwich—I’ll wrap up my roll in a napkin and give it to him as I leave, and Gus will tell me to have a good day. And hey, that’s always nice to hear. I think it’s worth a quarter, anyway.

--

“Adam. Adam. Adam!”

Adam looks up at Anoop standing in the doorway. “What?” he snaps.

“I just said your name like eight times, man.” Anoop takes a step into the office, a half smile flitting over his face. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Adam says quickly, slamming the laptop shut. “Seriously, this is my lunch hour. What do you want now?”

“The sign guy’s here. You asked me to come get you.”

“Right, right.” Adam sets aside the laptop and his open carton of kung pao chicken.

He follows Anoop through the back exit, walking around the building. As they turn the corner, he almost bumps into a woman dressed in rags pushing a shopping cart full of garbage bags. Anoop brushes by heedlessly, but Adam pauses, taking in the woman. She’s old with leathery skin and matted gray hair and wearing nothing but sandals, even though it’s already starting to get cold.

He fumbles for his rhinestone-studded wallet and slides out a five dollar bill.

“Here you go,” he says, smiling as he extends it to her.

The woman narrows her eyes for a moment, mouth pulled down, but then she snatches it from his hand and rushes away, muttering to herself as she pushes the cart. Well. That was less satisfying than he thought it’d be.

When he turns back around, Anoop is standing there, staring at him.

He feels a flush creep up his neck. “What?”

“You’re acting weird today,” Anoop says, falling in step beside him as Adam catches up.

Adam shrugs. “What, I’m not allowed to be nice sometimes?” he says defensively. Yeah, okay, so giving handouts to the homeless isn’t exactly his modus operandi, but it shouldn’t be that shocking. He’s not a heartless bastard or anything.

“Okay, buddy, let’s just go look at the sign.”

They walk around to the side of the building facing the street, where the painter is on a ladder, coloring in the letters with dark shimmery silver. It spells out COMING SOON: STARLIGHT RECORDS.

“What do you think?” Anoop asks.

Adam surveys it and nods. “I like it. I’m glad we went with glittery over plain red. Red’s threatening. Glittery is inviting. Glitter says, ‘Come check us out. We’re big, we’re fun, we have exactly what you want and what you never realized you can’t live without.’”

“Really? Glitter says all of that?”

“And more. Just wait and see.” He claps Anoop on the shoulder heartily and smiles. “We’re going to be one big, sparkly Mecca for music lovers.”

**

“We’ve got a problem.”

That’s the last thing Kris needs to hear right now. Ryland’s due in an hour, and he still has to enter this week’s time cards into the system. He hates being stuck behind a computer like this. He’s not meant for it. It’s one thing to rattle off stupid emails into the void, and it’s another to stare at spreadsheets until his eyes cross. Numbers make his head hurt.

Kris rubs his forehead with one hand. “Don’t tell me you plugged up the toilet again.” Cale’s the only one good with a plunger, but he’ll bitch up a storm if he has to do it, and Kris isn’t in the mood to plea with him right now.

“No, not that,” Matt says. “This is bigger than that. Just—come out here.”

Kris realizes he’ll probably regret this, but he’s willing to take any excuse to get out of this tiny excuse for an office, so he pushes back from the desk and follows Matt out onto the floor. He’s gathered everyone around the counter, and they’re all huddled around Matt’s cell phone.

“What is it?” he asks tiredly, coming up between Cale and Andrew.

Matt shows him his phone, where there’s a somewhat blurry camera picture of the side of a building where the words COMING SOON: STARLIGHT RECORDS are spelled out in giant, glittery letters.

“I walked by it this morning,” Matt explains. “Dude, it’s literally up the street. Like, less than two blocks away.”

“This is not good,” Andrew grumbles.

Kris shakes his head. “No, it has nothing to do with us,” he says. “I mean, it’s Starlight Records. They only sell what’s popular. They’re not gonna have what we have. It’s totally different, you know?”

Andrew and Matt shoot him skeptical looks, but Cale slings an arm over Kris’s shoulder.

“Kris is right,” he says encouragingly. “Starlight Records isn’t like us. They don’t have any charm.”

“You think The Red Guitar has charm?” Matt laughs, sweeping an arm around the room. “Come on, just look at this place.”

Okay, so maybe the store could use some work. The carpet hasn’t been vacuumed in months, the sign outside needs to be repainted, the door sticks when you push it, there’s still a hole from that one time a band came for a show and the lead singer got into a drunken brawl with his drummer and punched the wall. Kris doesn’t even want to look in the stock room—it’s a mountain of useless crap and stinks like mold.

Cale rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Starlight is corporate and impersonal. And there’s no way they’re going to carry Subway Sect or Os Mutantes or Don Cherry.”

“Yeah,” Kris says, nodding, trying to convince himself of it. He tries to ignore the fact that not many people these days come here in search of those bands. In fact, he was forced to start stocking some shitty popular music awhile ago to keep the inventory moving. That’s the majority of what’s sold recently. “We’ll be fine.”

Unfortunately, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him otherwise.

--

From: LA21@gmail.com
To: guitarguy@gmail.com
Subject: Shoes

Sometimes I wish I was a girl. I mean, not really—don’t worry, this isn’t some sexual identity crisis I’m dumping on you or anything. I just really love shoes, and women always have the best shoe selections. I was walking down 5th Avenue today and went right by Bergdorf Goodman, and I swear, I had to stop and stare at the store front for ten minutes. There was this pair of gorgeous black six inch stilettos. Those trademark red soles are to die for. If I were a woman, I would wear nothing but Louboutins all the time.

I’m almost tempted to buy myself a pair and wear them anyway. They’d have to be custom made, though, my feet aren’t that narrow. But it could work. Maybe. Wouldn’t be the strangest thing to grace the Meatpacking District by a long shot, would it?

--

After a few years in the city, the closest person Kris has to a best friend is Cale. Cale had been working for Kris’s uncle for two years before Kris even showed up at all. He was the first one to take Kris under his wing, introduce him to life in the city. If it weren’t for Cale, Kris wouldn’t have known to buy a humidifier for the winter that was so dry it could’ve wrecked the wood of his guitar, that there are separate entrances for the downtown and uptown trains that somehow become apparent only after you’ve swiped your Metrocard, jaywalking is not only allowed but encouraged, never eat curry from that one place on Canal, and that if you offer the hobo on the subway your leftover sandwich instead of money, he’ll probably just spit on you for your trouble.

Cale was even there when Kris met Katy in that bar in Chelsea. If it weren’t for Cale, he never would’ve ordered her that dirty martini from across the room and ended up with her phone number.

Cale is the one person he can tell pretty much anything.

“Do you think you can cheat on someone over the internet?” Kris blurts out, playing with the frayed ends of his shoelaces.

“Depends,” Cale says, pushing a rag around on the counter to dust it off. “If you’re cyber sexing, yeah. Or sending someone naked web cam photos.” He pauses to look up at Kris. “Are you cheating on Katy with someone from the internet?”

“No!” Kris says hastily. “No, I mean, I haven’t—no. There’s just… there’s this guy I’ve been talking to for awhile.” It’s no secret to either Cale or Katy that Kris’s sexuality is… open. Before he met Katy, he’d hooked up with a few guys—he can count them on one hand easily—but the furthest he ever got was being on the receiving end of a sloppy blowjob in a bar bathroom. “We just email. It’s nothing, you know. Bad. But sometimes I think it’s… I don’t know. Inappropriate?”

“Hmm. Is he cute?”

“I don’t know what he looks like.”

“Hmm,” Cale says again. “How did you meet this guy?”

“It’s…complicated.” Yes, Kris can tell Cale pretty much anything, but the Craigslist ad is just a little too embarrassing to share. “All we do is email. I know he’s in his twenties and lives in the city. We have, like, this rule. We don’t talk about anything that could give away who we are.”

Kris braces himself for a “you’re failing at being a cynical New Yorker” speech, but Cale just hmms again and goes back to swiping down the counter.

“How’d it go with Ryland?” he asks.

Ryland left along with Andrew and Matt half an hour ago, leaving Kris and Cale to close up. Just in case some impulse music buyer decides to burst through the door at the last minute. With ten minutes before they officially close and the store having been completely dead for the past hour, it’s not looking likely.

“He got this weird look on his face when I mentioned Starlight opening up,” Kris says. “Like, he didn’t say anything, but I could tell… I don’t know. We’re barely treading water as it is. I’m kind of freaked out.”

“Don’t worry,” Cale assures him. “The Red Guitar is practically a neighborhood institution. It’s been around forever.”

“Yeah, that didn’t save CBGB’s.” And The Red Guitar is no CBGB’s.

“Look, if you’re worried, we can try to do some stuff to drum up business. Get the sign redone, spruce the place up a bit, see if we can book some more shows.”

It has been awhile since they got any bands to play. It probably won’t do much for business, but at least it’s something. And Kris can drag his vacuum cleaner from home, since the one here has a broken belt. Yeah, maybe all the place needs is some spit and elbow grease.

On the way out, Cale throws a friendly arm around Kris’s shoulders. “Starlight can’t compete with us, all right? Yeah, okay, they may have discounts, but they don’t have the same service. Andrew’s a fucking encyclopedia of musical knowledge, Ryland knows the numbers, Matt can sell ice to an Eskimo, and you’re like window dressing. Drawing them in with the pretty.”

“Shut up,” Kris laughs, shoving Cale off and turning up the collar on his coat. “So what purpose do you serve, then?”

“I’m the middle man. I keep you from going insane and killing us all,” Cale teases, grinning wide.

Kris punches him in the shoulder and laughs again. The sad thing is, it’s not far from the truth.

**

From: guitarguy@gmail.com
To: LA21@gmail.com
Subject: re: Hello

Sometimes I wonder about my life. I feel like I fall into everything I have. It’s not that I’m unhappy—I’m not at all. But sometimes I think maybe I’m just... content. Like maybe I should push for something more. I think I worry that if I do, I’ll lose what I already have, the things I know are at the very least comfortable and familiar. I guess the real question here is: Is it better to be unfulfilled but content, or unhappy with your decisions but knowing that at least you were brave in making them?

I’m not great at it, but every once in awhile I try and write songs on my guitar. They all feel so empty. Something’s missing, but I don’t know what. I wish I knew.

--

“I didn’t expect you to be here already.”

Neil sets his copy of the Village Voice down on the table and grins up at Adam. It’s been a few weeks since Adam last saw him, but Neil looks exactly the same—unkempt hair, the scrape of stubble on his cheeks, wearing some tight ironic tee and a worn leather jacket. Neil isn’t big on shopping; Adam definitely inherited all of those family genes.

“Timeliness. It’s this new thing I’m trying,” Neil replies. He gestures to the seat across from him. “Sit down. I ordered you a Coke already.”

Adam drops into the chair across from him and looks around. This café isn’t one he’s been to before; it’s close to Starlight, though, and Neil was the one who suggested it. The inside was crowded due to the lunch hour, so they’re seated in a corner outside, next to the sidewalk.

“How’ve you been, kid?” Neil says, like he’s the older one here. Condescending prick.

“Fine,” Adam says breezily, flipping through the menu. “What about you, Mr. Rolling Stone?”

“Rolling Stone? You’re grouping me in with those hacks? Oh, you wound me.” Neil chuckles. “It’s good, it’s good. And you? How’s the business of destroying the American Dream going?”

“Ah, yes, chain stores that allow people to buy what they want within their means. How evil.”

Neil just laughs again. It’s kind of completely irritating. Their waitress comes over and sets a frosted glass of Coke in front of Adam and a decaf chai tea for Neil.

“You ready to order?” she asks brightly, whipping out her notepad.

“I’ll take the humus plate,” Neil tells her, and then looks at Adam.

Adam scans the menu again and smiles a little. “I’ll have the eggplant sandwich, thank you.”

After the waitress has walked away, Neil raises his eyebrows. “Since when do you eat eggplant?”

“Since when do you drink chai tea?” Adam shoots back.

The deflection works, thank God. “I’m cutting down on caffeine,” Neil explains. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lights one, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Adam deadpans, “because caffeine is such a nasty habit.”

Even with the bickering, it is nice to see Neil. He is family, after all, and it’s not like Adam has an abundance of friends here in New York—plenty of friendly acquaintances, yes, but Anoop is the only one he talks to on a regular basis. Well, aside from Guitarguy, but that doesn’t really count, does it? And if Anoop wasn’t on the payroll, he doubts they’d spend time together at all. Anoop is pretty much paid to like Adam.

“You busy tomorrow night?” Neil asks.

Adam pauses from chewing his sandwich. He’s never actually had eggplant before; he’s not crazy about it, but it would look stupid to not finish what he ordered. “I don’t think so,” he says. Like he even needs to think about it. He doesn’t do anything more than work these days. “Why?”

“I have to cover this concert Friday night,” he explains. “Cassidy Haley and the Comets. Ever heard of them?”

“Are they on the Billboard charts?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then they’re not relevant enough for me to care.”

“Come on, you should go with me,” Neil wheedles. It surprises Adam, because Neil isn’t the type to ask for much. Especially not from him. “I have an extra ticket, and I think you’d actually like them.” He pauses, and then pulls the card he must know Adam can’t turn down: “Plus— and I make this observation from a completely objective heterosexual perspective— the lead singer is very hot. And gay.”

Adam can’t deny the fact that this is the most appealing part of the offer. “Oh?”

“You barely go out anymore,” Neil points out. “Have you even dated anyone since Brad?”

Is that what this is about? Is Neil actually… concerned?

Okay, so maybe Adam hasn’t dated lately. But he’s just been… busy. He doesn’t have time to go out and meet people. Even if he did, he’s not really looking to jump into a relationship right now. Sure, he could go and hook up with random guys if he wanted, but really, what’s the point? It feels like a waste of time, and he’s getting too old for that.

Still, maybe it would be a good idea to get out. Take a break from all this business crap. And for some reason it seems to be important to Neil that he does this.

“Fine,” he relents, “I’ll go.”

After they eat, they wander out to the street, and it’s while Neil’s stubbing out a cigarette that Adam looks across the street and notices the store there. The Red Guitar. The outside is so non-descript he’s a little surprised he notices it at all.

“Hey.” He tugs on Neil’s sleeve. “Have you heard about that place?”

Neil squints across the street. “The Red Guitar? Yeah, I know of it. It’s a niche store. Underground stuff, mostly. Pretty cool.”

“I want to check it out,” Adam says. He’s curious—the shop looks like nothing on the outside. It couldn’t possibly be any competition for Starlight. No way. It’s maybe a sixth of the size. Still, it’s worth a look. Might as well see what he’s up against. Besides, it’s not often he gets to one-up Anoop, the guy who knows everything about everything.

The bell chimes merrily when Adam pushes through the door. He blinks a few times, adjusting to the dimmer lights, and slowly looks around the shop. It’s not much more on the inside than it was on the outside. There are shelves and carts full of CDs, shelves packed with vinyl records, and a few dollar bins stuffed with a random assortment of albums.

As he’s sifting through one of the bins, some guy sporting a black fedora saunters over.

“Hey!” he says enthusiastically. “Can I help you?”

“I’m just looking,” he says. He pulls out an old Soundgarden album and looks down at it. He used to listen to this CD in high school. “Interesting selection you guys have here.”

“We specialize in finding what most stores don’t bother to look for,” the fedora guy says. He’s a little like an over eager puppy, rocking back and forth on his heels. “You’re sure you’re not looking for anything in particular? Because if you are—”

“Matt, calm down. You’re gonna scare off the customers.”

Adam looks over to see a shorter guy walking up to them. He’s cute, his rumpled brown hair sculpted into a faux hawk, except it looks like it was on accident and without the aid of any product, and he has on a too-big dusty green army jacket and tight black jeans. His smile is easygoing, reaching all the way to his eyes. Something about it makes Adam smile back automatically.

“Andrew needs you to help him sort through the new shipment,” the cute guy says to the one with the fedora—Matt. “I’ve got this, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Matt says reluctantly, like it hurts his soul to be torn away from customers.

Once he’s gone, the cute guy turns back to Adam with another grin.

“Sorry. I know he can be a little much sometimes,” he says.

Adam drops the Soundgarden CD back into the bin and shakes his head. “Oh, no, it’s totally fine.”

“You need any help?” he asks, and Adam’s a little shocked that he’s getting this much attention, considering all he’s done is rifle through the dollar bin. Not exactly the markings of a customer who’s going to drop much money in one place.

“Actually,” he says, sneaking a look over at Neil, who’s busy studying the fliers pinned to the bulletin board near the door, “can I ask—do you have anything a little more… mainstream?”

The guy leads Adam over to a rack of CDs full of current Top 40 artists. It’s the only one of its kind.

“I know it’s not much,” he admits, “but we’ve tried to expand a little.”

“No, no, this is good.” Adam surveys the albums and bites back a grin. One rack? One measly rack dedicated to what’s actually selling these days? Oh, this place is so doomed.

“Whatcha looking at?”

Neil’s voice from behind makes him jump, and Adam whirls around, glaring.

“Hey,” Neil says, “you wouldn’t happen to carry the latest Cassidy Haley and the Comets EP, would you? I’m trying to convert my brother here.”

The guy’s eyes go wide. “Are you kidding? You mean House of Cards? Of course. I love it.” He practically runs over to another cart, digs around or a minute and comes back with the disc. “Cassidy actually comes here a lot. He used to do some of his earlier shows here, back when he had only, like, five fans. His music keeps getting better and better. My favorite track off this one is Rundown. The first fifteen seconds—”

“—are phenomenal,” Neil finishes, more animated than he’s been all afternoon. “I know, right? The way it starts with the minor key guitar strum, and then the slightly dissonant second guitar line kicks in—“

“—and it’s, like, kind of harsh and crunchy and distant—”

“And then boom, out of left field you get hit with this horn motif that’s reminiscent of Burt Bacharach.”

“Yeah, exactly!” The guy’s whole face lights up. It’s sort of adorable. “I don’t know if the horns are a keyboard effect or not, but still, I love it. It’s such an awesome hook.”

“It is,” agrees Neil, grinning back.

Adam looks back and forth between them. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but what was your name?”

“Kris Allen. I’m the owner.” Kris sticks out a hand, and Adam shakes it. So this is the guy. He’s shorter than what Adam had envisioned. Also cuter. “And what was yours?”

“I’m Adam,” he says quickly. “You can just call me Adam.”

“Yes, he only goes by one name. Like Madonna,” snarks Neil, and Adam turns to shoot him a pointed look. For fuck’s sake, can’t he just keep his mouth shut for once?

“Okay then. Just Adam.” Kris’s grin stretches even wider.

“You know, you’ve convinced me,” Adam says, holding up the CD. “I think I need to hear this epic song for myself.”

Kris leads them up to the counter, where a taller bearded guy is standing at the register. The bearded guy chats up Neil as he scans the CD and makes change from Adam’s twenty dollar bill.

“Damn,” Neil says, picking up a copy of Rave off the counter. “You guys carry this?”

“Of course,” the bearded guy says, like it’d be stupid if they didn’t. Adam leans over to peer at the cover. He’s never actually seen Rave for sale anywhere; if it wasn’t for his subscription, he’d almost believe Neil made the whole thing up.

Neil puts the magazine back down on the pile. “I think I’m going to have to come back here.”

“See?” The bearded guy nudges Kris with one elbow. “We’re not going under. We have customer loyalty.”

“Cale,” Kris says warningly, and then turns to Adam and adds by way of explanation, “There’s a Starlight Records opening right up the street from us.”

Adam’s throat goes tight. He tries to school his face into an expression of nothing more than mild interest. “Oh?”

“Obviously we’re not as flashy, or big, and we can’t slash prices like they can,” Kris says, “but it’s not about that. It’s about—” He pauses, searching for the word.

“Integrity,” Cale supplies helpfully.

“Yes!” Kris snaps his fingers. “Integrity. My uncle ran this place for fifteen years. It’s not just about selling records, you know? He believed in connecting people to music they wouldn’t normally get a chance to hear. And giving people a place to meet people like them, who felt the same way about music as they did. That’s what The Red Guitar stands for.” He stops, face going a little red. “Sorry, I’m rambling here.”

Adam shifts his gaze to over Kris’s shoulder, where a black and white photo is framed on the wall. It’s of a stocky balding man standing outside of what is obviously The Red Guitar, arms crossed over his chest and a prideful smile on his face.

“Is that your uncle?” he asks, nodding toward the picture.

Kris turns around to glance at it, and then back at Adam. “It is. He left the store to me. And I’m not gonna let it go anywhere.”

“So Starlight Records…” Adam says.

“Is the devil,” Cale says cheerfully, popping the CD in a little brown paper bag and passing it to him.

“They really are,” Neil agrees with a smirk. Adam bites down on the inside of his cheek to refrain from smacking him on the back of the head.

“We should get going,” he says to Cale and Kris. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Cale says.

As they walk out the door, Kris calls, “Come back soon!”

Once they’re on the street, Neil shoves his hands in his pockets and shakes his head. “You know, a place like that’s already been almost destroyed by illegal downloading. When you guys open—” he starts, but Adam cuts him off, hitting him on the shoulder.

“Shut up,” he says, “just—shut up and let it go.”

“All right, all right.” Neil puts his hands up in a defensive gesture. “I’ll drop it.”

Adam rakes a hand through his black hair with a sigh. He thought it would be fun to scope out the competition, but now he just feels sort of weird about it. Damn Kris Allen for being all cute and likeable and shit. Hurting his business feels like kicking a harmless puppy.

But whatever. This is just the way the world works. It’s not Adam’s problem.

part two

fic: Here We Are (American Idol; Kris/Adam; NC-17) (2/2)

buffyx — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 10:11:25 GMT

fic: Here We Are (American Idol; Kris/Adam; NC-17) (1/2)

buffyx — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 10:10:17 GMT

Title: Here We Are
Fandom/Pairing: American Idol; Kris/Adam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: “Mostly the plan entails being with you. I’d say that’s where it begins and ends, actually.” A long epilogue to If It Kills Me, aka, the Plane Crash Fic, but really it can be read as a standalone with minimal confusion.

The divorce papers come on a Monday morning while Kris is in the studio. He hasn’t slept in twenty hours, keeping himself awake with only a steady stream of coffee and sheer force of will.

“I think,” he says to Cassidy, “it sounds better with just the snare. See?” He reaches across the board to adjust the knob, and then plays the track from the beginning. “Adding the kick drum is overkill.”

Cassidy nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I like that.”

Kris is relieved that Cassidy’s not going to push for more on this one. Sometimes the guy is like an eager kid wanting to play with all of the shiny new toys at his disposal. Kris can’t really blame him for that; he still remembers his first time sitting in on production, toying with all of the effects, marveling at the way they added to the bare bones of a song. It took him awhile to learn that sometimes less is more.

The sound he’s aiming for with Cassidy’s album is pure and acoustic and introspective. Something stripped down to showcase his emotive vocals and the poetry of his lyrics. The production can’t be heavy-handed—Kris leaves only light touches, letting the music speak for itself, raw and exposed and vulnerable. “Think Conor Oberst,” he’d said to Cassidy during their first session. “Minus, you know, the sounding like a drowned cat thing.”

He’s glad that Cassidy came to him for this, back when he decided to ditch his attempts at electro-pop and stick with the folk rock acoustic sound. Not that Cassidy had a wide range of options—but this is like a vanity project, almost, since Kris obviously didn’t take it on for the modest compensation Cassidy’s label would allow. He took it on because he likes Cassidy, because Cassidy is a talented songwriter, because it’s refreshing to put an album together that focuses more on the quality of the music than the reception it’ll have to various focus groups. Because Adam asked him to, and Adam never asks Kris for anything unless it’s important.

Kris is messing with the reverb on the track when his phone goes off. He’s fully prepared to ignore it, but Cassidy swats his hands off the board and says, “Man, take a break, you’ve been ignoring your real life for long enough.”

It’s sad but true, and Kris is feeling a little claustrophobic in the booth, so he takes his phone and lets himself out into the hallway to answer it. The call is from his lawyer.

“The papers just arrived,” she announces.

The weird electric edgy energy he’s been running on seems to be sapped from him all at once. Something else buzzes under his skin instead, darker and unsettling. He almost stumbles, leans hard against the wall with one shoulder.

“Everything should be in order,” his lawyer continues, “but I’ll read over it this morning to make sure nothing strays from the set provisions. Would you like some time before you come in to sign?”

“No,” he says, feeling numb and strangely detached. “No, I’d rather just… get it over with. Can I come in today?”

“Today?” she says. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” A short pause. “You’re sure?”

He breathes out and stares at the framed platinum record fixed on the wall opposite him. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

After he hangs up, he slides bonelessly down the wall and to the floor, his cell phone pressed against the bottom of the chin. He knew this was coming. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised.

**

The conditions are pretty painless. The truth is, Kris would give Katy pretty much anything she asked for—as far as he’s concerned, she’s earned more than her share, and he doesn’t really care about the money anyway. But Katy’s not asking for a lot. Neither of them have ever been big spenders, so there aren’t many assets to split; Kris gets to keep the apartment, at least.

He initials where he’s supposed to, and signs where he’s supposed to, looks at where Katy’s signature is written out at the bottom of the page in her neat writing and wonders idly if her hand shook at all when she signed her name. His doesn’t. He doesn’t know if that means anything.

But it’s still strange, seeing the end of his failed marriage spelled out in such formal terms. Irreconcilable differences. It doesn’t feel like enough to encompass how things fell apart. He guesses it’s all but irrelevant at this point, though, and signs each page quickly, shakes his lawyer’s hand and ducks out of the office building as quickly as possible.

He reemerges back onto the street, surrounded by Wilshire’s humming traffic and harried passerby, signs that the world continues on as normal even when his has changed so much. It’s been over a year since they first separated, but this is the final nail in the coffin. It’s really over. No going back now.

He gets in his car and sits there for awhile as dim car horns and the city sounds blast around him. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now.

He calls Katy.

“Hi,” she answers softly.

“Hi,” he says. “So. I signed the papers.”

“Oh,” she says, and then: “How are you?”

She sounds so genuinely concerned that it makes him feel pathetic. How screwed up is it that she’s the one who filed for divorce, and she’s the one trying to comfort him?

“I’m… you know.” Except she can’t really know, since Kris hasn’t even decided how he himself feels about all of this. He throws the manila envelope in his hand onto the passenger seat. “What about you?” he asks. “Are you holding up okay?”

“I’m all right,” she says. “I’ve had better days. I’ve had worse.” She goes quiet for a moment. “It’s weird. I thought it would be harder. I mean, it is hard, but at the same time… not.”

Maybe Katy does understand.

“Yeah,” he says softly. He doesn’t want to dwell on it, though. No point now. “How about everything else?” he asks. “Are you still seeing that Owen guy?”

“That Owen guy” is Owen Jay Black, Katy’s casted love interest on the CW’s cult hit Hard Candy. He tried keeping up with the show, but the second Katy’s character started macking on other guys, it just got too weird for him. Two months ago Katy called and let him know she was dating Owen, just so Kris wouldn’t find out from the media. Kris hasn’t met the guy, but he’s seen the pictures; Owen Jay Black is his total physical opposite, tall and Hollywood tan, blond and blue-eyed.

“Yes, we’re still together,” she tells him. “I wouldn’t call it serious, though. I feel like I’m just learning how to do the casual dating thing. I never really did it before. I never had to, you know?” Katy laughs, just a little, underneath her breath. “Well, of course you know.”

He definitely knows. First there was Katy, and then Katy, Katy, Katy, until there wasn’t—and then there was Adam. But with Adam, it wasn’t like—there’d been a history there. It wasn’t like starting over from scratch. Kris’s love life has never followed conventional standards.

“What about Adam?” she asks. To her credit, there’s no trace of hesitation or bitterness there. He knows it can’t be an easy question for her to ask. But maybe she’s just a good actress, better than he ever gave her credit for.

“He’s still in Europe,” Kris explains. Adam’s been on his European tour for over a month and a half now, co-headlining with Lady Gaga, jumping from city to city promoting the album. “He’s good, though. Things are good.”

“Good,” she says, and he can almost hear her smiling on the other end. “I really hope you’re happy, Kristopher.”

It doesn’t come out the way you’d expect from an ex. And that’s what she is now: his ex-wife. It feels weird to think of her that way, but there it is.

**

Kris can’t remember which city Adam is in at the moment. He has enough trouble keeping track of his own life— trying to remember if he bothered to eat breakfast, if he picked up laundry detergent last time he was at Whole Foods, which radio station or magazine reporter he’s supposed to interview with between studio time. Thank God for personal assistants. If it weren’t for Louise emailing him grocery lists and prying him out of the recording booth long enough to field phone interviews, he doesn’t know how he’d get anything done.

He thinks Adam is in Berlin… or maybe it’s Copenhagen. He has no idea what the time difference is, but he gives it a shot and calls anyway.

“Hello?”

Well, it doesn’t sound like he woke Adam up, so it can’t be that late. Or that early.

“Hey,” he says, unable to stop himself from smiling like an idiot. He can’t help it; even though it’s only been two days, it feels like forever since he last heard Adam’s voice. “You weren’t sleeping, were you?”

“Me?” Adam laughs. “You really don’t know your time zones, do you?”

“Shut up. I can’t even remember where you are.”

“Berlin. And no, I just got done with sound check. I’ve got some time to kill. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Kris picks at a loose thread on the arm of his couch. He could really use new furniture. Maybe he should throw everything out, redecorate completely, start all over. A clean slate.

“Kris,” Adam says. Even five thousand miles away, Adam can see right through him.

“I got the papers today,” he admits quietly. “It’s done.”

The ensuing silence stretches out for so long Kris would think they’d disconnected if it weren’t for the sound of Adam’s breathing.

Eventually Adam clears his throat a little and says, “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” he says. He’s not going to lie and pretend everything is totally fine—he’s done that before, and it never fools Adam anyway, so it’s pretty much pointless to even try. Adam knows him too well. “She told me she’s still dating Owen Jay Black.”

“Are you jealous?”

“What? No. That would be stupid.”

“Emotions aren’t always rational,” Adam reasons, “and besides, you’re allowed to have a hard time with this, or be jealous, or whatever. I wouldn’t be, like, mad.”

“I’m not jealous,” Kris insists. “I mean—it’s kind of weird? But it’s not—I’m not—” He stops and hugs a throw pillow close to his chest. “I don’t know.”

This isn’t a conversation to be had with Adam. No matter how much he claims he won’t be offended, Kris isn’t sure he has a way to explain what he’s feeling—that yes, he is sad, that the reasons things didn’t work with Katy never had anything to do with loving her any less, that while he’s more okay than he has been in a long time with the direction his life is heading, it’s still hard and a little scary to think of a life without Katy, after having her in it for so long.

“You shouldn’t be jealous anyway,” Adam continues with a teasing lilt to his voice. “Who the fuck has three names? Pretentious try-hard douchebag.”

Kris smiles, cradling the phone against his shoulder so he can hold the pillow with both arms. “What does that make Neil Patrick Harris?”

“NPH can do no wrong. He’s free to do whatever the hell he wants. He could have five names if he decided to and I wouldn’t judge.” Adam pauses. “But seriously, Kris—do I need to worry? I don’t like you being alone like this. Especially with the press…”

Oh, great. The press. Kris hadn’t even thought of that. He’s been lucky enough to be out of the limelight lately, but he’s sure once news of the divorce being finalized leaks, it’ll probably kick up some of the same old “Is Kris Allen on a downward spiral?” shit he received in the aftermath of the island, getting caught with Adam, the separation.

“I can handle it,” he assures Adam. “I don’t know, maybe I’ll just… go somewhere. Get away for awhile. I could go to London. Eg keeps inviting me, and I do have some stuff to work with now.”

It’s too early to really be working on a new album—he did some shows earlier this year for his last, and is planning to do more in summer—but Kris can’t stop writing. Most of it will never go anywhere, but some of it he saves for later use—recorded melodies and snippets of lyrics scribbled down in notebooks. That part of his brain never really shuts off.

“That might be good,” Adam agrees. “Just… don’t do that thing where you get too wrapped up in your own head, all right?”

“Mmm.” Kris sighs, snuggling into the couch cushions, and closes his eyes. His bones feel heavy and tired. “I wish you could just be here.”

“Me too. But it’s only a month more,” Adam says, but there’s something hollow behind the words.

They both know exactly how long one month can be.

**

He waits until the production on Cassidy’s album is done, going so far as to all but live in the studio until then. The apartment is just too empty and depressing to go home to at night. Sleeping on a cramped lumpy couch next to the too-loud air conditioner isn’t ideal, but Kris has survived worse. It reminds him of how right after the island, it felt so foreign to sleep on something comfortable; there were times he’d wake up and find himself on the floor, curled up in a ball, without having remembered ever getting off the mattress in the first place.

The night after the finishing touches on Cassidy’s record are complete, he declines Cassidy’s offer to go bar hopping and opts instead to pass out stomach-first on the sofa in the studio’s break room. He stays that way until someone shakes him awake by the foot sometime later. He starts to kick out, still in that hazy, disoriented half-asleep state, until his disturber grabs his socked foot and holds it still.

“Easy, tiger,” the familiar voice says, laughing. “Geez, you’re violent in the mornings.”

Kris rolls onto his back and sits upright, rubbing a hand over his bleary eyes. “Chase? What are you doing here?”

“I tried calling you like a gazillion times. Guess you were dead to the world, man,” Chase says. He picks Kris’s cell phone up off the coffee table and tosses it into his lap. Sure enough, there are ten missed calls. “I was on this side of town and thought I’d drop in. Figured you’d be here, and sure enough…”

Kris pushes himself off the couch and rolls his neck in an attempt to get his bearings, and then walks over to the coffee pot. There’s some still leftover, and still warm, which means apparently he slept through someone coming in to fix it. He really was out cold; he just hopes he wasn’t snoring.

“It’s nice to see you, man,” he says, pouring a cup and turning to face Chase again. “It’s been too long.”

The kid looks good. Kris hasn’t seen him at all in the past two months—Chase has been off doing insane promo for his debut, which is selling like crazy, and the only time Kris catches a glimpse of him is when he turns on MTV or VH1 and sees his video topping all the countdowns. He still gets daily emails, though, usually random diatribes from Chase on the evils of Miley Cyrus, or why the new Neko Case record will make Kris “jizz in his pants,” or questions on how far he should push Jive on certain issues of artistic integrity.

It’s been nice—and, admittedly, rewarding on a somewhat personal level, given how much he had a hand in crafting the album—to see Chase get the kind of reception he has. It gives Kris renewed faith in the tastes of the general music-listening masses.

“Tell me about it,” Chase groans. “Jive’s running me ragged.”

“Yeah, but you love it.” Kris remembers the lead-up to his first album—it was insane, of course, and too rushed, and he almost killed himself between the Idol tour, the writing, the recording, and the promo. But Chase has a good personality for this, and he’s had more time, so he’s probably soaking it all in and enjoying the ride. As he should. It’s an album to proud of.

“Hey, so I’ve got an extra ticket to Mayer’s concert at the Staples Center next weekend,” Chase says. “Allison’s bailing on me. It’s the same night as her favorite cousin’s Communion ceremony.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it didn’t do much to convince her when I said seeing Mayer live is a greater religious experience than anything that can be experienced within the confines of a Catholic church. In fact, I think my argument was counterproductive in the end.” Chase shrugs. “Anyway, you interested?”

Kris winces. “I would, but I can’t.”

Chase makes a face like he’s unsurprised by the answer. He’s probably grown accustomed to Kris’s semi-hermit lifestyle by this point. (Once he told Kris, “You’re like one of the abused puppies in those awful ASPCA commercials with the Sarah McLachlan song. You’re just skittish. You need to be rehabilitated and re-released into the wild.” Kris said, “They don’t release dogs into the wild. Also, stop comparing me to baby animals before I smash this guitar over your head.”)

“I have a legit reason!” Kris protests. “I’m going to London.”

Chase’s eyebrows shoot up. “This a business trip?”

“Mostly,” Kris says vaguely. “I’ve got some work lined up. But also… things with Katy are finalized, and it might get kind of messy with the press, so I thought I’d do the mature thing and go overseas and stick my head in the sand for awhile.”

“Sounds like a reasonable course of action,” Chase says with a thoughtful nod. His face goes a little more serious. “I’m not sure if ‘I’m sorry’ is the appropriate response here, but… you know you can talk to me, right? If you need to?”

It’s sweet of Chase to offer, even though he’s way too far in over his head to help with this kind of thing. Still, it’s the gesture that counts. Kris comes over and ruffles Chase’s hair.

“Talking to you has never been an issue,” he teases. “The problem is getting you to shut up.”

**

There are a lot of things Kris likes about London, but the transatlantic flight is not among them. And not for the obvious reasons—the number one question he’s asked most in interviews these days is how he deals with the constant plane travel. Isn’t he ever scared? Maybe he should be, but he isn’t. He doesn’t even think about it most of the time, though he makes a conscious effort to only fly commercial these days, since statistics show it’s safer. It’s a little harder for Adam, he knows, who pops two Xanax before any flight he boards.

What he doesn’t like is the hassle of going through security, the inevitable moment of panic where he worries he left his passport at home, airplane food, leg cramps from sitting in the same position for so long, and even after landing, hoping his luggage isn’t lost.

And jetlag. The jetlag is never fun. It still hasn’t worn off by the time Kris’s driver drops him off at Eg’s place in west London the next day. If anything’s going to snap Kris awake, it’s Eg.

“God fucking dammit!” The third faulty microphone of the day goes crashing across the wall. “Bloody piece of shite.”

Eg’s basement studio is as dark as the inside of a cave and always looks like a tornado just ripped through it, pieces of equipment strewn everywhere like wreckage. Kris picks a battered sitar off the floor and plucks at it experimentally until Eg finds whatever it is he’s looking for.

Eg is not the type to shoot the shit; he pulls up two stools, fumbles out a cigarette from his pocket, and gestures impatiently to Kris’s notebook. “Show me what you got.”

The one song Kris is itching most to work on is lyrics-only—and even then, just a chorus, no full verses or real melody yet. It’s definitely a ballad, though. He can hear it in his head: slow and sweet and yearning.

So say goodbye to the beaten path
Say goodbye to all you’ve ever known
You wrap my heart in vines, you cover me,
Please don’t ever let me go

Eg tools around with the piano, humming under his breath and every so often stopping to note where lyrics should be tweaked to fit the beats. The melody is genius, falling, gentle chords building slowly to a soar, but that’s not much surprise—Eg is like the Midas of the recording industry. Everything he touches turns to gold.

“All right, then,” Eg says, once they’ve hammered out the melody and laid down a rough track of it, “I think that’s enough for today.”

Kris looks at his watch, confused. “It’s still early, and the verses—”

“You shouldn’t rush this one,” Eg cuts in. He leans back in his chair and lights his cigarette with a flourish, silvery smoke drifting up, softening the sharp, bird-like features of his face. “Sit on it. Think about what you want to say. Come back in a week and we’ll flesh it out.”

He sends Kris off with the recording and an old keyboard that’s most definitely seen better days. Kris lugs it back to his hotel in Soho, sets it up in the room and orders room service so he has no excuse but to sit and work on it. He takes the plate of cod fillet and shuts himself out on the balcony, sitting cross-legged on the floor and gazing down at the street below with his headphones plugged in, looping the song on repeat.

It’s about Adam. He knows that much. It’d be easier if he had Adam in front of him, in flesh and blood, rather than having to rely on phone calls and text messages and conversations over Skype for inspiration. It’d be easier if he didn’t have to be so careful all the damn time, not knowing who else is in the room, not knowing how much he can say. They haven’t gone public yet. Adam’s choice, not his—Kris never felt the need to hide, Kris wasn’t ashamed, but it was Adam who insisted they wait.

“I want us to control this,” Adam explained. “I want minimal damage for everyone involved. This is too important for them to fuck up.”

Them being the media, of course. And Kris knew that “everyone involved” meant primarily Kris. Adam wants to protect him from the level of scrutiny he’d suffered, Kris knows, but he also knows that no matter how it’s handled, it’ll be there. Now that the divorce is finalized, they’re going to have to find a way to deal with it. He’s not worried. He’s not sure he’s prepared, either, but he’s not worried.

After everything else he’s gone through, what the media thinks of all this seems pretty unimportant.

He spends the night setting up the keyboard and teaching himself the melody until he’s got it down pat, and by then, he’s too tired to muster up any energy to write, so he burrows under the covers and falls asleep instead. The next morning, he plugs into his iPod and wanders the streets, looking up at the gray sky and thinking. There’s something incredibly peaceful to him about London, even in the bustle of Piccadilly Circus.

He’s sitting in the corner of a café on Old Compton eating an éclair and drinking tea when Adam calls. He smiles when he answers the phone.

“I was just thinking about you,” he says, looking out the window. It’s starting to rain, drops streaking down the glass pane in rivulets.

“Really?” Adam sounds pleased and a little amused. “Why is that?”

“I’m having tea,” he explains. “It’s not as good as what you make, though.”

“Please. You’re in London. Either you’re drinking the shittiest tea they have to offer, or you’re just flattering me.”

“And if I am?”

“Well, you know baseless flattery will get you everywhere.”

They talk for awhile longer—Kris about the session with Eg, Adam about the outrageous after party he just left. It warms Kris’s heart a little to know that Adam tore himself away, that it was important for him to make time for this. That he needs this contact just as much as Kris does.

**

For the next few days, Kris roams around the city, and plays on the keyboard, and litters his floor with crumpled notebook paper filled with discarded lyrics that just don’t work. He goes to the lobby bar and drinks a few light ales, and stands on his balcony staring out at the blinking city lights.

He’s grateful for the time and the space to himself, allowing him to dig deep, sort out his head until he can string his thoughts together in a way that makes sense. Sometimes a song will pour out of him all at once, or he’ll be doing something mundane and have that light bulb moment out of nowhere, and sometimes it takes awhile to pull it out of him, like unraveling a sweater by yanking on a single loose thread.

This is one of those times.

Kris dredges up all of the thoughts and all of the memories bouncing in his head and puts them to paper, pours his heart out, free-writing until his hand cramps up, and then sifts through it and tries to find the poetry in his words.

By the end of the week, he pieces together the entire song.

Inside some smoky bar
I was fighting with the ghosts
And trying to outrun my own
But no matter how many songs I write
You’re never going to leave me alone

Please don’t leave me alone.

**

Kris records the song with Eg’s accompaniment and emails the demo track to Adam under the name Vines. Adam calls him later and says that he loves it, of course, but that he wants to hear it with an acoustic guitar arrangement—“I don’t know, I can just picture you sitting in the middle of the stage playing it that way, you know?”—and maybe he could make it a little funkier, like by adding a glockenspiel or a harpsichord or something, but by then Kris realizes Adam is mocking him. Probably. It’s Adam, after all, so he can’t be entirely certain.

It’s frustrating to be so close to Adam—or, well, at least a lot closer than he has been lately—and not be able to see him. But while there is a small circle of people who know what’s going on—their families, Katy, their publicists, a few trusted friends— they can’t risk something happening, the wrong person finding out, feeding the rumor mill before they’re ready for it. Kris can’t even go to any of Adam’s concerts. Paranoid, maybe, but it’s the way Adam wants it, and Kris isn’t going to push.

He works with Eg a few more times, does some writing on his own, and otherwise tries to think of it as a vacation. Louise checks in daily to give him the rundown—the press response to the divorce announcement (which, thankfully, has been on the tepid side), interviews he’ll have lined up once he’s done with his “obligatory emo guitar boy period of self-imposed isolation” (her words, not his).

That makes him feel ridiculous, and makes him wonder what exactly he’s doing here, but he figures he’s allowed to indulge in a little ridiculous behavior sometimes. If anything, he should get credit for coping as well as he has—after all, he’s not totally ignoring the outside world, and he’s not falling apart at the seams. He’s not broken. A little cracked, maybe. But that’s okay. He’ll be okay.

**

The last stop on Adam’s tour is in London, playing the O2, and Kris finds it hard to concentrate on anything other than his anticipation in the days leading up to it. If the way Adam throws open his hotel room door and drags Kris inside is any indication, Adam’s been waiting for this moment, too, just as much.

He grabs Kris in a hug that’s too tight to be comfortable and just holds him for a few moments, both of them laughing breathlessly. Kris pushes his face into Adam’s shoulder and breathes in deep, wraps his arms tight around Adam’s back and tries to ingrain this in his memory, the feel of it, Adam, solid and real and right here, so he can remember it later. When he needs to.

Adam presses a kiss to the side of Kris’s neck, and then pulls back and kisses him hard. “I know we have a lot to catch up on,” he says, “but I only have an hour.” He raises one eyebrow suggestively.

They don’t waste any time scrambling out of clothes between frantic, open-mouthed kisses. Kris moves his mouth against Adam’s bare chest, traces truths across his skin the way he does on paper, in his songs. Adam fucks him slowly, like he’s savoring it, stopping every so often to readjust, to make it last longer. He intertwines their fingers, presses Kris’s hands back into the sheets, holds him down with mouth hovered over Kris’s, his eyes squeezed shut. Kris keeps his open the whole time. He wants to remember this. He wants to memorize the look on Adam’s face, the mix of sweet agony and pleasure.

They don’t speak at all until after, with Kris stretched out beside Adam, both of them catching their breath. Kris turns on his side to watch muscles shift under Adam’s skin, traces a hand up his abdomen, across his navel and above. His palm rises and falls as Adam breathes, and Kris can’t stop smiling. It’s been too long. Too damn long.

Wrapping his lips around a nipple, he sucks lightly, then harder until Adam groans. “You’re going to kill me if you don’t stop that,” Adam says, but then he cards his hand through Kris’s hair and holds him in place. “God, I missed this. Tell me I’m not the only one who missed this.”

“You’re not,” Kris assures him, pillowing his head against Adam’s shoulder. He winds his arm over Adam’s stomach and strokes the skin there with his thumb. He feels like he just jumped off a merry-go-around— he’s standing still, but the world is still spinning like mad all around him. “Believe me, you have no idea.”

**

Things haven’t changed much back in L.A. Kris spends the first few days catching up on the backlog of interviews he’d refused to take while in London, and goes into 19E’s offices for a few meetings, where various suits run down numbers he doesn’t really care about and discuss ideas for the coming months—they want to book him for one of the festivals. SXSW’s already got a full lineup, but they’re still in talks with Bonnaroo, Coachella, Lollapalooza, possibly ACL in October.

Adam’s schedule is less harried than usual; aside from some appearances and meetings, he has a few weeks free to unwind from the tour. Kris spends almost every night at Adam’s place. They have a system—Adam leaves so the paps will follow him to 7-11 or Walgreens or wherever, and then Kris drives in without being detected, and awhile later, Adam returns. Voila.

Except all of the sneaking around gets pretty annoying— not to mention time-consuming— pretty quickly, and after one night where Kris has to circle around the block for almost an hour before getting the all-clear, he’s had about enough.

“This is stupid,” he tells Adam.

Adam plucks some grapes from a bowl, popping them one-by-one into his mouth as he watches Kris pace back and forth across his kitchen. Which is really unfair, because it’s distracting, and Kris is trying to make a point here. A very important point. One that is difficult to focus on when Adam keeps drawing attention to his mouth like that.

“There’s no reason to do all this running around to keep it a secret,” Kris soldiers on, choosing to fix his eyes on the floor rather than Adam’s face, “not when everything with Katy is done now. The media is going to do what they’re going to do. I don’t care. It’s time already, and—”

“You’re right,” says Adam.

Kris freezes in his tracks. “What?”

“You’re right,” he says again, more slowly. “It’s time. Fuck it.”

It irritates Kris that Adam summed up his entire argument—which he carefully constructed while driving in endless circles around the neighborhood— in merely two words. Kris is not a man of many words, and he certainly isn’t one to go off on tirades, so it’s a little disappointing that his planned rant has been rendered pointless, since Adam apparently needs no convincing.

“Really?” he says. He thought this would be harder. Like, a lot harder.

“Yes,” Adam says. “Look, if you were anyone else, I never would’ve done this. You know how I am— I don’t do that closeted bullshit, not for anyone. I hate it.”

Kris’s stomach tightens. “I didn’t ask you to. I said I would—”

Adam holds up a hand to stop him. “I know. If it were anyone else… but it’s you, and I just—I didn’t want to make this any harder than it has to be. I didn’t want to drag you out before you were ready.”

“I am ready. I’ve been ready.”

“I know you are,” he says. “Or, you think you are. And I can’t… I can’t keep putting it off because I’m waiting for this magical perfect timing. This is as good as it’s going to get. You’re right—the press will say whatever they’re going to say; it doesn’t fucking matter. It doesn’t matter, okay? Just tell me you’ll remember that.”

“I’ll remember,” Kris says softly.

He closes the distance between them, pressing Adam back against the counter, bracing his hands on either side of Adam’s hips. Leaning in, he brushes his mouth across Adam’s— and even though it’s nothing more than a chaste kiss, soft and sweet and barely there, it feels like something more important than that. Something binding.

**

They make their public debut at a film premiere—it’s an opening at the Egyptian, some indie about a vineyard and a group of bohemians or something, and it stars Zooey Deschanel, who Adam knows through a friend of a friend. Kris isn’t sure what the appropriate attire for this event is; he lets Adam sift through the meager offerings of his closet, and somewhere amidst a sea of plaid, Adam finds him a white Oxford button-down and a skinny black tie to go with it.

They pose on the carpet but skip the press line, and though they don’t hold hands, Adam wraps an arm around Kris’s waist, and Kris puts his hand on Adam’s back, and they lean in close enough for it to be obvious—to the photographers, especially, who call out their names and barrage them with a hailstorm of light bulb flashes strong enough to blind them both for life.

The movie isn’t very good—or maybe Kris is just too unenlightened, or too distracted, to get it. They leave the theater before it’s even over, and go to this hole-in-the-wall Thai place half a block from Adam’s house for a late dinner.

“Are you ready to be the talk of the town?” Adam asks. He splits the last spring roll in half with the side of his fork and scrapes the bigger piece onto Kris’s plate. “You know it’s going to be a frenzy.”

“I know,” says Kris. “Valerie called me ten times today.” Five of those he let go through to voicemail, which he still hasn’t bothered to check. She’s his publicist and she’s just doing her job, but it’s just too tiring. All of it. Kris would rather play it by ear than have every second of his life be so calculated.

The next day, the blogosphere blows up, predictably, and Kris has to field even more phone calls. Not just from Louise and Valerie, but from his agent, and the label, and friends and family. At least he warned them all ahead of time. He didn’t want to spring it on them, and he’d been grateful when Katy gave him the same courtesy, so it was only fair.

“So it’s official then,” Chase says. “You and Adam.”

Kris cradles the phone against his shoulder and looks down at the dirty laundry stuffed in his overnight bag. He’s spent almost every night at Adam’s lately, wearing the same five shirts and five pairs of jeans in constant rotation, and they’re long overdue for a wash. Even by Kris’s standards.

“Yup,” he says, balling up a wrinkled plaid shirt and tossing it with the others.

“You sure sound excited.”

“Yup.”

“And you don’t really want to talk about this, do you?”

“Nope.”

Chase isn’t the only one who calls.

Allison says, “About fucking time, dude.”

His publicist says, “I have at least seven—no, wait, eight— offers on the table for an exclusive. I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.”

His father says, “As long as you’re happy.”

Kris does his laundry and packs some more clothes in his bag, along with more deodorant and a stack of books, and drives over to Adam’s place, makes his way past the swarming paparazzi and through the gates. And when Adam opens the door and smiles wide at him, and he smiles right back, he realizes that he really is. Happy.

**

Adam says he doesn’t want to do any People magazine, “Lance Bass, Mickey Mouse bullshit”; Kris doesn’t really want to do anything. He doesn’t see how it’s anyone’s business. It’s his life. Their lives. He’s not so naive to think that just because he wants privacy means he’ll get it—history has shown him that much, if nothing else—but he’d rather at least attempt to live his life as openly and normally as possible.

Whatever that means.

This plan works out okay until the first time they’re caught kissing in public—not in public public, just in a less-than-hidden corner of a restaurant close to Kris’s studio. It’s not much more than a peck, but it’s enough for the cameras with their insane zoom lenses.

A week after the photos leak, Kris’s father calls, while Kris is in bed reading his well-worn, dog-eared copy of Owen Meany. Adam is in the shower, singing so loud Kris can hear it through the door, over the running water—“I’ll stick with you baby for a thousand years, nothing’s gonna touch you in these golden years, golden years, gold, whop whop whop—”. He sets the book on the nightstand and answers his phone, smiling.

His father makes small talk for awhile, discussing work and Daniel’s latest antics and the Hogs’ prospects for the season, but there’s something weirdly artificial about it—he sounds off, strained, quieter than usual.

“Dad, what’s going on?” he finally asks.

There’s a long pause. Too long. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you this,” his dad says. “We got a letter today.”

“What do you mean, a letter?” Kris sits up and switches the phone to his other ear. “Is this about money?”

One of the first things he did when he had enough money was pay off his parents’ mortgage; last year he bought them a new car. Every Christmas on top of the other gifts he buys, he cuts them a check, since it’s the only time he can get away with it—whenever he’s tried to help them out otherwise, they’ve always stubbornly refused. But they’d ask him if they needed it, wouldn’t they?

He barely has time to consider the possibilities before his father explains.

“No, it’s not about money. We’re fine,” he says. “It… it was about you.” Another pause. “And Adam.”

“What?” Kris’s heart leaps into his throat. “What did it say?”

“Just hateful garbage. No reason to rehash it now,” his dad says, his tone all soft like he’s trying to calm Kris down, except it isn’t working because Kris doesn’t feel calm at all. “It’s just, your mother—it shook her up a little, is all.”

Kris takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, his head tight with the beating of his own blood. “Tell her I’m sorry,” he says, when he can find words again.

“Don’t apologize.”

“But—”

“No,” his dad says sharply, “don’t. Don’t start down that road. She’s not upset because of you, she’s upset because she doesn’t want to see you hurt. You’re our son, and we love you. That hasn’t changed. You’re still our same Kristopher.”

But Kris isn’t sure he feels the same.

After he hangs up, he stares at his phone for awhile, then climbs out of bed and walks into the bathroom. He peels off his shirt and draws back the clear plastic shower curtain, not bothering with his boxers, and joins Adam under the warm spray.

Adam’s moved on to show tunes by now, is singing, “Open your door, I'll be your tenant, don't got much baggage to lay at your feet, but sweet kisses I've got to spare. I'll be there, I'll cover you,” but he stops abruptly when he turns and sees Kris’s face. “Hey,” he says, brow furrowing. He surveys Kris up and down. “Oh my god, you’re shaking. What’s the matter?”

Kris doesn’t say anything, just presses their foreheads together, gulping for air, hands slipping over wet skin as they search for purchase on Adam’s shoulders. He doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to think about it, about what the letter must have said, what his mother’s face looked like when she—

“Hey,” Adam says again, snapping him out of it.

He threads his fingers through Kris’s hair as Kris pushes his face into Adam’s chest. All he can smell is Adam’s body wash, strong and fragrant, overwhelming his senses. Overwhelming everything. The way Adam always does.

“It’s okay,” says Adam, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

**

“We have to do something,” Adam says. “I mean—fuck. It’ll be worse if we don’t. You know that better than anyone.”

Kris remembers the island, and the craziness after, and knows Adam’s right about this. Sticking his head in the sand isn’t going to do any good this time around. It never does.

They go with Rolling Stone, since Rolling Stone loves Adam, and they’ve warmed up to Kris since the Idol days; they’re quick to jump at the opportunity—it’s an Adam-focused piece, no cover, just an interview promoting his album and a two-page spread. A female reporter named Talia comes to interview Kris at the studio. It feels like a good place to do it. He’s more comfortable there than almost anywhere else.

“Don’t worry,” Talia says with a reassuring smile as she sets up the tape recorder, “I’m only lobbing soft balls at you. Your people were very clear on that.” She shoots a glance at Valerie, who is lurking in the corner, eavesdropping on the conversation and poised to intervene at a moment's notice.

Kris relaxes a fraction. Times like these, he’s glad to have people like Louise and Valerie on payroll.

True to Talia’s word, the questions are fairly easy—how long have they been together, why have they waited until now, do they help with each other’s musical projects? And then the last: what attracted Kris to Adam in the first place?

“I don’t think it was just one thing, you know?” he says. “It’s a lot of things. But the thing about Adam is… he’s different when you really know him. Not that he’s fake or anything, but when you’re that famous—it’s like, you have to keep parts of yourself hidden, or else you’re never gonna survive. People’ll just take and take until there’s nothing left. So I feel really lucky, that I get to see those parts not a lot of others do.” He stops to weigh his words carefully. “People always talk about how we must be opposites, like, how we couldn’t be more different, but I don’t think it’s true, really. We’re a lot alike. I think we both care about everything too much sometimes. Adam has probably the biggest heart of anyone I know, and he doesn’t even realize it. He’s just an amazing guy. He knows a lot about himself, but I don’t think he knows that.”

Talia clicks off the recorder and smiles at him like the cat that swallowed the canary. “Well, I think we can get a good sound bite out of that.”

**

Jive pulls off the miracle of all miracles and books Kris for Bonnaroo, making him the first Idol alum to be bestowed that particular honor. Of course, the indie cred he received from turning out a stripped down, acoustic album only gets him so far—a small side stage on the first day in the mid-afternoon. Still, it’s a forty-five minute long set, and he doesn’t even want to imagine the amount of wheeling and dealing his management put into getting him this much, so Kris isn’t about to complain.

Mat Kearney’s in Nashville, too, and is playing Roo later in the weekend; he invites Kris and Adam to stay at his house in Hillsboro. Kris accepts the offer, since he’s tired of hotels, and shows up on Mat’s doorstep with a trout in hand—it’s become something of a running gag between them.

“Jesus, this thing is huge,” Mat says, shoving shit around in his freezer to make room for the fish. Eventually he fits it in and turns to face Kris. “So when’s Lambert coming in?”

“Not until tomorrow.” Kris pops open a Nestea and sips it, leaning back against the counter. “How’s life?”

Mat shrugs. “Not bad. I mean, it ain’t fuckin’ great, you know, but it could be a lot fuckin’ worse.”

They sit out on Mat’s sun porch and pass a joint back and forth, shooting the shit and jamming with their respective guitars, and it’s nice. L.A. is so different, and Kris has been so bogged down in the celebrity crap that it’s good to just be—away. This is how it should be, all the time: about the music. It’s too easy to forget that sometimes.

It’s hot as hell the next day from the moment the sun comes up, and only gets worse as the day wears on. By the time Kris arrives at the venue, it’s hit the mid-seventies and still climbing. The heat hasn’t affected the turnout, apparently, since the park is already packed with twenty-something hipsters clad in the latest of hobo-esque fashion and drinking beer from plastic cups.

Kris slips backstage and finds a corner to check his phone, where there’s a text from Adam, saying his plane just landed and he’s on his way. He listens to the band playing the stage—he doesn’t recognize the name, but they’re all right. The drummer sounds a little sloppy, and the singer has zero breath control; he starts to think about what he would do if he were producing the track, where he’d clean it up, and then stops himself. He thinks way too much. Besides, today is not a production day—it’s a performance day, and he needs to focus his energy on that. No sloppy drummer to place blame on today. Just him and his guitar and a keyboard.

Adam finds him ten minutes before he goes on, breathless and lit up. “Oh, thank God, I thought I’d missed it.”

“You haven’t missed anything,” Kris tells him.

“You ready?” Adam asks.

“Are you?”

“For this?” A familiar, wicked grin slides over Adam’s face. “Always.”

There’s a nice-sized crowd for his set, and he plays his favorites off of Quiet Storm—We Won’t Make It Out Alive, Seventh Floor Heartbreak, Icarus, Cracked Up to Be, and Love at High Tide. And then he decides to debut Vines; instead of playing at the keyboard, he drags out two stools and his guitar and Adam, and they sit next to each other and sing it as a duet. It takes the crowd a minute to recognize Adam—maybe because he’s so dressed down in a dirty green v-neck tee and black jeans, no makeup on except for a little eyeliner—but when they do, a cheer carries across the sea of bodies.

“So say goodbye to the beaten path,” Adam sings, and Kris sings back, “Say goodbye to all you’ve ever known,” and together they sing, “You wrap my heart in vines, you cover me, please don’t ever let me go,” and Kris thinks how funny it is: despite how vastly different their styles are, their voices still harmonize this well, meeting somewhere in the middle, blending perfectly.

part two

gotta live like we're dying

buffyx — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 04:40:45 GMT

Okay, blahblahologist suggested I upload her some Kris music to ~prepare her for Saturday's concert. Here we go!

COVERS:

Obviously, being from American Idol, he's done a lot of covers. Here are my favorites--

Bright Lights - This is probably my favorite song from his tour set, and this is the iTunes live version, so it's very clean and awesome and omgggggggg KRIS COVERING MATCHBOX TWENTY, I LOVE IT SO MUCH.

Ain't No Sunshine - He's done a million versions of this song-- two on the show, a studio recording, and then fifty more on the tour. But I uploaded his very first performance of it because I just love it. Mostly I love comparing it to later versions, because the first time he did the song, the audience is all quiet because they don't know what to expect, and it isn't until he's clearly killing it that they get excited. In other versions there are tons of cheers from the first note on. Anyway, he took a song I don't usually care for and spun it on its head and made it awesome. I love when his voice gets all growly. Unf.

Heartless - Yeah, he's done this one a million times too. I uploaded the version he sang for some radio station because it's different than the others, it's great quality, and he changed it up even more and ughhhhhh LOVE LOVE LOVE.

Falling Slowly - The AI studio recordings are usually made of FAIL, but this one is lovely. It's my favorite. I'm actually not a huge fan of the movie Once (blahblahologist and I actually saw it together!) but I looooooooove this song. It's gorgeous and... okay... don't kill me, I like Kris's version better than the original. YEAH, I SAID IT.

Yesterday - DEAR KRIS, PLEASE NEVER STOP COVERING BEATLES SONGS. (The only bad part about this is that it's sooooooo beautiful, and then at the end you hear Mike Huckabee's voice, and that's when I want to start smashing things.)

Apologize - Here's a song I don't really like that Kris made me really enjoy... which is weird because he doesn't change it up very much. But I like how he plays it straight. I just like his voice. Also when he did it on the show and the camera did closeups on his hands on the piano... possibly the sexiest thing ever. SERIOUSLY.

Hey Jude - Kris covering my favorite Beatles song of all time? HOLY SHIT YES. Also it was amaaaaaaaazing live, especially doing the "na na na na na na" parts, omg. I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO BE PART OF A GROUP SING TO THAT SONG AND THAT WAS MY FIRST TIME.

All These Things That I've Done - Hahahahaha. TRUE STORY: I got on the boat sooooooo late with this song and made blahblahologist listen to it a million times during our road trip to Chicago. Since she is awesome, she indulged me with very little eye rolling. I love that Kris sang it on tour. IT'S LIKE HE TAILORED HIS SET TO MY WISHES.

ORIGINALS:

Kris does have a pre-Idol album called Brand New Shoes, and considering he was only twenty when he recorded it and how low-budget it was, it's pretty awesome. My favorites--

I Was Played - SERIOUSLY, THIS SONG IS MY JAM. It's catchy as hell.

Beautiful Moon - This one is just pretty.

And 23 seconds of his new single (WHICH I HOPE HE WILL PLAY ON SATURDAY):

I have MANY THOUGHTS about this which I will not go into here. Basically, trepidation about label support mixed with JOY FOR HEARING NEW KRIS MATERIAL OMG. Blah blah blah. I don't know what I'm going to do with myself once I hear his whole album.

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I could upload more but I need to finish getting ready for tomorrow, so I'll leave it there.

OH, and since David Gray is also going to be at the concert, I'll throw in one of his songs: The Other Side, which is actually one of my favorite songs ever. It's really moving and haunting and gorgeous.

fic: The Burden of Universal Adoration (American Idol; Kris Allen; PG)

buffyx — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 07:49:34 GMT

Title: The Burden of Universal Adoration
Fandom/Pairing: American Idol; Kris gen fic
Rating: PG
Summary: EVERYONE HAS A CRUSH ON KRIS.

It all starts with Wolfgang.

Okay, maybe it doesn’t start with Wolfgang, but that’s when Kris starts noticing the strange behavior.

He ducks into the bus early in the morning, because he’s craving Twizzlers and he knows there’s some stashed somewhere around his bunk. He gets a fresh pack at every tour stop from the fans, it seems. Sometimes he thinks if he tweeted about wanting a pony, someone would show up at the barricades with a Shetland in tow. Thankfully that hasn’t happened—Katy would be delighted, for sure, but where would he put a pony?—and instead he’s only inundated with licorice candy. Usually Scott, the man with the bottomless stomach and metabolism in constant overdrive, ends up scarfing them down before he can get his hands on them.

The thing is that Kris doesn’t spend as much time on the bus as everyone else. On the off days, he’s always flying out to record, so really he’s only on the road shuttling from the hotel to the venue and back. That means his bunk is more of a storage space than anything else. It’s a convenient place to indiscriminately toss all of the gifts he gets from fans.

When he digs through the bulging pile and shakes loose a sweatshirt, something falls from the pocket and bounces off the floor. He leans down and picks it up, and a small clay skunk stares back up at him. It must be from a fan. It’s not the craziest thing he’s received so far, but it’s pretty random.

He actually laughs, and Anoop, the only other one on the bus, looks up from his laptop and says, “What’s so funny?”

Kris walks over and shows him the miniature skunk. “It looks like I have a new friend.”

Wolfgang is one of those things that probably wouldn’t be so entertaining under normal circumstances, but when you’re on a nationwide tour with nine other people and rarely interacting with the outside world in a meaningful way, sometimes stupid jokes become a lot funnier than they have any right to be. The tour schedule is rigorous, but it’s also painfully repetitive, so it’s easy to glom onto anything that breaks the routine a little.

So for a day, Wolfgang provides an endless amount of amusement. Kris takes pictures with his phone of Wolfgang up by the window on the way to the venue, and Wolfgang by the salad plate at lunch, and Wolfgang propped next to his iPhone, and tweets them all. He waits for people to tell him how lame he is, but his followers all eat it up and beg for more—which is both hilarious and a little scary. He’s still not used to so many people caring so much about every random thought he shares with the internet.

Anoop gets really into it, too, which is surprising to Kris, because Anoop isn’t usually the type to indulge in these kinds of shenanigans. That’s more of a Matt thing.

And Matt is the first sign of the strange behavior.

“Can I be the godfather?” he jokes, popping a handful of croutons into his mouth. Kris doesn’t know why Matt bothers ordering a salad in the first place when he never eats anything but the croutons and the tomato slices.

“Well…” Kris says, looking at Anoop next to him, who’s scrolling through his iPhone. Wolfgang is placed in-between their salad bowls.

“No,” Anoop says flatly. He turns to Kris and adds, “By the way, I’m ordering the book My Two Dads off Amazon. I think it’ll help explain the parenting situation to Wolfgang more clearly when he gets older.”

Kris snorts at that, and Matt throws a crouton at Anoop’s head.

“If I don’t get to be the godfather,” he says, “then at least I get to be the mistress.” He leans in close to Kris’s ear, sliding one arm around his chair back, and drops his voice to a low purr. “I’m all yours, Allen.”

It’s not that Kris isn’t used to Matt’s attention, or that it makes him uncomfortable, but this sort of straightforward innuendo is… well. It’s a little weird. Not bad weird. Just. Weird.

And then it gets weirder.

Kris tries not to have biases, but he won’t lie—Michael Slezak is probably his favorite person to do interviews with. The guy is hilarious, and smart, and it’s nice to field questions from someone who actually pays attention to his career. It doesn’t hurt that Slezak is a fan. A real one.

“So my first question is,” Slezak says from behind his video camera, “how are you so awesome?”

Kris laughs. “Wow. You’re not even trying to, like, maintain any journalistic integrity anymore, are you?”

“EW does not pay me to be objective,” Slezak shoots back. “They pay me to be a fanboy. I’m not gunning for any Pulitzers, so indulge me here.”

What ensues is more like a conversation than an interview, and Slezak feels a little more like a friend than a member of the press, so it all feels less like work and promotion, which is a nice change of pace from the steady stream of local reporters in every town recycling the same five questions ad nauseum.

It’s not the interview that’s weird. It’s the emails he gets afterward.

Kris—

Thanks for the interview today! You better be making room in your schedule when your album drops, because I expect a face-to-face exclusive. It’ll probably consist of twenty minutes of me gushing about how amazing you are. I can’t wait!

Thanks again,
Michael Slezak

That’s not so unusual. The next few he gets, though, are.

Hey Kris!!

Heard you’re cheating on me with Slezak. How could you!! I thought we had something special!! LOL

Also heard he’s trying to beat me to the scoop with your new album. That better not happen. I’ll even let you sit on my lap like Alexa Chung. I know you’d rather sit on my lap than Slezak’s. He smells like burnt popcorn and douche.

Think about it!!

--Jim Cantiello

--

Kris,

Jim is a lying liar who lies. I smell wonderful. He’s just mad because you’re following me on Twitter and not him. Jealousy can drive people to low places…

I know you’re a married man, and so am I, but you can do more than sit on my lap if that’s what it takes!

Michael

--

Kris,

I forgot to say—why aren’t you following me on Twitter yet? Please remedy this, before I start to think you don’t like me! ;)

--Jim

Kris is not a master in the art of flirting, but he’s pretty sure they’re both flirting with him. The same way he felt it when Matt purred into his ear at lunch. And the way Anoop clung to his side all day while they messed around taking photos of Wolfgang. He wonders if this is new, or if he just hasn’t paid enough attention to how people act around him before now.

He doesn’t really think about it again until one night they leave Albany for Philadelphia. Normally he’d be sitting up with Adam, except Adam crawled straight into his bunk and plugged into his iPod to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Something that Kris should probably be doing, too, except the idea of clearing the mountain of gifts from his bunk is too daunting, so instead he ends up sitting between Matt and Anoop up front while Michael shoves Step Brothers into the DVD player.

He’s nodding off already during the previews when Matt pokes him in the stomach and hisses, “Dude, wake up. It hasn’t even started yet.”

“Leave him alone,” Anoop says sharply, setting one warm hand on Kris’s thigh. That really gets Kris’s attention, because Anoop is not a touchy-feely guy. “He can sleep if he wants.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” snaps Matt. He slides an arm around Kris’s shoulders. “He’d be in bed if he wanted to sleep. Right, Kris?”

“Um,” Kris says. Anoop still has his hand on his thigh, and Matt is rubbing the back of his neck with his thumb, and this is all very, very awkward. “Let’s just watch the movie.”

He tries to focus on the antics of Will Ferrell and forget about the weirdness, except it’s kind of hard when Matt keeps staring at him at all the funny parts to see if Kris is laughing too, and Anoop keeps making comments like he wants to discuss the movie with him as it’s going on. Plus, he is really tired, and halfway through he can’t stop himself from yawning every five seconds.

Eventually Michael presses pause and says, “Kris, if you want, you can use my bunk for the night.”

“Really?” Kris says. The idea is tempting.

Matt sits up quickly. “Or you can use mine.”

“Or mine,” Anoop says, cutting a look at Matt. “I actually clean my sheets, unlike some people.”

“No, that’s okay.” Kris stands up and stretches his arms over his head, and when he glances to the side, he’s pretty sure Matt is checking out his ass. But maybe he’s just seeing things. He looks to Michael. “You’re sure?”

“Of course, man,” Michael says with an easy smile.

If Kris didn’t know Michael so well, he’d think maybe he was flirting too, except Michael’s just a nice guy to everyone, so he doesn’t think that’s it.

Except when he walks by, Michael gives him a wink, so… maybe he’s wrong about that.

**

It’s one of those things—once it has been seen, it can’t be unseen. And suddenly Kris is noticing it everywhere.

The hair artist letting her hands linger in his hair when she styles it into place and hounding him about his opinion on which product he prefers, like what he thinks carries a lot of weight. The stylist who hands him his polo during wardrobe changes and doesn’t even pretend not to watch him strip out of his shirt as he changes, and then spends a little too much time helping him button up. The way Anoop, Matt, and Danny always say, “Oh, tweet this!” whenever they’re together, like they’re desperate to be acknowledged on his Twitter or something.

Everyone is vying for his attention, and he doesn’t really understand why.

Funnily enough, the one person acting completely normal is Adam, who is supposed to be the one with the real, legitimate crush on him. Though at this point, Kris isn’t sure if he would be able to differentiate Flirting Adam from Normal Adam. Maybe Adam’s always flirting with him, and he’s just too used to it to recognize it for what it is. Or he just likes it. He must, because he likes being around Adam.

All of this thinking is making his head hurt.

In any case, Adam is the only one still acting like himself, and Kris has fallen in the habit of talking to him about things he can’t share with the others, so it only makes sense that he talks to Adam about this.

“Um. So. Lately everyone’s been flirting with me,” he blurts out. “Like. Everyone.”

They’re lounging on the couch in the dressing room, alone, everyone else busy with sound checks and finishing up press. Adam has his long legs draped over Kris’s lap. He doesn’t look up from his phone.

“Of course they are,” he says breezily. “Everybody has a crush on you.”

“I’m not kidding,” Kris says, nudging Adam’s snakeskin boot with one hand.

Adam sets his phone aside and sits up with his back to the arm rest. He levels Kris with an intent look, and—yeah, okay. Kris can admit it. He likes when Adam looks at him like that. He likes when Adam looks at him, period. It’s not a sexual thing. It’s just that Adam is one of the most interesting people he’s ever met, and the fact that he seems to think Kris is interesting, someone worth his time and energy and friendship—it’s flattering, that’s all.

“I’m not either,” Adam says. “People like you. They like it even more when you pay them attention.”

“But why?”

“Because. You’re one of those people.”

Kris shakes his head. “I’m not—I mean—I’m just me.”

“It’s not about wanting in your pants,” Adam explains. “It’s just that you have this thing where you make other people feel special. You make them feel better about themselves just by being around you.”

Kris wonders if Adam includes himself in that category. He doesn’t know why Adam would need him to feel special, when the whole world tells him as much on a daily basis.

But if it’s true—if Kris is one of those people—that’s sort of like a responsibility, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to make anyone feel bad, and he’s never been good at saying no.

Which is how he ends up spending all night at the hotel bar in Reading with Matt. It was a bad idea, because it was late, and Kris was tired, and Matt was in the beginning stages of a bad cold, coughing everywhere and red in the eyes. But Matt all but got down on his knees and begged him to come, and Kris—well, there was a responsibility, wasn’t there? He couldn’t bring himself to turn him down.

He regrets it the next morning, though, when he wakes up to his blaring alarm with an insistent pounding behind his eyes. It’s not from the two beers he had, either, but probably from when a tipsy Matt flung his arms around him and mumbled, “I love you, man, I can’t believe tour’s almost over,” and then had a coughing fit into Kris’s neck.

It gets worse when they hit Wilkes-Barre, and Kris isn’t the only one—Anoop, Scott, and Michael are dragging, too, and Adam is avoiding them all like the plague to keep from catching the bug. It may actually be the plague. Kris doesn’t know what symptoms the plague has, but he feels crappy enough to jump to that conclusion.

“That was really fucking stupid,” Adam says afterward, during the drive to the hotel from the venue.

Kris is curled up in a ball on the long couch out front, wrapped up in his gray hoodie, feeling shivery and hot at the same time. He can’t believe he made it through the show at all—even if he did almost fall over once, during his second song—and that he didn’t pass out during the meet and greets, though there were a few iffy moments. He could’ve skipped the after show party and the signing, no one would blame him, but. There were people who came to see him. He can suck it up and get through it. It won’t kill him.

Unless he really does have the plague, which at this moment seems entirely possible.

“I’m fine,” he insists, except it’d be more convincing if his teeth weren’t chattering.

“You look like death warmed over,” Adam tells him. “Like, someone left death out on the counter for two days, stuck it in the microwave for thirty seconds, and then pulled it out. That’s you right now.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Kris says.

He goes to poke a hole with the straw in his packet of Capri Sun, but his hands are a little shaky, and he ends up dropping it on the floor. Adam sighs and comes to pick it up, hands it back to him. And then he pushes Kris over a little, sitting next to him, guiding Kris’s head into his lap.

“You’re gonna get sick,” Kris points out, but he doesn’t really want Adam to move. His lap is comfortable.

“It’s inevitable at this point. This bus is a breeding ground for germs.” Adam sighs again. “Seriously, what the hell were you thinking?”

Kris shrugs, burying his face into Adam’s pant leg. He smells good. Warm. If someone found a way to bottle up Adam’s smell and turn it into cologne, they would make a killing. Kris is sure of it. Maybe he should try and do that. There has to be a way, but not like in that freaky movie with the guy who kills the girls to make perfume out of them. Adam can’t die. Who would Kris talk to then?

Okay, so maybe he’s a little delirious with fever.

“Didn’t want to disappoint,” he mumbles. “Have a responsibility.”

“Your responsibility is to take care of yourself,” Adam tells him gently. “People can’t love you if you’re dead.”

That isn’t even true— Kris wants to point out Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, all the members of the Twenty Seven Club—but he’s too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything but close his eyes. Definitely too tired to make any sense, even in his own head.

“Adam, seriously, you shouldn’t be around me right now,” he says. “You can’t get sick.”

He tries to move off of him, arms shaking a little as he pushes himself up, but Adam pulls him back down.

“It’s worth it,” Adam assures him, patting the top of his head. “For you? It’s worth it.”

If Kris was a better person, he’d protest harder, but he’s sort of sick of trying to do what’s best for everyone all the time, and Adam doesn’t seem to mind. Besides, if Adam meant what he said—if being around Kris makes him feel good—then maybe it’s like he’s doing Adam a favor or something. And being around Adam makes him feel better. So maybe it’s, like, a mutually beneficial situation.

This is what he tells himself as he slumps down and rests his head back in Adam’s lap.

If he has to suffer the burden of being universally adored by everyone he comes into contact with, he might as well enjoy the perks.

--end

A/N: Written for chachthegreat for ontd_ai's charity dollar drive. It is far less epic than I'd hoped, and feels kind of incomplete; sorry, bb. Someday I will write you Kris/Jim/Slezak threesome fic or something, IDEK. Also, my title is horrible, haha.

soundtrack: If It Kills Me

buffyx — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 05:00:06 GMT

01. Staring at the Sun - TV on the Radio

staring at the sun
oh my own voice
cannot save me now
standing in the sea
it's just
one more breath
and then
down i go

02. Little Secrets – Passion Pit

But I feel alive and I feel it in me
Up and up I keep on coming
higher and higher and higher

03. Starlight – Adam Lambert (Muse cover)

I'll never let you go
If you promise not to fade away

04. The Sea and the Rhythm – Iron & Wine

Tonight, we're the sea and the rhythm there
The waves and the wind and night is black
Tonight we're the scent of your long black hair
Spread out like your breath across my back

05. All At Sea – Jamie Cullum

Now I need you more than ever,
I need you more than ever, now
You don't need it every day
But sometimes don't you just crave
To disappear within your mind

06. Delicate – Damien Rice

So why do you fill my sorrow
With the words you've borrowed
From the only place you've know
And why do you sing Hallelujah
If it means nothing to you
Why do you sing with me at all?

07. Between – Vienna Teng

There once was a time I was sure of the bond
When my hands and my tongue and my thoughts were enough
We are the same but our lives move along

08. Almost Lover – A Fine Frenzy

I cannot go to the ocean
I cannot drive the streets at night
I cannot wake up in the morning
Without you on my mind

09. Folkin’ Around – Panic at the Disco

You've never been so divine
In accepting your defeat
And I've never been more scared to be alone

10. Heart – Stars

The hard rock god, he never had a chance, you know
Incurable romantics never do
He held a flame I wasn't born to carry
I'll leave the dying young stuff up to you

11. Goodbye to You – Michelle Branch

It hurts to want everything and nothing at the same time
I want what’s yours and I want what’s mine
I want you, but I'm not giving in this time

12. You Only Disappear – Tom McRae

I can live with my regrets
Still raise a smile, still raise my head
And a stranger God can be so cruel
And a holy fool is still a fool

13. All These Things That I’ve Done – Kris Allen (The Killers cover)

Another head aches, another heart breaks
I am so much older than I can take
And my affection, well it comes and goes
I need direction to perfection, no no no no

14. Shine A Light – Wolf Parade

You know our hearts beat time out very slowly
You know our hearts beat time
They're waiting for something that'll never arrive

15. Heart of Gold – Neil Young

I've been to Hollywood
I've been to Redwood
I crossed the ocean
for a heart of gold
I've been in my mind,
it's such a fine line
That keeps me searching
for a heart of gold
And I'm getting old.

16. Keeping Me Awake - Tarkio

Leaving this behind was my first mistake
and I'm not so strong
to be satisfied by all the things I've done
and the things it threw away.

17. If It Kills Me – Jason Mraz

And all I really want from you is to feel me
As the feeling inside keeps building
And I will find a way to you if it kills me
If it kills me

.zip file

fic: If It Kills Me (Kris/Adam, NC-17) (4/4)

buffyx — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 04:17:14 GMT

Title: If It Kills Me
Fandom/Pairing: American Idol; Kris/Adam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I mean, you guys are like— you’re like soul mates or something. Come on! You’re Kris and Adam, man!"

Kris is on a cab back to his apartment when his phone starts exploding with calls. It feels like too much effort to pull it out and look at it, and he really, really doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now anyway, so he leaves it in his pocket and rests his head against the window, hoping he’s not going to get sick all over the backseat. He barely has enough cash on him to cover the ride back as it is.

It’s around two by the time he slips through the door, and he’s surprised to find Katy waiting for him in the kitchen. She sits at the table, her laptop open in front of her.

“Hey,” he says, wincing at the light. He’s going to have such a headache tomorrow. “Think I’m gonna go to bed. It’s been… a really long night.”

“Yeah,” Katy says sharply, “I heard about it.”

She turns the laptop to face him.

Kris has a sinking feeling of what he’s going to see before he actually sees it, and sure enough, it’s what he thought it would be— a fuzzy camera phone picture, taken from a distance, but it’s been lightened and sharpened and yes, it is most definitely a shot from backstage of Kris Allen with his hand down Adam Lambert’s pants, his mouth open against Adam’s in a gasping kiss. Perez Hilton is having a fucking field day

“You know, this isn’t what I meant when I told you to send Adam my love,” Katy informs him coldly.

He tries explaining, saying that he didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did. The excuse sounds lame even to his own ears; there’s no way to rationalize this. She tells him to save it.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says, and she laughs harshly.

“You’re damn right I haven’t!” she shouts. “Do you know how humiliating this was for me, Kris? To hear about it while I’m out with my friends? I had to find out from someone else! Through a text message!”

She takes her phone off the table and pelts it at him; it clips him hard in the shoulder and bounces onto the floor, and the guilt stings Kris then more than it ever has, nearly brings him to his knees.

He is a shitty husband. He is exactly what he always promised himself he wouldn’t be.

“I’m sorry,” he says, knowing it’s useless and it won’t help, but he still has to try. “I am so sorry. This is my fault. Not Adam’s. Hate me, not him. He stopped it because of you. He didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t either. Katy, I love you.”

Katy seems to accept that much, at least. She calms down a little, running her hands through her hair and then hugging them around her middle. She looks so small and fragile standing like that, and if Kris wasn’t certain she’d punch him if he tried, he’d go over and wrap his arms around her.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” she tells him. “My friend Amber has an extra room in Westwood she said I can stay in.”

“Katy—” he says, stepping toward her, but she holds up one hand to ward him off.

“Don’t try and talk me out of it. It’s not just about this. There are so many other things,” she says. She breathes out hard and looks up at him with shining eyes. “I can give you time if that’s what you need. I just… I don’t know if time will fix this. If anything will.”

He doesn’t know either.

In the morning he helps her pack.

“You can stay here if you want,” he offers. “I can leave. I’m the one who messed it up.”

She shakes her head and folds one of her sweaters, lays it down in the open suitcase. “No, it’s fine.”

“I’m so sorry,” he tells her. He’s said it probably a thousand times, but he still feels the need to say it again. Like maybe if he says it enough she’ll believe him.

She stops folding and looks at him. “How long?” she asks. “You and Adam. How long?”

It seems stupid to try and hide anything now, so he says, “It… it started on the island. It stopped when we got back. I swear to you, it was just this one time.”

“But you still want him,” she says, and it’s not even a question.

“I’m still trying to figure out what I want,” he answers. He traces his fingers along the pattern of the comforter. The one she picked out for them. “I do know I don’t want to hurt you. But I know it’s too late for that.”

“You’re right,” she replies.

But then she sits down on the bed next to him and takes his hand, to his surprise.

“I love you,” she says, “and I believe it when you say you love me. But I don’t know if that’s enough anymore.” She bows her head, hiding her face in a curtain of shiny hair. “It’s not just you. I mean, my life is different is now. I actually have one of my own, and I like that. I like how not everything is about supporting you.”

Kris’s stomach twists. “I know you gave up a lot for me,” he says.

He thinks about Conway, their tiny apartment, Katy working her ass off so he could pursue his dream. She believed in him before anyone else did.

“I did,” she agrees, but there’s nothing bitter behind the words. “But that was my decision. You didn’t ask. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty for that. I’m just saying… maybe we’re different people now than when we got married. Maybe we can’t fit into each other’s lives that way.”

She looks so resigned, sitting dry-eyed on this bed, like she’s thought about this a lot before. Like she’s had this speech planned for awhile. Maybe she has.

“I don’t want to lose you from my life,” he tells her. She’s not just his wife, she’s one of his best friends, and he can’t believe what a selfish, awful idiot he’s been, how he ever risked losing her like this. It’s the worst thing he’s ever done.

Katy looks at him again, now a little teary, and says, “I don’t think you will. I’m mad now, I won’t lie and say I’m not, but… it won’t be for forever.” She twists her hand away from his and tilts her head up to the ceiling, crying a little. “I never thought it would be like this.”

“Yeah,” Kris says quietly. He feels old, tired, lost. And more than anything else, empty. “Neither did I.”

**

Kris gives himself a week to mope as much as he wants. He drinks a lot, starting early in the morning. Beer as breakfast. It’s a thing.

He can’t handle the thought of breaking the news to his parents over the phone, knowing how disappointed in him they will be, so he shoots off an email instead. He tells them that yes, the picture with Adam is real. He tells them Katy moved out, but also that it isn’t final, that they’re still talking. For now it’s just a break.

In all honesty, he doesn’t know if he’d actually categorize it as a break, because when she left it felt like the end of something big. It felt permanent. But he’s not sure he’s ready to admit that to himself, nevertheless the rest of the world. He tells them he’ll explain more later, it’s just that he’s really busy right now. He assures them he’s coping okay. Those two statements are definitely lies. He ends the email by saying that he loves them and they shouldn’t worry. He knows they will anyway.

The label is pissed. Three different reps call to ream him out. Kris doesn’t give a shit about their righteous anger, though, and tells them as much, because he’s a little drunk. Okay, a lot drunk. The last thing he cares about is the label’s opinions on this mess. His publicist tries to act like they can salvage this—a well-worded press statement, a sympathetic interview piece with People. Kris tells her there is no fucking way he is doing any of that, and if there are any statements released on his behalf, she can consider herself fired.

Anyway, he’s pretty sure not even a Barbara Walters interview through a soft-focus lens can spin this in any way where he comes out looking like a good guy. Because he’s not a good guy.

Danny Gokey, of all people, calls him. Normally he wouldn’t answer, but he’s still drunk and halfway to passed out on the couch, and the phone won’t stop ringing, and somehow he accidentally presses the receive call button instead of silent.

“Hey, man, I heard about what happened,” Danny says, wound up in the way he always is. He has this way of making Kris feel on edge no matter what he’s talking about. “How are you holding up?”

“Um,” Kris says, trying not to slur his words with sleep and alcohol, and wondering how Danny even got his number in the first place, “I’m… I’m all right.”

He lifts his hand and tries to fumble for the clock on the side table, but his co-ordination is non-existent, and he misses the clock and hits himself in the face instead. He has this hazy disoriented feeling that it should be the middle of the night, but there’s light coming in through the windows, so it must be morning. How long has he been asleep?

“And Katy?” Danny asks. “How’s she doing with all of this?”

“She moved out,” Kris tells him, and then beats himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand a few times. Shit. He didn’t mean to let that slip.

“Oh, man, that—that really sucks,” Danny says, sounding genuinely sorry. “That’s gotta be rough.”

“Yup,” Kris agrees, and then he fabricates some short, stilted excuse to end the call, rolls over and goes back to sleep.

The result is Danny doing an exclusive interview with Access Hollywood, simultaneously promoting his new Christian album and milking the phone call with Kris for all its worth, like they had a soul-baring heart-to-heart rather than a two-minute long conversation. But Danny doesn’t say anything bad, really, doesn’t even comment on Kris and Adam. Danny is a lot of things, but he’s not an asshole.

Kris figures Danny thinks he’s doing him a favor or something. Truth be told, if anything it gives Kris the sympathetic angle. His publicist is probably crying tears of joy right now.

Still, it’s enough to make him quit drinking.

**

Adam calls him a few times, but he never leaves a message. He emails him, too. All it says is, kris, i’m sorry. talk to me.

Kris doesn’t know why Adam feels the need to apologize. He didn’t do anything wrong. Part of Kris wants to tell him that, just wants to hear Adam’s voice, but he doesn’t know what he could even say. What there is to say.

After his week of wallowing is up, he wakes early on the eighth morning, takes his first shower in forever, and goes for a jog. He thinks the fresh air will be good for him, and it seems like a good idea, until he gets a few steps down the sidewalk and five different paps jump out of nowhere, bulbs flashing, circling around like hungry vultures.

They run alongside him, in front of him, yelling out obnoxious questions. “Was Katy always just your beard?” “How long were you cheating on her?” “Is Adam’s dick as big as they say it is?”

Common sense tells him to turn around and hightail it back to the apartment, but his stubborn streak won’t let him. He keeps his head down and turns up the volume on his iPod, focusing on the movement of his feet, one in front of the other.

And then one pap jumps right in front of his path, and Kris has to skid to a stop to prevent a full-on collision.

“So have you always been a fag? Or did you go crazy being on that island?” the guy asks. His face is mostly hidden by his camera, but Kris can tell he’s smirking, enjoying this. “Are you still crazy? You’d have to be to throw over a hot piece of ass like Katy Allen.”

Kris doesn’t really know what he’s doing until after it’s happened—he growls, “Get out of my face,” and shoves the photog in the chest, hard, so he stumbles backward. It doesn’t send him to the ground or anything, but the damage is done. It’s exactly what they wanted. Camera shutters snap furiously around him, there’s a video camera rolling, it’s bad fucking news.

It lands him on the front page of TMZ. KRIS ALLEN LASHES OUT AGAINST PAPARAZZI is the headline, accompanied with a video clip of the event, and high-res photos of him looking enraged, of his hand shooting out and shoving the photog. It’s ugly and brutal and earns him another reaming out session from the label. He ends the call before the rep is done ranting.

The next day, Daniel shows up at his door with a suitcase in hand.

“Daniel, you shouldn’t—” Kris starts, but Daniel shoulders his way into the apartment and cuts him off.

“It was all I could do to keep Mom from coming down here herself,” he says, “so you better suck it up and appreciate my presence.”

They play video games and get pizza delivery and watch sports and it’s sort of like old times, back when Kris was kind of a nobody, when people only knew him as Daniel’s older brother. That was always okay with him, because he never really wanted to be in the spotlight. It’s more like the spotlight just found him.

Daniel waits until late that night to dance around the Katy situation. Kris doesn’t really want to talk about it, but he figures he owes Daniel an explanation, so he tells him everything.

“I have to admit, a tiny part of me was almost relieved when I heard,” Daniel says once Kris has run out of words, and when Kris shoots him a confused look, he adds, “Not because I was happy about it. Look, I love Katy to death. She’s a sister to me. It was just… comforting, I guess. To know that even you make mistakes. That you’re human.” He smiles and elbows Kris in the ribs. “I was sort of doubting it for awhile there.”

Well, Kris is definitely human. He has definitely made mistakes. More mistakes than he can count, and some really big ones.

“You know, Mama didn’t want us to get married,” he says. “I mean, not because of Katy. But she thought we were too young for it. She gave me this whole thing about finding myself first, and I think—” Okay, this is weird to say, because he’s never told anyone. “I think she thought I might be gay.”

The idea at the time had seemed so absurd to Kris, because he was so head-over-heels for Katy—she was his world, his everything. She was all he ever wanted. He believed then they’d be together forever. That no one else would ever compare.

“Are you?” Daniel asks gently.

“I don’t know,” Kris says.

He doesn’t know if it’s men, or just Adam. But there’s no Adamsexual check box as far as he’s aware, so that must mean he’s gay. At least a little.

“You know, everyone just wants you to be happy,” Daniel tells him. “That’s all we want. Anyone who does that for you is okay in my book. I don’t care who it is.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter now,” Kris says, draining the last of his Coke. “Adam and I aren’t—you know. We’re not even friends anymore. And we won’t be, ever. Because of me.” He crumples the can in his fist and tosses it aside, puts his head in his hands. “I screwed everything up so bad.”

“Yeah, okay, so you’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Daniel admits. “But it’s not the end of the world. The pity party’s gone on long enough. Your life is gonna be different now, but it’s not over.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” he asks.

Daniel pats him on the back. “Have faith.”

**

Daniel leaves two days later, and after Kris drops him off at the airport, he calls his parents. They’re as upset as he knew they’d be, but they’re also understanding—which shouldn’t be surprising, because they always are. They’ve never been anything less than amazing. They make him promise to come visit soon, and Kris says he will. A trip home to recharge sounds nice.

Kris misses Adam, a lot. It hits him especially hard when he makes the mistake of watching the E! channel. They air footage of Adam walking out of some nightclub, flashing his bright smile to the paps. The infamous backstage photo appears on the screen, but Kris mutes the television so he doesn’t have to hear the commentary.

He hates all of this—everything Adam didn’t want to happen is happening, and Kris has lost him and Katy, and now he has to start his life all over again, alone. But it just cements his decision to not talk to Adam anymore. Adam’s better off without Kris around messing things up for both of them.

Kris starts picking up his guitar again. Most of his songs are shit, but he’s glad just to be playing. Music is his one constant, the one thing that’s always made sense when nothing else does.

He makes some calls; there are people still wanting to work with him, to his shock, which makes him thankful for somehow building a good reputation in the industry, because it really means something now. He schedules some sessions, spends a lot of time behind the board, watching the mixing process. He thinks someday he’d like to try his hand at producing. Not now, he doesn’t know enough yet, but some day.

Some young kid Jive plucked out of nowhere comes in one day, and Kris watches from behind the glass panel. The kid can’t be more than nineteen, but he can seriously play, and his voice and phrasing are great. Kris waits until he’s done with his song, and then lets himself into the booth while he’s messing with some amps.

“Hi,” he says, sticking out his hand. “I’m Kris Allen.”

“I— I know who you are, man,” the kid stutters out, all wide-eyed and star struck, his face full of awe. It takes him a few seconds to notice Kris’s hand still hanging in the space between them, and then he reaches out and shakes it enthusiastically.

It’s been awhile since Kris has inspired that kind of reaction out of anyone. It amuses him.

“You sounded great,” Kris says. “Uh, I hope you don’t mind I was listening in.”

“Are you kidding? That is so—I mean, you’re—” The kid is falling all over himself; yeah, he’s definitely new to the business. “That’s awesome. Thank you.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I’m Chase. Chase Silver.”

When Kris asks if they can jam together, the kid looks like he just won the lottery or something. They mess around on their guitars for a little while, playing some Beatles covers, a little Damien Rice, and even some Kris Allen originals. It’s always a little surreal to hear other people singing his songs.

Chase reminds him a little of himself at that age; he’s got that unpolished factor to him, unlike most of the kids Jive tends to pick up. Kris likes that rough-around-the-edges vibe.

“So I’m opening for Red Eye this weekend,” Chase tells him when they’re packing up the guitars. “I know you’re probably, like, crazy busy, but do you think maybe— you’d wanna come?”

He’s so bright-eyed that Kris can’t turn him down. And when he says sure, he’d love to come, Chase looks at him like Kris just made his entire life.

The concert is the first big outing Kris has had in a long time. It’s a pretty small venue, but big enough to have a VIP box, which Chase offers him tickets for—but Kris declines. He hates being so far up from the stage, removed from the performance. Instead he sits in the front row, dead center. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right.

Chase comes out and does his short set—only four songs, but even as the opener he engages the crowd. He’s easy with the banter, a natural, way more comfortable onstage than Kris was when he started. He can’t believe this is the same kid who tripped all over his words in Kris’s presence.

Before his last song, Chase grabs the mic and says, “Hey, so we’ve actually got a special guest in the audience. Let me tell you, this guy is amazing. We jammed together the other day, and I swear, I actually stopped at one point and was like, oh my God. I am dreaming. I must be dreaming, because there is no way Kris motherfucking Allen is playing guitar with me right now.” At the mention of his name, the audience lets out a collective gasp, and Chase smiles even more, pumping his arms. “Yeah, that’s right! Give it up for Kris Allen!”

The audience hoots and hollers, screams of “I LOVE YOU KRIS!” ringing out, and Kris laughs, shaking his head at Chase, who bounces on his toes with an unstoppable grin. Kris turns to the crowd and waves at them, and they scream their appreciation even more.

His heart feels really, really full.

After the show, he slips backstage and tells Chase he was great. Chase ducks his head, sheepish, suddenly transformed back into the shy kid Kris met in the studio.

“I hope it’s okay I talked about you,” he says, his face all flushed, and Kris claps him on the back.

“Hey, it was awesome. I got a kick out of it,” he assures him.

They’re interrupted by some girl with flaming red hair hurling herself at Chase. She throws her arms around his neck and plants a kiss right on his mouth, and it isn’t until she turns around that Kris realizes it isn’t just some girl. It’s Allison.

“Oh my god! Kris!” she shrieks, and then she tackles him with a hug so hard it nearly knocks him off balance. “It’s you!”

“And you!” he says, laughing as she pulls away. He surveys her up and down with raised eyebrows. “Whoa, wait a second, why was I not informed that you’re all grown up now?”

He’s only half-kidding— Allison looks older than he remembers, and taller. Her hair’s still long and red, but styled a little differently, more straight than wavy, and she’s wearing more makeup than she used to. Adam would be proud.

She beams as she punches him lightly on the shoulder, and then her face goes a little serious. “Dude, I’m so sorry I didn’t get to talk to you after all that stuff with you and Adam and the plane—I was still on tour when it happened, and my schedule has been so fucking insane, you don’t even know—”

“Oh, but you had time to snag yourself a new boyfriend?” Kris teases, and then pulls her under his arm so she knows he’s joking.

Chase goes a little red in the face at that, and he shuffles off to mingle with some other people, leaving Kris and Allison alone. She turns and gives him those big eyes, full of concern.

“So how are you, really?” she asks.

“I’m okay,” he says, and then rolls his eyes. “But I am getting a little sick of people asking me that.”

“What about Adam? I haven’t seen him in, like, forever. How’s he doing?”

Kris looks away with a shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him.”

Allison goes quiet for a second, and then she says, “I saw the picture, you know.”

“Everyone saw the picture.”

“Yeah, but I had people asking me about it,” she tells him. “Like, reporter people. They wanted to know if you ever two hooked up on Idol.”

“Geez, I’m sorry about that,” Kris says, rubbing a hand through his hair. It’s just another reminder of how many people’s lives his fuckups have affected. He feels like he spends half his life apologizing to people.

“No, it’s cool, I mean, whatever,” she says quickly. “I can handle it. I just was worried about you guys. I wanted to make sure you’re both okay.”

“Well, you’ll have to ask Adam yourself.”

“Oh my god, you’re such an idiot,” she tells him. “This is all stupid bullshit. It’ll blow over. You can’t let this crap get in the way. I mean, you guys are like— you’re like soul mates or something.”

He gives her a look, and she punches him again, this time with a little more force.

“Shut up, you know what I mean.” She stops and crinkles her nose. “Come on! You’re Kris and Adam, man! This is so not worth ruining your friendship over.”

Kris wonders when Allison got so wise.

“It’s complicated,” he finally says on a sigh.

“That’s a sucky excuse,” she replies, and he knows she’s right.

He’s full of them, these days.

**

Things start to turn around a little. The media gets tired of the Kris and Adam story, especially when Adam’s been photographed leaving clubs with a string of new guys, and Kris never does anything more exciting than shop at Whole Foods or commute back and forth to the recording studio.

Eventually he sucks it up and calls Katy. The conversation is a little awkward, but overall pleasant. She even asks him about Adam, and doesn’t sound angry about it—just curious. He admits they haven’t talked.

“Oh,” she says, a little taken aback. “You know, he called me awhile ago.”

Now it’s Kris’s turn to be surprised. “Seriously?”

“Mmhmm,” Katy responds, but then she starts talking about something else, leaving him to wonder what Adam said to her.

Whatever it was, it must’ve been okay, because she doesn’t sound upset. In fact, she sounds happier than she’s been in ages. The CW show made her a regular, and she has a lead role in some indie film lined up that starts shooting in a month.

“That’s so great,” he says. It is. He’s so proud of her, so glad she’s finally getting what she’s worked so hard for. No one deserves it more. “Seriously, that’s amazing, Katy.”

“I don’t know, it’s pretty low-budget,” she says, trying to downplay it, but even over the phone he can tell she’s smiling. He knows it’s a big deal for her.

They skirt around the relationship issue for a little while, and she comes out and tells him she thinks it should be permanent.

“I’m really happy right now,” she says. “Maybe this is how it’s meant to be. I don’t know, I just feel like things are better this way.”

And Kris can’t really disagree. He misses her so much it hurts some days, but at the same time it was so exhausting, pretending to be happy when they were both miserable. Trying to make things work and knowing they never would.

He still sends her flowers the next day, because his mother raised him right— white lilies, her favorite, along with a note. He doesn’t know what to write on it so he just has the florist send the standard Congratulations! card with his name underneath it.

He figures it’s the gesture that counts.

**

Kris throws himself into the studio work and tries to assemble more songs for his half-finished, stagnating second album that’s stuck in development hell. Jive’s getting impatient for a finished product, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold them off.

He ends up collaborating on some tracks with Chase— half of them will probably never see the light of day, but it’s a fun experience. It’s a reminder of how much music means to him, how much he thrives on it. Not only on the music, but on being around people who just… get it. Kris knows he’s probably not the best person to do it, but he takes Chase under his wing a little, lets Chase bounce ideas off of him, gives him pointers with Allison as much as he can when Chase asks, and emails him back and forth.

Chase isn’t Adam. No one will ever be Adam. But once the initial hero worship phase fades and Chase sees Kris as an actual person, he becomes a friend, a good friend. It’s nice to have someone. So when Daniel calls and says he better get his ass to Conway for their father’s birthday, it feels only natural to invite Chase along.

“Well aren’t you adorable!” his mother exclaims when she sees Chase, smooshing his face between her hands like he’s a puppy. Which, okay, Chase kind of is like a big puppy, so Kris can’t totally blame her for fawning all over him. It’s still awkward, though.

“Mama, stop,” Kris groans, embarrassed.

He grabs Chase by the arm and extracts him from her grip, shows him the guest room upstairs. His mother’s cleaned it up for the occasion, set out a vase with daisies on the dresser and made the bed.

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes, closing the door behind them.

“Aw, come on. She’s sweet.” Chase sits down on the edge of the mattress, testing it, and smiles at him under his floppy blond fringe. “Your family is so freaking wholesome. And this house! It’s unreal.”

Chase seems positively delighted by it all. Kris’s father makes barbecue and they have a little cookout, with some close friends and family. Some of his friends he hasn’t seen since the last time he was in Conway show up, and it’s nice to see them—they’ve always treated him the same, not like a celebrity, but like the dorky kid they grew up with. Nothing better to keep you grounded than being around the same people who remember the time you threw up on the bus during that eighth grade band trip.

They get along with Chase, too— Charles ends up giving him piggyback rides for half the night, while the little kids all run through their legs, tugging at their shirt tails, clamoring for their turn. Kris sits on the porch steps and watches the scene, balancing his plate on his lap, nursing a beer.

He feels a hand palm the top of his head and looks up to see his mother, a tray of cookies in her hand.

“Have I told you how nice it is to see you?” she says, sitting down on the step beside him.

Kris leans over and steals a cookie, faster than she can bat away his hand. “Only a few hundred times.”

He bites into the cookie and gazes out at the lawn swagged with fairy lights. Kris is happy, he is, but now, observing all of the laughter and warmth, he suddenly realizes that more than anything, he wishes Adam was here.

“I know that look,” she remarks, and Kris remembers how Brad said the same thing.

This lack of poker face is such a problem.

“Is it Katy?” she asks.

He looks down, picks at the label on the beer bottle with his thumb, not wanting to answer. Because it really, really isn’t about Katy. But he looks back up and his mother purses her mouth at him like she can read his mind.

“Oh,” she says. And then, softly, “Honey, you should call him. I’m sure he’s thinking about how much he misses you too.”

He laughs shortly. “Who knows what Adam’s thinking?”

“Well. You used to.”

If it were anyone other than his mother, Kris would tell her to leave it, but as it is, he just nods. She squeezes the back of his neck and stands, sets the cookies down on the banquet table and cozies up next to his father. They share a loving look that makes Kris’s heart hurt. They have what he’s always wanted, what he thought he’d found with Katy—something that if he didn’t have such compelling firsthand evidence of, he might doubt even exists.

He came close with Katy. He thinks he could’ve come close with Adam, too, if they’d ever had the chance, but they didn’t. They’ll never. And Kris knows that, and he’s been trying to move on, but all this time some part of him still clings to the idea of it, pines for something he can never have, waxes poetic in his songs since it’s the closest he can get to the real thing.

Maybe he needs to get over the idea that he’s ever going to get over Adam. Maybe he needs to just learn to live with it.

A few hours later the party dissipates, parents wrangling up their children and people saying their goodbyes. Everyone heads into the house, until it’s just Kris and Chase, sitting on the porch alone with their guitars.

Kris plays Chase one of his newer songs— he wrote it right after Katy left, during his brief, half-hearted foray into alcoholism. It’s slow and sad and dark, and the lyrics still need work, but he thinks maybe there’s something in there to be salvaged. When he looks to Chase for feedback, Chase frowns at him.

“It’s good,” he says hesitantly. “But…”

“But?” Kris prompts.

“It makes Elliott Smith look like bubblegum pop,” he says. “It’s, like, music to die by. At night. In the rain. Facedown in the street.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And somewhere nearby, a puppy is hit by a car.”

“I get the picture, Chase.” He rolls his eyes. “Guess that one won’t be making the album cut.”

Chase bites down on his lip and says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

Kris plays a few scales, lets his fingers run across the fret board and trusts to muscle memory. He likes this. It makes him not think about his weaknesses. His fingers are fire, calling sound from dead wood.

“What was it like? On that island?”

Well, he wasn’t expecting that question. Kris freezes, stills the vibrating strings with his hands, and when he glances up, Chase looks like he wishes he could eat his words.

“I’m sorry,” he says hastily, “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business—”

“It’s fine,” Kris tells him. He plucks at a few random chords as he thinks. “I’m pretty sure that one month is going to define the rest of my life.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Chase says, and then looks down at the pick in his hand. “So. Um. My parents kicked me out when I was sixteen, because I stopped going to church and joined a band, and they didn’t want a sinner for a son.” He falls silent for a minute, hugging the guitar closer to his body like a shield. “Even when I got signed, I really felt like I’d never be able to escape that. I was right. I haven’t. Sometimes there's still this rage, like, way far inside me with just nowhere to go. But then it’s like… I’m pretty legitimately happy with how my life is going. So maybe it’s okay that I can’t escape the past, because it led me to where I am now. It made me who I am. Even the bad shit.” He pauses. “Does that make any kind of sense?”

Kris watches him, thinking about everything that’s happened—Idol and the first album and the island and Adam and Katy and all of the mistakes he’s made, everyone he’s disappointed. But here he is, back at home, surrounded by people who love him. So many people love him, and he doesn’t remember that enough. He still has that. He still has the music.

He thinks maybe he’s going to be okay.

“Yeah,” he tells Chase, “it makes every kind of sense.”

**

When they get back to L.A., Kris decides to arrange his own concert. Not a tour—he’s not ready for that, though the label won’t get off his ass about how long he’s taking on the second album—but he can play some stuff from his debut, mix in a few new songs, too. The label agrees to the idea, even wants to book him a stadium, but he says no, he wants it to be a small, more private venue. He asks Chase to open for him, and Chase jumps at the chance.

Kris is nervous about the performance. He’s not like Adam; he’s always had some pre-show jitters, but this time it’s worse than usual, because it’s been so long. He hasn’t played onstage for anyone since before the island.

He needs Adam there. He needs Adam, period. He doesn’t think he can do this without him.

But it’s been so long, he doesn’t even know how to go about reinitiating contact. He can’t ask in an email; it’s too impersonal. So he calls instead. From the bathroom, because making scary calls there has become something of a tradition.

His heart is beating against his throat as it rings, but it clicks over into voicemail, Adam’s short message sounding in his ear—the first time he’s heard Adam’s voice in ages.

“Hi,” he says into the phone, staring at the dirty towels piled on his floor. “It’s me. I know it’s been… awhile. But, uh, I’d really like to talk. If you’re willing to listen. I don’t blame you if you aren’t. So. I guess that’s it. Bye.”

He hangs up and looks at himself in the mirror. It doesn’t splinter into pieces on sight or anything like he half-expects, so that’s something. Maybe his luck is finally turning around.

Adam calls back a few hours later, while Kris is in the studio, listening to the producer mixing one of his latest tracks. When Kris answers, he can’t even get half a syllable out before Adam cuts him off, saying, “Where are you?”

“At the studio,” he says, moving into a corner for privacy. “Why?”

“Stay put. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Kris is running through a new song on the piano when Adam shows up. He stands behind the glass, watching, and Kris’s hands twitch on the keys. He tries to focus on the melody instead of Adam, has to force himself not to rush through the rest. Once he’s done, he stands up and takes a step forward.

“Hey, guys, can you give us a minute?”

The mixers clear out of the booth, and then Adam moves away from the glass, opens the door and hovers in the doorway. For a minute they just stand and look at each other. Adam is— Adam, and Kris is a little surprised that he looks just the same as ever.

It feels like with everything that’s happened he should look more different.

Adam breaks the silence.

“Fuck it,” he says, “come here,” and crosses the room in three strides, hauls Kris into a crushing hug. He holds him so tight Kris can’t breathe, and he hears Adam stifle a half-laugh, half-sob against his neck. It’s like something cracking open in Kris. This feels so good, so right, the way they fit together—it seems so stupid that he’s deprived himself of this for so long.

Allison was right; he is an idiot. An idiot of epic proportions.

Adam lets Kris go and plops down on the piano bench.

“That song you just did,” he says. “What’s it called?”

“Love at High Tide,” Kris says, sitting down next to him. “Working title, subject to change.”

“It’s really beautiful. Haunting.”

Something in Kris’s chest flutters at the words, and he has to lower his eyes. Compliments from Adam have always meant something more. Not just because he loves Adam, but because Adam doesn’t lie. He doesn’t sugarcoat anything.

Adam pokes at the piano keys, runs a hand down the scales.

“Maybe you should leave that to the pros,” Kris teases.

Adam huffs with mock-offense. “Excuse you! I do, in fact, know one song. Neil taught it to me.”

He starts into the right hand part of Heart & Soul, and Kris jumps into the left hand of the duet, playing the keys deftly. It’s a simple piece that’s easy to learn by ear, but a fun one.

Kris looks at Adam’s hands on the piano as he plays. His fingers curve perfectly over the keys like waves crashing onto a beach. It’s a stupid metaphor, but he can’t help it, because all he sees is waves—in Adam’s hair, from his chest to his waist, from the arch of his foot to the ball.

He is all waves and Kris is riding every one.

He wants him, sweetly, deeply, absolutely.

Once they finish the little duet, they sit at the piano and catch up a little. Adam talks about the last guy he dated (“it lasted for, like, five minutes, once I realized he was just a pretty face and the sex wasn’t even that great”), a particularly crazy trip to Vegas he took with Brad (“Brad tried seducing one of the dancers from Cirque du Soleil, rubbing all up on him, which was hilarious, except the guy’s boyfriend was there and about to fucking throw down with us, which was not so fun”) and a new music video shoot (“let’s just say it involves a lot of body oil, and someone pours hot candle wax onto my chest, which hurts like a bitch”).

When he’s done filling Kris in on what he missed, Adam turns to him and says, “So, tell me everything.”

Kris talks about the studio work, and a lot about Chase, and visiting home and how things are with Katy—a little rocky, but he thinks he can call her a friend, which is more than he knows he deserves. He tells Adam about the upcoming concert, how nervous he is, how he can’t even think about it without having a borderline panic attack.

And then they talk about the picture.

“I don’t know what else to say except that I’m sorry,” Kris says. “It was my fault. I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. I know I ruined everything, and I know there’s not enough apologizing in the world that can make up for that.”

“You didn’t ruin everything,” Adam tells him. “God, I’m not mad about the picture. I don’t care about the fucking picture. I care about you. This radio silence shit— that, I’m pissed about. Fuck that. Fuck that shit with a fucking cordless drill. You better never do it again.”

Kris swallows hard. “I just—I thought it would be better. For you.”

“Better for me?” Adam scoffs. He leans in and puts one warm hand on Kris’s neck, and Kris has to fight not to curl his fingers instinctively around it. “Listen to me, Kris. Not talking to you has been hell. I need you, okay? I need you, and I need you to understand that it’s a big deal for me to even say that. It is a big. Fucking. Deal. Do you get it?”

“Yes,” Kris whispers.

Adam pulls away and studies him intently. “So how are you? Seriously?”

Kris gets about a syllable and a half into his standard answer of “I’m fine” and then stops. Adam doesn’t lie to him, and he doesn’t want to lie to Adam, either.

He mulls over the question for a minute, and then he says, “I think I’m okay,” and for the first time it doesn’t feel like a lie. At the very least, he’s better than he has been in a long time.

“Good,” Adam says, and when he smiles, it’s the one Kris likes best, the one cameras never see—soft and wide and meant only for him.

**

Kris couldn’t ask for a better opening act than Chase. The kid is great at warming up an audience; they adore him. He’s also getting better at meeting celebrities—he actually formed coherent sentences in Adam’s presence before the show. Kris is feeling good because Adam is there, and because Katy sent flowers this morning with a nice note—it says Knock ‘em dead, champ, and it’s spelled out in her own girlish loopy handwriting, which means she must’ve taken the time to do it in person.

The crowd is still on its feet when Chase ducks backstage, slapping Kris on the shoulder with a quick “Good luck” before disappearing to find Allison, probably. Kris doesn’t do more than nod in his general direction. Right before shows he likes to be alone, do a set of jumping jacks to warm up, say a little prayer. He needs the time to be in his own head.

“You’re up,” the stagehand says, and Kris takes a deep breath, tries to calm his nerves. It’s time.

When he steps onto the stage, his heart is beating so hard and fast he thinks it might burst out of his chest. But the reception is thunderous, even from a small venue like this, and he has to take a minute before he can even start. He stands there under the hot stage lights, soaking it all in.

This is why he does what he does. This is the payoff.

Kris launches into his set, riding the high of performing, feeding off the pulsing rush from the crowd, pouring everything he is into every song. It’s like something’s been unleashed inside him, and he’s never felt as alive as he does now. Katy had said, Maybe this is how it’s meant to be, and Kris isn’t sure if he believes in destiny, but he feels like if God put him here for a reason, this is it. This is exactly what he’s meant to do.

Before he knows it, he’s flown through his set list and reached his last song. It’s one of his new ones off of Quiet Storm, one he wrote for Adam.

“I want to dedicate this one to someone,” he says, adjusting the piano bench and pulling the mic close to his mouth. He sneaks a glance at Adam, waiting in the wings. “This is for Adam. My best friend.”

The crowd erupts with cheers, and Kris makes a face at Adam as he plays the first few bars of Love at High Tide. Adam covers his mouth with both hands, unable to contain his delight.

His ears are still ringing from the roar of the crowd when he finds his way backstage afterward. He nods and smiles at the people clapping him on the back, congratulating him, but he only really cares about finding Adam. It takes a minute to find him in the sea of people, and then the crowd parts just right, and there he is, waiting.

Adam’s eyes are moist, and they don’t speak, just wrap around each other in a tight hug, Kris’s guitar still slung around his back. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to let go, ever, but eventually Adam pushes back and wipes at his eyes.

“Go! Go soak up your glory, comeback kid!” he says, shaking Kris a little by the shoulders. “You deserve it.”

Kris shakes his head. “Nah, that’s okay. I’d rather get out of here. Can we go somewhere?”

All he wants right now is to get out of here and spend more time with Adam. They still have a lot of missed time to catch up on.

Adam smiles. “I have an idea.”

They drive in Adam’s Mustang with the top down. The wind whipping around them means it’s too loud to talk, but that’s okay. It’s a comfortable silence. Kris is still coming down from the performance, the endorphin rush from all that adrenaline pumping through his veins, and he leans his head back and enjoys the cool breeze tousling his hair, white noise blocking everything else out.

When the car purrs to a stop, Kris opens his eyes and actually laughs at what he sees.

The beach.

“You take the concept of coming full circle a little too literally,” he teases.

Adam cuts the engine. “Just go with it, Kris.”

Just go with it. Kris is okay with that plan.

The beach is empty this time of night—no one’s supposed to be here.

“If we get arrested, you’re bailing me out,” Kris says.

Adam slings a loose arm over his shoulders. “You know I’ve always got your back.”

They sit on the sand, side-by-side, watching the black waves as they roll in. Everything sparkles under the moonlight. It’s reminiscent of the island, except the air is different here, the sounds are different, even the sand isn’t the same.

While he’s staring out at the ocean, he notices Adam dig into his jacket pocket. He takes out the pilot’s knife and draws in the sand with the point of the blade.

“You carry that around with you everywhere?” Kris asks, amused.

“Of course,” he says, shooting him an incredulous look, like he can’t believe Kris would even question it. “Fuck rabbit feet. This thing is the best good luck charm ever. And way more badass.”

He traces some more patterns in the sand, rubbing them away with the heel of his hand and starting over.

“Do you ever—” Kris starts.

He hesitates, because the last thing he wants to do is throw something out there he can’t take back, do something to mess everything up between them again. But when he looks up, Adam is staring at him, intense but open, and Kris thinks that after all they’ve been through, there isn’t much he can do at this point to push Adam away.

“Do you ever feel like everything before in your life only happened to lead up to one moment?” he asks. “Like it was all just building up to this one thing, because if everything hadn’t gone down the way it did, you couldn’t have gotten here?”

Adam pauses, considering. “I guess I do. I think… I think the universe has a way of aligning the way it’s supposed to.”

“I feel like this is one of those moments,” Kris says, and then he leans over and kisses Adam before he can lose his nerve.

It’s not much of a kiss—soft, chaste, just a simple slide of his mouth against Adam’s. When he pulls back, Adam looks stunned.

“Oh,” he says, dropping his gaze, and Kris’s stomach drops with it. Shit.

He grabs onto Adam’s sleeve, digging his fingers into leather, clinging to it like a life preserver.

“I’m not trying to screw things up with us,” he says, desperately. “It’s just how I feel. Have been feeling. And if we can’t… If you don’t want this, I get it.”

“It’s never been about that,” Adam cuts in. He looks at Kris for a long time, the silence stretching between them like a tangible thing. “You’re sure? You really want this?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “I know the deal. I know I can’t do this halfway. And I don’t want to. I want all of it, the whole Adam Lambert package. Whatever you’ll let me have. And… if it’s just friendship, if that’s all you want, that’s fine. I’ll make it work. I’ll do whatever—”

Adam cuts him off with a kiss, his hand cupped around Kris’s cheek, grasping his chin and bringing their mouths together. Kris closes his eyes and leans into it. It’s everything he’s spent the last few months dying for, and he can’t believe it’s real, that Adam is here in front of him, wanting him like this.

“You can have everything,” Adam whispers against his mouth. “If you want it.”

Kris slides his hand around the back of Adam’s neck, into his hair, and breathes, “I do, I do, Adam, I do,” until it all runs together and it sounds like he is singing.

Until Adam kisses him hard, cutting off his words like a ribbon clipped with scissors, until all Kris can hear is just gasps and needy breaths, and somewhere beyond them, the constant waves.

--end

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

Soundtrack

A/N: Okay, so this is the kind of fic I never write, in that it's crazy long and sort of has a plot, even though it's a totally ridiculous one. I tried to do some research on Palau and GPS locating devices in cell phones and Belau National Hospital in order to make it somewhat plausible, but I'm sure this entails a lot of suspension of disbelief involved on the reader's part here; try and roll with it. Also, I apologize for any typos/grammatical errors, since I wrote pretty much all of this in less than a week and haven't read through it super thoroughly.

fic: If It Kills Me (Kris/Adam, NC-17) (3/4)

buffyx — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 04:15:11 GMT

Title: If It Kills Me
Fandom/Pairing: American Idol; Kris/Adam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I mean, you guys are like— you’re like soul mates or something. Come on! You’re Kris and Adam, man!"

Someone’s making pancakes. The smell of them wafts it way underneath Kris’s cocoon of covers; he opens his eyes and breathes it in for awhile, listening to the clatter of pans and silverware coming from downstairs, footsteps creaking on linoleum. He can’t hear any voices, but he can imagine them—Daniel and his dad fighting over the sports page, his mother humming under her breath as she stirs the batter.

He lies there until the edge of the mattress dips with someone’s weight—Katy’s, he realizes, the second her hand rests lightly on his stomach. He pulls the covers down to his chin and sees her sitting there, smiling down at him.

“Hi,” she says softly. “You want to come have breakfast? Or I could bring you some, if you want.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” he says. He should get up, go downstairs and join them. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay.” She leans down and kisses his cheek, her breath warm and sweet against his skin, and then disappears.

Getting up in the morning; it's what regular people do. And Kris is determined to try and be a regular person.

He does pretty well, too, smiling and making conversation, though it’s tiring to be around people all of the time, even if it’s just his family. He doesn’t leave the house for a week, except to go to church. It’s nice, actually, because no one expects him to speak there—he just gets to sit in the pew, listening to the pastor speak, standing to sing the assigned hymns with everyone else.

The thing is that before, church always used to make him feel closer to God, and now he doesn’t feel close to anything. Not to the sermon, no matter how hard he listens to each word. Not even to Katy next to him, or his mother on his other side.

He calls Adam every day, who says that the media frenzy is kind of crazy right now and Kris should avoid the internet at all costs.

“TMZ tried to gangbang me outside of Hyde,” he says. “I almost fucking ran over some guy’s foot driving out of there. It was insane. What do they need three hundred shots of me sitting in a car for anyway?” He sighs. “Just trust me, if you want to avoid putting your fist through a wall, don’t go online. Don’t turn on the tv.”

Kris doesn’t particularly want to put his fist through anything, so he heeds Adam’s advice, stays off the internet and only watches sports games with Daniel and his dad. And then one day he’s alone for once, sitting on the couch with his foot propped up on the coffee table. He wraps an Ace bandage around his ankle with one hand, flips through channels with the other, meaning to turn it to ESPN, but he lands on CNN instead.

Some field correspondent is reporting from the beach of the island. Their island. It’s a split screen, with the other half looping footage from the press conference and aerial shots of him and Adam leaving the hospital in Palau. Probably he should switch the channel, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

He sets down the remote and watches for awhile. The reporter relates the account of their “harrowing journey” as they show clips of the makeshift shelter, still standing, and then of where they buried Wendy, the dirt still fresh, the lopsided rocks still piled at the head of the grave.

That’s when he turns it off.

Kris is still wearing the ring around his neck. When his mother noticed it, she asked if he wanted a real chain to replace the fraying shoelace, but he said no. Because it doesn’t belong to him. He only meant to keep it safe until he could give it back. And now he can.

He calls his assistant, Louise, and asks her to track down Wendy’s husband’s phone number. Louise doesn’t bat an eye and tells him she’ll have it to him within an hour; he knew he always liked her for a reason. Sure enough, forty-eight minutes later she calls back and gives him the number, along with a name: Jack Manning.

It takes him awhile to gather the nerve to make the call. He does it in the bathroom, again, because it feels like the safest space; he lies on the floor, looking under the door crack like a little kid checking for monsters. No monsters here. Just a widower, sixteen hundred miles away, who may or may not blame Kris for his wife’s death.

Kris breathes fast while the phone rings, half hoping for it to reach voicemail, but then Jack answers. He stutters out an introduction, and when he tells Jack about the ring, Jack doesn’t say anything.

“I’d really like to give it to you,” Kris tells him, “in person. If that’s okay with you.”

“Yes,” Jack agrees. “That would be okay.”

So Kris starts making plans to head back to L.A. His mother, as he expected, isn’t happy about it.

“But you just got here,” she says. She looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

His father puts his arm around her and says to Kris, “You do what you need to do, son.”

Katy pulls him aside and says, “I’m okay with going back now, but I wish you would’ve discussed this with me before deciding.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, because he feels bad that he didn’t factor her into the equation. “I should’ve asked first.”

She reaches out and touches his necklace, playing with the ring. “Do you want me to come with you?” she asks. “When you give this back?”

He shakes his head. “No.” This is something he has to do on his own. “I just want things to go back to normal,” he says.

“Me, too. If you think this is the right thing to do, I trust you.”

He does.

**

The thing Kris forgot about L.A. is that there are paparazzi. Everywhere. They’re all but assaulted in the airport. Thank God for Katy— she takes the lead, guiding him by the hand through the throng of photographers to the waiting sedan. He snaps out of it enough to open the door for her first, and then hurries quickly around to the other side, trying to tune out the questions they shout at him.

“Are you okay?” she asks as their driver pulls onto the highway.

The truth is that he’s a little shaken up, but he nods and assures her he’s fine.

“Mmm,” she says, and he’s pretty sure she’s not buying it. He’s always had a shitty poker face. She spiders her fingers through his hair. “We need to get you to the salon, stat. This hair is out of control.”

He grins. “I’ll put it on my To-Do list.”

When the driver drops Katy off at their apartment, he leans over and kisses her goodbye. He’s sad to see her go, even though it’s only for a little while. It’d be easier to do this with her next to him.

Wendy’s husband lives in a townhouse in Brentwood. It’s in a nice neighborhood, where every lawn is kelly green and neatly mowed, and kids draw with chalk on the sidewalk. Kris takes a few deep breaths before he rings the doorbell, and a minute later Jack opens the door. He steps aside, inviting Kris in; he’s a tall, stocky guy with piercing eyes that seem to look right through Kris, which makes him even more nervous. Something he didn’t think was possible.

He stands awkwardly in the white-carpeted living room, where a little blond boy of no more than three sits on the floor, playing with a Lego set.

Jack kneels down next to him and says, “This is our son, Hunter.”

Kris waves. “Hey, Hunter. Nice to meet you.”

The kid ignores him, snapping some yellow pieces together and then breaking them apart again.

“Hunter, this is Kris,” Jack says. “He knew Mom. Can you say hello?”

Hunter barely pauses in his playing to look up at Kris with disinterest. “Hi,” he says.

Jack smiles wanly and says, “We’re still working on manners.” He stands up. “I actually need to make a quick phone call. Do you mind waiting?”

“Not at all,” Kris says, and Jack goes upstairs, leaving Kris alone with the boy.

He bends down on his knees to Hunter’s height and watches him construct what looks to be some kind of spaceship.

“That’s very cool,” he says. “Can I look at it?”

Hunter bites down on his lip like he’s considering it, but then he hands it over. Kris pretends to fly it around Hunter’s head, accompanying the movement with various sound effects, until Hunter starts giggling. They play for a little while, Hunter chattering away excitedly as he explains each piece of his little space station.

“Looks like you two are getting along famously.”

Kris doesn’t know long Jack’s been watching them when he sees him leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“He’s a smart kid,” Kris says, climbing to his feet.

Jack chuckles a bit. “He is. A little too smart, sometimes.”

They sit on the nice leather couch, watching Hunter play for a minute, and then Kris pulls out the envelope he brought along. He slides out the ring and extends it to Jack.

“I am so sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t really know her, but she seemed like a good person. I wish I could’ve—done more, or—”

“I know you did as much as you could,” Jack interrupts. He stops and clears his throat, his eyes shining, and Kris has to shove his hands in his pockets to hide how badly they’re shaking. “Thank you for keeping this safe. It means a lot to me.”

“It was nothing,” Kris says. “I was glad to do it.”

“We’re bringing the remains back for a memorial service here next week,” Jack tells him. “You and Adam are more than welcome to attend.”

“I’d like that. I think Adam would too,” he says. “And if you need anything—if I can pay for anything—just let me know. I can cover it. It’s not a problem.”

Jack thanks him again, and they shake hands. Before Kris leaves, Hunter comes up and hugs his legs, nearly knocking him over.

“He’s a bit aggressive,” Jack explains apologetically, prying Hunter off. He hefts him into his arms and ruffles the boy’s hair. “Gets that from his mother.”

Kris calls Adam on the drive home, after, and tells him about the planned service.

“Of course I’ll go,” Adam says, without hesitation. “Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.” He pauses. “You know, I actually called Patrick McCormick’s wife. I wanted to give back the knife, but she told me to keep it. She didn’t seem want to talk to me very much.”

“Well… maybe it’s just difficult for her to remember. Too painful.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Adam says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “Shit, I have to go. I have a conference call with the label in like two minutes.”

“You’re talking to them already?” Kris asks, surprised.

“Why not? I don’t know about you, but I want to get back in the studio. Get working again. I, for one, have a kickass album to finish.”

Kris hasn’t really thought about his half-finished second album; Jive has been good about leaving him alone, haven’t really brought it up yet. He figures it’s only a matter of time before they start pestering him about expected release dates.

But maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he’ll feel better once he’s in the studio again.

**

Wendy’s service ends up being the first time he sees Adam again. It’s only been weeks, but it’s felt like forever.

Adam’s whole face lights up when he spots Kris across the room, and Kris doesn’t even try to play it cool. He grins back just as wide, lengthening his stride and ducking around the other mourners, barely refraining from breaking into a run. They meet each other halfway, and Kris pretty much flings himself into Adam’s arms. They embrace tightly, clasping each other close.

“God, it’s good to see you,” Adam murmurs, and then holds him back by the shoulders and looks him up and down. “You clean up good, Allen!”

“Likewise, Lambert,” Kris says, still grinning like a moron. And it’s true—Adam’s dressed in a crisp black suit, his makeup toned down for the occasion, and he looks better than the last time Kris saw him, more filled out and healthy, his hair newly styled.

Katy comes up to them, smiling warmly at Adam. She puts her arms around him and whispers something in his ear Kris doesn’t catch, but whatever it is, it makes Adam hug her harder.

He was nervous, at first, about Adam and Katy being in the same room, after everything. But it was stupid to worry; they get along well and always have. And maybe Kris isn’t a good actor, but Adam doesn’t give anything away, talks to her with the same natural ease as always.

Later, Jack comes up to them, Hunter in tow. Katy picks him up in her arms, holds him up against her hip. Kris is so not ready for kids, and he knows Katy doesn’t want them either right now, but he thinks one day she’ll make a great mother. She is such a good person, down to her core, and he doesn’t know what he did to deserve someone like her.

While Katy talks to Jack about how beautiful the service was, Kris excuses himself and steps outside. It’s raining a little, drizzling down lazily, and that seems about right. Appropriate. He leans against the building and tugs at his tie; he feels like he’s suffocating.

Seeing Adam was nice—better than nice—but it’s been a long, hard day. The service itself was… emotional. The worst was witnessing Wendy’s parents. They’d looked beside themselves, bewildered by their own grief, like they still hadn’t accepted that their daughter was never coming home.

“Hey, Houdini, I was wondering where you disappeared to.”

Adam walks up to him, a swing in his step, but he falters when he sees the look on Kris’s face.

Kris rubs his eyes and swallows, willing back his stupid, useless tears. “Hey.”

If Adam asks him what’s wrong, he’s going to—well. He doesn’t know what, but likely he’s going to do something dumb like punch a wall or start sobbing.

But Adam doesn’t ask. He just comes up and smoothes out the lapels of Kris’s suit.

“Your tie is such a mess,” he points out. He untangles the two ends, works on doing it up correctly while Kris watches his hands. Adam has nice hands; long and slender fingers, smooth palms. It’s not the first time he’s noticed this.

When Kris closes his eyes, there’s just the rain and Adam’s hands, and he remembers them both, in another place, another time. It feels like a lifetime ago, even though it hasn’t been that long.

Adam finishes tying the knot, slides it up to the base of Kris’s throat, then runs his hand across the silk. Even when he’s done, he doesn’t move away. Instead he leans forward and presses their foreheads together.

“I’m okay,” Kris tells him. “In case you were worrying.”

“I always worry about you,” Adam says. His voice is a near-whisper, dark and hoarse, and the look on his face makes Kris’s heart clench. “And you’re not okay. But you will be.”

Kris looks down at his shoes, lifts one shoulder and drops it. “Maybe.”

“You will,” Adam insists. “It might not seem like it right now, but I promise. You will.”

They both fall silent. The rain isn’t letting up, is coming down harder now; it beats against the pavement.

“What is this?” Adam says. “God, come on, get rid of these.”

Kris doesn’t know what Adam is talking about until he tastes salt in the corner of his mouth and realizes he’s crying. Not a lot, but enough, silent tears streaking paths down his face. Adam rubs them away with the inside of his wrist. His eyes glisten, too, but they don’t spill over.

It wouldn’t take much to kiss Adam from this angle, just a slight lean forward. But that would be stupid and reckless and Kris can’t believe he’s even thinking about it with Katy right inside. There are so many things wrong with this picture that he doesn’t even know where to begin, and he still wants to anyway. He’s aching to pull Adam into a kiss, wet and intense like the rain coming down around them, until they’re both shaking from it. Aching to completely lose himself in Adam’s mouth, in the knit of his fingers in Adam’s sleeves.

Even after Adam steps back from him, even after he goes back to Katy, even when they leave, that moment is all he can think about.

He must be really, really fucked up.

**

Kris figured the media would die down eventually, move onto the next story, but it hasn’t. If anything it’s worse than ever. He can’t step one foot outside his apartment building without being tailed by photographers; apparently they think if they yell enough questions for long enough, he’ll get sick of ignoring them and answer. It gets to the point where he feels like a prisoner in his own home.

His publicist tells him of a bunch of offers on the table—a joint sit-down with Adam with Barbara Walters, Oprah, Larry King, a cover and article for People, book deals from several major publishing houses. He tells her flatly that he won’t consider anything without talking to Adam first.

He calls Adam and asks what he wants to do.

“We can keep ignoring it if that’s what you want,” Adam says thoughtfully, “but really, it might help calm people the fuck down if we agree to something.”

They decide on Barbara Walters; it’s not very rock star, but she lets them set a lot of pre-conditions in order to get the exclusive. They agree to take the money and donate it to Invisible Children—neither of them needs it, and the last thing they want is to capitalize off of what happened in any way.

Katy agrees to be interviewed too, along with Adam’s mom. It’s your standard fluffy 20/20 fare, complete with dramatic narration and cheesy music. They mostly talk about the crash, and what they did to survive. One of the agreements was not to ask details about Wendy or the pilot, so they only skim over those parts— it’s mostly focused on the near-death experience aspect.

Toward the end of the interview, Barbara asks, “And how did it feel to have only each other?”

Adam and Kris look at each other, and Kris knows that he, at least, is remembering everything that happened in the last ten days.

He opens his mouth but can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t give himself away. Thankfully Adam doesn’t miss a beat, gives some pat answer about it being an unimaginably trying experience, yes, but that Kris is his best friend, and there’s no one else he would’ve rather been stranded with.

Kris wants to ask Adam if he means that, or if he regrets anything that happened—but he knows their friendship is only working the way it is by talking around that, never addressing it head-on. It’s just the way it has to be.

**

After the interview, Kris goes back into the studio full time. He has about ten songs already done for his second album, ones that were written before the island, and a handful more that are only halfway complete. The problem is that none of them sound right. He can’t recognize himself in any of them.

He spends a few weeks trying to make the finished ones work, and trying to pull together the threads of the unfinished ones, but it’s a frustrating process, and he hates all of the material. He calls up the label and tells them he wants to start from scratch. It’ll mean delaying the release date, but he refuses to put an album out he doesn’t believe in, and while Jive is skeptical, in the end they give him the go ahead. He guesses that means either they have faith in his artistic integrity, or else they’re expecting him to fail anyway, so they don’t see the harm in him doing it on his own terms.

A blank slate is just what he needed. It’s like it’s opened the floodgates, and suddenly Kris can’t write songs fast enough. He starts carrying a spiral notebook around wherever he goes, jotting down snatches of lyrics and melodic ideas all of the time— at stoplights, over the more and more infrequent meals he shares with Katy, at three in the morning, whenever something pops into his head.

The new album is tentatively called Quiet Storm. A lot of the songs he writes are about Adam without him meaning for them to be. The thing is, they’re actually the best songs he’s ever written. The ones he tries to write about Katy don’t come out right. They feel too much the same as the ones he wrote for her on his first album. He doesn’t know what that says about him. About them.

It gets to where he’s practically living in the studio. More than once he wakes up on the lumpy couch in the booth to Katy’s assigned ringtone, her worried voice in his ear asking where he is, and he has to mumble out an apology while locating his shoes under the mixing board.

Katy’s still trying the acting gig. No auditions have panned out yet, and he knows she doesn’t like having nothing to do. She’s never been the kind of girl satisfied sitting around the house. It’s part of why he loves her, her strong ambition and determination. He wants to tell her he believes in her, that it’s going to work out, but he knows if he does, it’ll just sound patronizing.

He finds out she’s been passed over on her third audition of the month one night during dinner—Chinese delivery from some place on the corner.

Back in Conway, before they got married, when Kris was a college dropout playing the (very) occasional bar gig, and Katy was working forty hours a week at her office job, he used to try and compensate by making all of their meals, chicken stir fry and his mother’s meatloaf recipe and macaroni and cheese. They’d sit at their cheap dining room table, eating off paper plates because Katy didn’t want to waste money on real ones when they’d be getting a nice set as a wedding gift anyway. But it hadn’t mattered then, really; it had been kind of hard, and maybe Kris was a little embarrassed to be essentially freeloading off of his fiancé, but at the same time, there was something a little romantic about their poverty. Like, being poor sucked, but he didn’t mind being poor if it meant being with her—and he’d seen the world enough to know how good they had it, that he had a lot more than most people dreamed of, and he wasn’t going to be selfish and ask for more.

Eating straight out of the paper carton at the dining room table now reminds him a little of those days, except it doesn’t feel so romantic anymore.

Katy’s been quiet all night. She picks through her lo mein and says, “I think you need counseling.”

“What?” He looks up from his notebook, confused. The line all of my wandering has left me here has been tugging at him all day, and he wants to get it down before it disappears from memory.

“I think you need counseling,” she repeats. She isn’t even looking at him. Just throws the comment out there, like she’s merely suggesting a new movie to see, or painting the kitchen a new color.

“I don’t need therapy,” he says defensively. “What’s bringing this on?”

Her eyes snap up to his. “What isn’t bringing this on?” she retorts.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you need help. Ever since you got back—” she says, and he pushes his chair back abruptly and jumps to his feet.

“I’m not crazy,” he snaps.

“—things have been different,” she finishes, talking over him. Now she stands, too, chucks the carton down on the table. “You’ve been different. You’re never around anymore. I’m practically living on my own here. I feel like I’m alone, and I hate it.” Her mouth trembles. “I can’t keep coming second place in your life all the time.”

All of his anger evaporates at the sight of her tears, leaving him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The truth is he has been distant. He can’t deny it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right. I haven’t been around enough. I can try harder. I’ll try harder. It’s just—things have been… hard.”

“I know they have,” she says. She brushes the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and sits back down. “If you can’t talk to me about them… I get it. I don’t expect you to tell me everything. But you need to talk to someone.”

He nods slowly. “Okay. Okay, I will.”

They eat the rest of the meal in silence, and that night when he joins Katy in bed, she’s facing the wall, her back to him, breathing heavy in a way that he knows means she’s only faking sleep. It hurts a little, but at the same time he’s relieved, because he doesn’t know what more to say to her, either.

**

“Katy thinks I need therapy.”

“Oh?” Adam freezes with his wine glass halfway to his lips. “And what do you think?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m not crazy.”

Kris stabs viciously at a stray avocado in his salad and shoves it into his mouth. They’re having lunch at some place on Robertson, halfway between Adam’s apartment and Kris’s studio. A little more high profile than what he’d prefer, but last time Kris got to pick, and Adam was the one who called first, so it was only fair to let him choose.

“Therapy isn’t just for crazy people,” Adam says. “It’s the new millennium, Kris. The stigma is gone. Everyone and their dog has a therapist. Therapists have therapists.”

“Do you?”

“Not at the moment. But I have.”

“I don’t get it,” Kris says. “So what, you just sit on a leather couch and tell some stranger your dreams? And they analyze you? How does it even work?”

Adam rolls his eyes. “God, do you learn everything from television? You are so ridiculous.”

“I’m serious! It just seems… awkward. And stupid.”

Adam takes another sip of wine, sets it back down and says, “Okay, the short version: essentially it’s just paying someone to listen to your emotional baggage and maybe help you figure your shit out.”

“And that helps?”

“It can.”

“Hmm.” Kris chews his salad for a minute. “Seems like a waste of money to me.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t need therapy,” he says, smiling with half his mouth. “Not when I have you.”

It’s actually pretty true; there’s no one in the world Kris tells as much as he tells Adam. Of course, there are a few things he can’t say—like how he still thinks about Adam that way, more than he thinks about his own wife lately, and how much he hates himself for it. But he figures that’s what song writing is for.

Adam and music. Yeah, he definitely doesn’t need therapy.

A few photographers circle them on their way out of the restaurant, snapping shots and calling out the usual stupid questions. Most of them are directed to Adam, who laughs them off easily. He has this method of charming the paps, teasing them without giving them exactly what they want, and they all somehow love him for it.

Things on the media end settled down for Kris some after the 20/20 interview, especially once Adam was caught canoodling with some indie actor a few times at a night club.

“His name is Lionel Reed, and he’s hot as fuck, and no, it isn’t serious,” Adam said during one of their nightly phone calls around the time the story broke.

“Lionel? He sounds old,” Kris said. “He sounds like he was a colonel in the Civil War.”

“He’s one year older than me!”

“Oh, that’s totally old. Just tell me, was he fighting for the Confederacy or the Union?”

“You know I like my boys southern,” Adam said slyly, and Kris was just glad that conversation was over the phone so Adam couldn’t see the way his face went apple red.

It’s good that Adam’s out having fun and enjoying himself—he deserves that more than anyone— but part of Kris feels weird about it. A little jealous. Which is stupid because he has no right to any proprietary feelings, because that’s completely unfair, and yet he’s still relieved when Adam assures him that his thing with Lionel is completely casual.

They drive from the restaurant to the studio; Adam’s been bugging Kris about sitting in on some sessions for weeks now, and Kris finally feels like he’s pieced together enough songs to let someone else see. They go into the empty booth, and Adam sits on the piano bench while Kris tunes his guitar.

When Kris is done, he rifles through the sheet music, trying to figure out which song to do. Finally he finds one, but he hesitates before he begins.

“Well?” Adam says expectantly. “You going to play or what?”

“Okay,” Kris says, “but I’m telling you, it’s still rough. Don’t judge too harshly, all right? I’m not sure—”

“Shut up and play the damn song, Kris.”

Kris plucks a few strings experimentally, and then starts the song in earnest. It’s slow but sharp, sort of a more mainstream take on Ani DiFranco, with something of a hook in the chorus that means it’s more radio-friendly but doesn’t turn it into generic auto-tuned garbage.

He doesn’t look at Adam while he plays, but he can still feel Adam’s eyes on him as he sings the words— “Walking a line we can't even define. I know the rope is wearing thin, but you just grin, so here we go again. I can feel you under my skin, I still feel you, I still feel you.”

When he’s done, he leans the guitar against the chair and meets Adam’s intense gaze.

“The song is about you,” he says. It feels important for Adam to know. In case the lyrics weren’t obvious enough.

“I kind of figured,” Adam says. He looks a little dazed.

Kris gets up and walks over to Adam, kneels in front of him, puts his hands on his knees. They’re warm under his palms. Adam looks down at him with wide eyes, and Kris is overcome with the same feeling he had at the funeral, wanting nothing more than to take Adam’s head between his hands and kiss him, a soul-searching, world-stopping kiss, the kind of kiss that’s backed by violins—no, backed with a full string symphony, even.

But it isn’t going to happen. It can’t happen, and Adam stands up, facing the wall, and says, “I should probably go.” He turns around, his face closed off again, but he smiles at Kris, reassuring. “The song is great. The album will be amazing, I know it. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

Kris just nods and busies himself with picking up the loose sheet music as Adam leaves, the booth door swinging closed behind him.

**

Adam will never make the first move. Not as things stand. And Kris knows Adam is right, the way he always is. Kris can’t keep doing this, putting himself in this position—he’s at risk of sabotaging his own career, and more importantly his own personal life, by even considering the possibility.

He promised Katy he’d try, and what is he doing? Trying to seduce his best friend, who maybe wanted him at one point but probably isn’t even remotely interested anymore, with a song.

It is pathetic.

He is pathetic.

It doesn’t matter what Kris wants, because it’s not gonna happen, and the sooner he gets over it, the better chance he has of not ruining everything else. He just has to… push it out of his mind. Do what Adam told him to do—go back to living his life. His real life.

Things actually get better once he does that and starts focusing more on Katy. It helps that she lands a guest spot on some CW show, one of those girly dramas Adam probably has a Tivo season pass for. He’d call Adam to let him know, except he’s determined to break his habit of calling Adam about every little thing that goes on in his life. All jokes aside, Adam isn’t actually his therapist, and it’s Katy he’s focusing on now.

They go out for a fancy celebratory dinner, at one of those upscale places with a dress code and a string quartet serenading in one corner and a single lit ivory candle placed in the middle of the fancy red tablecloth. Katy glows in a strapless floral dress, shoulders gleaming, happy in a way Kris hasn’t seen her in far too long. She babbles on about the audition and the casting director and how the role is possibly recurring depending on how things go. Kris tries to listen as intently as he can, nodding and asking questions in the right places. Mostly he’s just happy that she’s so happy.

When they get back to the apartment, Katy is all over him the second they come through the door. She drops her clutch to the floor and snatches him in a kiss, draws him toward the bedroom. It’s been a month since they last made love. He figures this is a good sign, for them, that they’re doing this again. He fumbles with the zipper on her dress, with his belt buckle, wrestling both their clothes off and tumbling into the bed.

They’re naked and she’s underneath him, legs spread, her body a tensed bow arching into his, but somehow he just. Can’t. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him—she is beautiful, she is perfect, she’s all but begging for it, but something isn’t clicking.

He thinks if he closed his eyes and thought about Adam, maybe it would work, but there’s no way he is doing that. He’s done a lot wrong when it comes to Katy, but that would be a kind of betrayal too twisted even for him. It’d be like cheating all over again, even if it was only in his head.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles finally, after the last of several fruitless attempts. He rolls off of her and into the pillows, face hot with shame. “I guess I’m just tired.”

Katy’s silent for a minute. He knows she must be pretty upset, but then she puts a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she says, even though he can tell it really isn’t. “I am too. We can just sleep.”

Somehow that makes him feel even worse.

He waits until she’s asleep to sneak out of the room. He goes downstairs, stands in the kitchen, and pours himself a glass of water. And then he pulls out his cell phone and scrolls to Adam’s name, right at the top of the list. He wants to talk to him, but it’ll seem desperate and calculated, and what good is it going to do anyway?

In the end he types out I can’t do this anymore and sends the text.

By the time Kris finishes gulping down the glass of water, his phone is ringing. It’s Adam. His finger hovers over the receive button, but then he presses reject instead, and for the first time ever, he lets it go through to voicemail on purpose.

He stops answering Adam’s calls. Adam leaves a series of voice messages; Kris listens to all of them, ranging from confused to worried to annoyed, but doesn’t respond, and deletes all of his texts. It’s hard, but this thing with Adam is killing him, killing his marriage, and it feels like the only option at this point. He’s at the end of his rope.

All of his progress with Katy seems to have backslidden. They’re back where they were before, barely speaking more than necessary, and she goes to bed early every night, is always asleep before he crawls under the covers. It’s like she’s given up, and it breaks his heart that he can’t give her what she needs, what she deserves. And she deserves so much better than this.

Sometimes he almost, stupidly, misses the island. Where everything was hard and scary, but he had Adam, and it was forces out of his control threatening his life.

Now it’s just himself that’s the hazard.

**

One morning he’s checking his voicemail and gets a new one from Adam, telling him about a special one-off concert to promote his new single.

“It’s not a huge thing, but it’s my first time since… you know. And I’d really like you to be there,” Adam says, and he sounds different—nervous, which Kris isn’t used to. Adam’s always loved performing, lived for it, for the stage and the crowds. “I have front row tickets saved for you. Two of them, if you want to bring Katy. I’d love to see her. Both of you. Anyway, they’re available if you want them. I hope you do.”

Kris debates on whether he should go or not. This self-imposed isolation from Adam hasn’t really been helping matters, and he misses him a lot, and Adam sounds like he really needs him there.

In the end he decides he can’t pass up the opportunity. He tells Katy about it when she comes into the kitchen, getting ready to leave for the set. The show picked up her role and made it recurring, which means she’s gone a lot filming, making him feel less guilty for his studio time.

“I can’t go. I have Becca’s bachelorette party that night,” she reminds him. “But send Adam my love, okay?”

Becca’s one of the other cast members; Kris is pretty sure he met her at one point, but he can’t keep Katy’s friends straight. She has a lot of them. Which is good. He’s glad that things are finally working out for her, at least in one part of her life.

An Adam Lambert concert is always an experience, and this is no exception. He gets stuck in traffic and doesn’t have time to see him beforehand, gets to the venue only a minute before the lights dim and Adam bursts onto the stage.

Adam is amazing, of course, but that’s hardly a surprise. Kris has seen Adam perform more times than he can count, and he’s always fantastic, but this time is different. It’s the first time he’s performed since the island, and he’s absolutely on fire. He swaggers and slinks across the stage, all but fucks the microphone stand, fucks the audience with his out-of-this-world vocals, making them beg for more. The crowd eats it up, goes totally ape-shit for him, as they should.

Adam is pure energy. Sex personified. He is the stuff of legends. Kris knows one day people will speculate about who the next Adam Lambert will be, the way people speculated about the next Michael Jackson, the next Freddie Mercury, the next Janis Joplin. He’s that good.

Afterward, Kris winds his way backstage, relieved that Adam thought to put his name on the list. He sees Adam sitting in a chair, mopping his face off with a towel.

Kris goes to him and grabs him. He pulls him out of the chair and holds him the way he’s wanted to hold him since that day in the recording studio, when he laid his soul bare through his music and let Adam walk away instead.

Adam laughs and squirms a little, saying, “Ahh, God, I’m all gross and sweaty right now!”

Kris doesn’t care about that, but he pulls back enough to look Adam in the eye. “The show was amazing. You were unbelievable. I mean, I believed you could be that good, but—”

“Don’t worry, I’m taking that as a compliment,” Adam says, smiling brighter than Kris has ever seen. He starts to say something else, but someone comes up and taps him on the shoulder, and in a second he’s surrounded by ten other people.

He looks at Kris uncertainly, but Kris just nods to let him know it’s okay, they’ll talk later.

He retreats to the snack table, picking through the bowl of Skittles, plucking out the green ones. He feels Brad come up to him before he hears his voice.

“Couldn’t get a minute alone with the queen of the hour?” Brad drawls, leaning up against the table.

Kris glances sideways at him. He’s spent a little time around Brad, but Brad’s relationship with Adam has always been something of a mystery to him. He knows he’s the first person Adam ever fell in love with; he knows Brad broke Adam’s heart. That’s enough to make him wary. But Adam loves Brad, and they’ve stayed friends all this time. There must be a reason for that. An elusive one that Kris just hasn’t been able to discern yet.

He looks over at Adam, who gesticulates wildly with his hands as he relays some story to the crowd of people surrounding him. They hang on his every word. Adam looks so damn happy, and Kris thinks he shouldn’t have come. But it’s hard to regret the decision when Adam catches his eye for a moment and smiles that dazzling smile, the one that makes Kris’s heart do somersaults in his chest.

“Oh, god, I know that look,” Brad says, disgusted. “So you came here, what, in hopes that Adam’s been harboring some deep, unrealized need to suck your dick?"

Kris chokes on a Skittle. His throat goes tight and sticky, and he feels like he needs to cough, but he does nothing. He can’t believe this. He hasn’t said one word. Is Brad like a body language expert or something? Or is it just that obvious?

“It’s not like that,” he says quickly, but it must be written all over his face, because Brad just rolls his eyes.

“It’s exactly like that. Trust me, I’ve been where you are.” Brad’s gaze shifts to Adam, and Kris would swear he looks a little wistful. Then he looks back at Kris sharply. “Not going to lie, I’m a little surprised you had it in you. But, and I’m saying this for your own damn good: let it go, honey. That way lays only heartache.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Kris mumbles, popping another Skittle in his mouth.

“I mean it, bitch,” Brad says. “Don’t fuck around with Adam. He doesn’t need that shit. Hurt him and I will come down on you. Hard. And not in the fun sexy way, though you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?”

He gives Kris a smirk that’s really more like a snarl, and then smacks him hard on the ass and saunters off.

Kris is still trying to sort out what just happened, half-listening to one of Adam’s backup dancers, who is not only talking his ear off but he is pretty sure also trying to hit on him, when Adam approaches. He snags Kris’s arm and drags him down one of the corridors, away from the party, without a word.

Adam comes to a stop and pushes Kris against the wall, and for a second Kris can’t breathe, thinking that maybe Adam’s actually going to do it, make the move, kiss him, do something —

But Adam just says, “What the actual fuck, Kris?”

“What?” Kris’s head is still buzzing, but the look on Adam’s face tells him that what he’s thinking about is in a completely different realm than whatever Adam has in mind.

“You send me that fucking cryptic text, you stop answering my calls, you don’t tell me what the hell is going on with you?” Adam’s voice rises with anger. “That is not fucking on! You scared the shit out of me!”

“I—I’m sorry,” Kris stammers out. “I didn’t—I mean—”

He stops and tries to remember how to breathe. It’s too much to take, being this close to Adam. He can smell him, glitter and sweat and sex, some spicy cologne underneath that.

The anger in Adam’s eyes softens. “What is going on? Did I do something?”

“No,” he says, and then, “yes.”

He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again, Adam’s face stares back at him, creased with concern.

“I can’t do this,” Kris says, and all of a sudden, it’s pouring out of him, everything. “I can’t be around you because I don’t—I don’t know how to do it anymore without making myself crazy, and things with Katy are just—everything is falling apart. And I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop.” He breathes in shakily. “I know this is supposed to be real life, we’re not on the island anymore and I’m not about to die, but that hasn’t changed anything. I don’t want to hurt Katy, but I’m hurting her anyway and I— Adam, I don’t know what to do anymore. About anything.”

He stops, looks plaintively at Adam, feels like he’s begging for something, for an answer, for Adam to tell him what to do. Somewhere behind them the party rages on, conversation and music and laughter, but it feels so far away, and Adam is so close, staring at him with his mouth open, speechless, and—

Kris catches Adam’s breath in his throat as he lunges up to kiss him, spins Adam around so it’s Adam with his back to the wall. For a second Adam freezes, and Kris thinks he’s going to put an end to this, but then he kisses Kris back, equally ferocious, moaning into his mouth, pressing into him so they touch at every contact point.

They kiss for awhile, hungry and hot and consuming, and then Kris snakes a hand down Adam’s stomach, down the front of his skintight leather pants.

This seems to snap Adam out of it. He pushes Kris away and says, “Fuck!”

Kris breathes hard, watching as Adam paces down the hall a few steps and rakes a hand through his hair, leaving a trail of blue glitter in black. He turns back and stares at Kris for a minute, and Kris doesn’t know what to say.

It doesn’t matter because Adam says it for him.

“We can’t,” he says finally. “Fuck, you know we can’t, Kris. Maybe things haven’t changed for you, but they haven’t changed for me either. I respect Katy too much to do this. And I respect myself too much.” He stops and looks at Kris. “If you respected yourself, you’d realize what a mistake this is.”

Kris feels like he’s going to cry, except he’s somewhere beyond tears. He is just… gutted. Agony. This is agony. His stomach feels like there's something alive in there, trying to eat its way out. He wants this so bad he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You’re right,” he says, strangled. “What was I thinking?”

What was he thinking? This was such a bad idea. Coming here. Seeing Adam. Kissing him. Thinking he could figure out a way to have what he wanted without hurting anyone. All of it.

“Kris,” Adam says, reaching for him, but Kris shrugs him off, hustles back to the party, out through the exit, and walks and walks and walks.

He doesn’t stop for a few blocks, and only then when he stumbles across a bar. It’s sort of a dive, but it’s mostly empty, and all he wants to do is get as drunk as possible without actually passing out and do it without anyone bothering him.

No such luck.

“You look like that guy,” the bartender says. “The singer guy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kris replies, wondering if he should just give up and leave.

“The American Idol guy. The one who was in that plane crash,” the bartender tries explaining. “Jesus, I can’t remember his name. Not the gay one, the other one.”

That makes Kris laugh, a little hysterically, until the bartender stares at him like he’s insane.

“Well, I think I might be a little gay,” he says, and then realizes that probably isn’t something he should say here. For all he knows this is the kind of place where they throw you out for that kind of thing, or jump you with knives, or whatever.

But the bartender just shrugs, unfazed, and refills his whiskey sour without asking any more questions.

Kris takes another swallow. It doesn’t help; he can’t stop thinking about how badly he’s screwed his life up. He has no idea what he is doing, and he’s terrified he’s hurt the two people he loves the most in the world beyond repair. Because even if he cuts Adam out of his life completely, things with Katy don’t feel like they’re going to get better. He can keep pretending they will, but he’s pretty sure they both know better.

Their problems are bigger than Adam.

part four

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

fic: If It Kills Me (Kris/Adam, NC-17) (2/4)

buffyx — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 04:12:54 GMT

Title: If It Kills Me
Fandom/Pairing: American Idol; Kris/Adam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I mean, you guys are like— you’re like soul mates or something. Come on! You’re Kris and Adam, man!"

After that morning, Kris can’t stop thinking of Adam like… that. It’s like some switch has flipped on in his brain and he’s hyper-aware of everything—every passing touch, every shared look.

Adam doesn’t make it easy. Adam invades his body space just as much as usual, lingering touches on his arm, a guiding hand on his back as they walk through the jungle, and if he notices that Kris suddenly loses the ability to breathe nevertheless speak when Adam does sit-ups on the beach, he doesn’t mention it.

The worst is that he still drapes himself around Kris every night. Being that close is just—it’s too much, is what it is. Every night it happens, and every night Kris gets painfully hard, has to work to keep his body perfectly still, praying Adam doesn’t notice.

Adam’s breath is warm against the back of Kris’s neck, one of arms slung loosely over Kris’s stomach. Kris can’t stop himself from touching Adam’s hand, playing lightly with his long fingers. A tiny sigh escapes Adam’s lips as he stirs in sleep, and suddenly his hand drifts down, over Kris’s crotch.

Kris freezes. Oh. Oh, this is not good.

He can feel Adam’s breathing change as his hand brushes over Kris’s dick strained against his jeans. He’s not sure what to do; he doesn’t want to move and wake Adam, but Adam might be awake already, and he’s just lying here with a raging hard on, and seriously, this is so bad—

Adam stiffens behind him, and yes, he has to be awake at this point. He quickly moves his hand away from Kris and rolls over, and Kris waits a few, terrifying seconds to see if Adam’s going to say anything. But Adam doesn’t, so he just closes his eyes, willing his breathing to slow, feigning sleep.

From then on Adam keeps a little space between them when they sleep.

Kris doesn’t know whether to be relieved or sad about that. He’s a little bit of both, he thinks.

**

They’ve been there for twenty days when the storm comes.

Kris is sitting on the beach, pretending to play the guitar. Yes, it’s very twelve-years-old of him, but he misses playing more than anything, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to get to do it with a real instrument again anytime soon. So it’s just him, looking out at the waves, playing an invisible guitar. He mimes the strumming, sliding up into the higher fret chords, keeping time with the tap of his bare foot.

He’s halfway through a song—it’s his favorite from his first album—when he sees lightning strike water in the distance. There’s a mass of dark clouds moving this way.

Kris gets up and ducks into the shelter, where Adam is stretched out, reading Wendy’s stupid romance novel. He must be really desperate for entertainment if he’s resorting to literature.

“I think it’s gonna storm,” he says.

Adam looks up from the book, and Kris automatically looks away, busying himself with twisting his wedding ring around his finger. It’s hard to look at Adam too long; he’s so afraid everything he feels is written across his face. He’s never been a good actor.

Not like Adam.

“I’ll go set out the water bottles,” he says. “Maybe we can get some water.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he scrambles back out onto the beach. He grabs the three empty water bottles, fills them with dry pebbles and half buries them in the sand so they’ll stay upright. When he’s finished with the last one, he looks up at the dark sky, and a lone raindrop hits him right in the eye.

“We’ll be okay in here, right?” asks Adam, once Kris is back in the shelter.

Kris sits down next to him and picks at a fraying hole in his jeans. “I think so.”

It’s not long before the rain starts coming down hard, pounding against the sand, leaking through the leaves of their roof.

“‘Like the wind, she ran, her breasts heaving like a stormy ocean,’” Adam reads. “What a well-timed metaphor.” He shakes his head. “Who reads this crap?”

Kris says, “Wendy, apparently,” and Adam flinches a little.

He wishes he could take the name back; they stopped talking about her awhile ago. Right around the time Adam stopped insisting that rescue would come any second now. He touches the ring looped around his neck. The feel of smooth metal against his fingertips calms him down a little. Yes, it’s still there.

“Maybe we should—” he starts, raising his voice to be heard over the driving rain, but a rumble of thunder sounds, loud enough to rattle him to the bone. The branches overhead shift, one side of the roof collapsing completely, almost knocking Adam upside the head. He ducks out of the way just in time. A flash of silvery lightning illuminates his face, mouth hanging open, eyes wide with fear.

Adam grabs his arm. “Let’s go.”

They steal out of the shelter and head into the jungle. It’s dark, and Kris can’t see anything, but Adam has a tight grip on his hand as he beats through the brush. The branches and vines and rain all lash at him, but it’s a little better once they’re under the cover of the trees. They huddle under a tree together, Adam’s strong arms wrapped tight around Kris as the forest trembles around them.

“I’ve got you,” Adam promises, and Kris tucks his head under Adam’s chin, trying, and failing, to stop himself from shaking like a leaf.

“Can I—” He closes his eyes. “Is it okay if I pray?”

“Of course,” Adam murmurs somewhere in his hair.

He doesn’t really pay attention to what he’s saying, just moves his lips, trying to summon… something. Something bigger than himself. That’s what he needs right now. A higher power to believe in.

The storm rages for hours, doesn’t die down until the next morning. Kris sleeps in snatches and wakes up to birds chirping in the trees, rain drizzling down, surprised by the almost deafening quiet surrounding them.

“Adam.” He nudges Adam awake, watches as he blinks open bleary blue eyes. “Adam, it’s over,” he says, and his voice cracks a little. His throat is painfully dry, and his entire body feels like one giant bruise.

Adam exhales one long, shuddery breath. “Oh, thank God.”

Kris clutches him tightly, holding on like Adam’s his only anchor, the only thing keeping him from floating away up through the treetops and into the clouds, the same way Adam held him all night. He pulls back and peppers kisses all over Adam’s face, not even thinking, just so exhilarated to be here, still in one piece, alive.

And then he lands a kiss on the corner of Adam’s mouth. He should pull away, he knows, but he doesn’t want to. His heart pounds with adrenaline as he slides his lips across Adam’s, slowly, deliberately.

Adam doesn’t move, but he doesn’t respond, either, and after a moment he gently pushes Kris away from him.

“We should get back,” he says, averting his gaze. He stands up quickly and swipes his palms over his jeans.

Kris watches him from the ground, feeling about twenty different things, and only able to name maybe half of them, until Adam turns to face him, expression unreadable.

“Yeah, okay,” he says softly.

Neither of them say anything on the trek back to the beach. Kris spends the walk trying to figure out what the hell just happened. He didn’t even mean to kiss Adam, exactly, except that he did, and he sort of wants to again. Except Adam didn’t kiss him back—which is something that’s never happened to him before. Even though he can count on one hand the amount of people he’s kissed in his life.

He can’t assume Adam wants it too, just because he’s gay. Maybe Adam wanted him once, but that was a long time ago, so maybe he just doesn’t see Kris like that. If he wanted it, they’d still be kissing right now.

And then Kris thinks about Katy. Katy, who must be going out of her mind right now with worry. Katy, who probably thinks he is dead. Katy, his wife, who he loves. He does love her, but that isn’t stopping him from wanting Adam. Who he also loves, just differently.

Or… maybe not so differently. He isn’t sure.

He’s staring down at his cut-up feet, lost in his own head, when Adam comes to an abrupt stop. Kris nearly bumps into him, stops himself just in time.

“Fuck,” Adam spits, raking a hand harshly through his hair so it sticks up on end before flopping back into his eyes. “Godfuckingdammit!”

Kris peers around him and sees what caused Adam’s outburst. Even from here he can tell the shelter is destroyed beyond repair. Most of the branches they used to build it have blown away. They’ll have to start over from scratch.

He feels near tears at the sight of it, and weak from hunger, and it’s too hard, all of this, and suddenly his legs won’t hold him up anymore. He collapses right there on the beach, spots floating in front of his eyes and a ringing in his ears.

“Kris!” Adam shakes his shoulder, hard, and Kris’s eyes come into focus again. “Kris, what the hell—”

He blinks the dizziness away as best he can and croaks out, “I’m fine.” His throat is so dry he can barely talk.

Adam tells him to shut the fuck up; Kris is happy to oblige. He disappears for a few minutes and comes back with a cracked coconut in his hand, and he makes Kris drink all of the milk, which he almost gags on because it hurts so much to swallow. And then he runs and grabs one of the water bottles— Kris’s collection system must’ve worked like a charm, because it’s full to the brim—and makes Kris drink a few swallows, but not too much.

“Just stay here,” he orders, like Kris would be able to go anywhere anyway even if he wanted to.

He stays obediently in his spot on the sand while Adam goes into the water with his knife. He comes back with a single fish in hand.

“Everything’s too wet to make a fire,” he explains. “You’re going to have to eat it raw.” He smiles, just a little. “Pretend it’s sushi.”

“I hate sushi,” Kris says, but he takes the fish anyway and bites into it tentatively. It slides weirdly down his throat, but he’s glad to just have something in his system.

“I have a game.” Adam drops down in the sand beside him. “So, if you were stranded on a desert island…”

Kris groans. “Really? We’re doing this?”

“List ten things you’d bring,” Adam says, ignoring him.

“My guitar,” Kris says automatically. It’s the first thing that pops into his head. He wonders what that says about him.

“How predictable.”

Adam keeps him talking. He asks about Kris’s third grade teacher (Ms. Parker, who was young and petite with long blonde hair, and Kris had such a crush on her, because yeah, he has a type). Adam babbles about how when they get off the island, he has an idea for an awesome concept album. Maybe he’ll even throw in some reggae influence.

Kris looks at him skeptically. “Reggae, Adam?”

“Hey, if Zeppelin can do it, I can too,” he replies, and then he starts singing D’yer Maker while Kris laughs.

He waits until he’s almost done with the fish before bringing up the subject they’ve steadily ignored so far.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “About what happened—”

Adam waves him off before he can finish.

“Don’t be. It’s not a big deal,” he says. “You were just… scared. We both were.”

Kris shakes his head vehemently. “It’s not— It wasn’t about being scared. I’m not sorry I did it, I’m just sorry if it made you… uncomfortable. If you didn’t want it.” He pauses, not sure he wants to throw the question out there, but what the hell. “Did you want it?”

Adam stares at him for a long time. It takes everything Kris has not to look away.

“It’s not about what I want,” he says finally. “This is a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Because we are going to get off this fucking island! We’re going to get home, and you will regret this then. I’m not going to let you do this because you think we’re going to die here.”

Kris tries to argue, but Adam tells him to shut up and eat, and then says he’s going to go get more materials to rebuild the shelter.

Shame burns through him as he rubs a heel through the sand. He knows it’s unfair to Adam to ask him for anything; Adam isn’t someone to test drive. Adam deserves better. But at the same time, Kris doesn’t want to just test drive Adam— this isn’t about wanting sex. This isn’t about wanting an outlet because he thinks he’s going to die here, though he does believe that, when he lets himself think about it.

It’s not about any of that. It’s about wanting Adam.

But it doesn’t matter because Adam doesn’t want him, not enough, apparently, and now he’s probably screwed everything up royally.

By the time Adam comes back with new branches, Kris is feeling steady enough to stand and walk around without fear of passing out. Together they work to set up the new shelter. They don’t really talk. Kris isn’t sure what to say, so he decides to keep his mouth shut. He’s already embarrassed himself enough today as it is.

“We need to do something,” Adam says. For a second Kris thinks he’s talking about them, but then he continues, “I think maybe I should go into the jungle again.”

He crawls under the new shelter and tests the roof lightly with one hand.

Kris comes over, crouching to get a better look at him. “For what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s someone on the other side or something.”

“You really think there’s someone on this island and we haven’t seen a sign of them?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Adam explodes, and Kris recoils a little. He’s never seen Adam this angry. Adam sighs and rubs his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know, okay? I just can’t sit here doing nothing.”

Kris bends down on his knees and crawls into the hut.

“I know,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“What about the raft?” Adam asks. “Maybe we’re not that far from another island. One with people on it—”

“You’re being crazy,” Kris says. “That thing barely got us here. We’d both die.”

He thinks it’s pretty unfair that Adam accused him of not thinking rationally before; at least the consequences of his plan included mutual orgasms instead of certain death.

Adam deflates like a popped balloon. “You’re right,” he agrees reluctantly. “It wouldn’t work.”

“We just have to wait it out,” Kris tells him.

“Because that plan has worked out fucking brilliantly so far.”

Kris pulls up his legs and rests his chin on his knees. “There’s nothing else we can do,” he says. It hurts to say it out loud like that, to admit their powerlessness of their situation. But someone has to.

This is the reality. All they can do is wait and try not to die in the meantime.

**

Something somewhere is dying.

That’s what it sounds like when Kris opens his eyes. Adam isn’t in the shelter; he stumbles onto the beach groggily, still half-asleep, and is jolted awake by the sight of Adam curled up on the sand, vomiting his guts out.

“Adam?” Kris rushes to his side, places a hand in the middle of Adam’s back. “What’s going on?”

Adam just moans, dry-heaving into the sand. He rolls onto his side, clutching his stomach and shaking.

Kris kneels down next to him. “What is the last thing you ate?”

“I—” Adam stops and coughs until he’s gasping. “Something. In the forest. I don’t know. Fruit.” He moans again and buries his face in his arms.

“Why didn’t you have the fish? I could’ve—”

“You needed it,” Adam says, and Kris feels like he’s going to throw up himself, or else punch something.

“You idiot,” he shouts, hysteria rising in his chest, spilling out of him. He can’t believe this. He can’t believe Adam. “You fucking idiot! How could you be so stupid?”

He pushes a hand against Adam’s forehead; it’s sweaty and feverish to the touch. He takes a deep breath to calm himself.

“Just lie down, all right?” he says, more quietly.

He finds the nearest water bottle and holds it up to Adam’s chapped and bleeding lips. Adam starts to gag right away, but manages to gulp down a few mouthfuls and an aspirin. He keeps making noises like someone is feeding his intestines through a meat grinder.

“Kris,” he says, panting hard. “F-fuck, it hurts. It h-hurts really bad.”

“I know. But you’re going to be fine,” Kris tells him firmly. He smoothes the hair off Adam’s forehead. “You’re going to be fine, okay?“

Adam will be fine, because he has to be fine, because if he isn’t—

No. Kris refuses to even consider that, because if he does, he will lose it completely. He can’t afford to do that. Not now.

“I’m s-sorry,” Adam chokes out through chattering teeth. His eyes keep slipping from Kris’s like he’s having trouble focusing. “I s-shouldn’t h-have d-done it. I- I just w-wanted y-you to have e-enough.”

Kris squeezes his hand, maybe a little too hard because Adam winces. “I have enough.”

I have you.

**

Adam gets better. It’s a rocky period, but by the end of the second day, the fever seems to have run its course, and he’s able to keep water down, along with a little food.

Kris sucks at fishing and can’t catch anything—the schools of fish are just glimmers under the water, and they always slip out of sight before he can even aim the spear. He gives up after two hours, but then he sees a crab scuttling along the shore’s edge. He successfully stabs it with the knife and decides it will make do.

Adam’s doing well enough that he feels okay leaving him alone for a bit so he can find some dry kindling to start a fire. He cooks the crab and makes Adam eat it all, and then makes him drink two coconuts worth of milk.

On the third morning, he finds Adam standing on the beach, just gazing out at the sun rising over the ocean. Sunrise is always brief, but still a spectacular sight, an explosion of colors melting together. It illuminates the sand, makes it glow almost an electric white.

“Adam,” Kris says, reaching out one hand. He stops so it hovers in the space between them.

Adam turns and looks at him, at first unmoving, then comes forward a step, letting Kris take him in his arms. He pushes his face into the hollow of Adam’s throat, taking comfort in the feel of his steady pulse beating beneath thin skin.

This time when he kisses Adam, Adam kisses him back. It’s hard and clumsy and breathless, out of sync. But then Adam cups his hands under Kris’s elbows, draws him in closer. He kisses him roughly, licking into his mouth, making Kris feel breathless and blurry.

Over them the sun rises, light hitting everywhere.

**

They don’t argue about it anymore. What is there to say? Things are looking dire. They’ve been stuck here almost a month, and in that time they haven’t seen any sign of the outside world. They don’t say it out loud, but Kris knows they’re both thinking it—they’re on borrowed time, here.

He can’t find a good enough reason not to spend that time with Adam in the way that he wants. In the way they both want.

“How long?” Adam asks. He’s trailing open-mouthed kisses down Kris’s bare chest.

“I don’t know,” Kris admits. He breathes in sharply when Adam touches his hot tongue to his skin.

“Well, is it a recent development?”

“Yes. And— no.”

Kris has never been great at giving straight answers.

Rain drums a soft pattern against the roof. It’s been rainy weather on and off for the past few days, but no more storms have come through yet. He closes his eyes and listens to the steady beat of it. It almost sounds like music.

Adam moves his mouth over every inch of Kris’s skin like he’s memorizing it. He stops at Kris’s ribcage and traces the long pale scar there first with one finger, and then with his tongue. Kris arches into the touch.

He kisses his way back to Kris’s mouth. “I’m glad it was you,” he says against his lips. “If that plane had to go down, I’m so fucking glad it was you with me.”

When Adam pulls back, Kris grabs his hair to keep him. And then he crawls up, onto his knees, straddles Adam’s lap, their kisses deepening. He tips his head down, mouth greedy on Adam’s, loving the taste of him. He could kiss like this for hours, for days, doesn’t think he’d ever tire of Adam’s mouth, sweet and sharp under his.

He places his hands on either side of Adam’s head as one of Adam’s palms curves around Kris’s jaw. The other wanders to the space between them, slides under the waistband of Kris’s jeans, brushing against his cock. There’s a hunger in Adam’s hands, the way he touches, the little noises he makes without knowing.

No one has ever touched Kris like this—it’s beyond want; it’s need, it’s something almost primal. He closes his eyes as Adam roughly tugs down his jeans, his underwear, everything.

Adam starts to take him in, but then he hovers, just breathing hotly around Kris’s cock for a minute, until Kris groans and curls his fingers tighter into Adam’s hair. And then Adam closes his mouth around him, and Kris opens his eyes to see Adam looking up at him, his gaze dark and intense.

That same gaze stays trained on him, even as he slides his mouth up and down Kris’s length, even as Kris’s hips pitch forward and his fingers tangle in hair, painfully tight.

**

Kris squints into the surface of the well, trying to make out his reflection in the dirty water. All he can really see is the murky outline of his face. He wonders how he must look. His hair’s a little too long, his cheeks scruffy with stubble, skin burned a deeper brown than it’s ever been. He was already pretty skinny before, but now he’s even thinner, and covered in various bruises and cuts and bug bites and sticky with sweat.

He must look like a mess.

Oh, well. He supposes it doesn’t really matter. No one other than Adam is looking at him anyway. He scoops the water into the bottles, fills them up, and heads back toward the camp.

And then he steps on a sharp rock at the wrong angle and goes sprawling. The water spills everywhere.

Shit.

“Shit,” he says, out loud, even though there’s no one around to hear. Pain shoots up through his ankle, and he holds it with both hands, clenching his teeth. Shit. This is not good.

Once the initial flare of pain dulls, he tries rolling his foot slowly. It still hurts like a mother, but he can move it, at least, so he doesn’t think it’s broken, just twisted. He grabs onto a tree and pulls himself upright, hopping on his good foot. He limps his way back to the beach, cursing under his breath the whole time, and then calls for Adam.

Adam comes running, of course. “What the fuck happened to you?” he demands.

“Think I sprained my ankle,” he says, feeling beyond pathetic. He sticks his lower lip out in a pout. “Carry me?”

“Jesus Christ.” Adam rolls his eyes, but he lifts Kris into his arms anyway. “You are such a baby.”

Kris laughs. “I feel like your bride right now.”

“Oh, so you assume you’re the girl in this relationship? Besides, isn’t that a little old-fashioned?” Adam teases. “It’s the twenty-first century, Allen. Enlighten yourself. Brides walk themselves through doors now. Feminism has come a long way.”

“Chivalry is dead,” he moans dramatically, and then Adam threatens to drop him if he doesn’t shut up.

The swelling isn’t too bad, but the pain is bad enough that Adam makes him take an aspirin. Their last one. They used the rest during Adam’s bout of food poisoning.

“And here’s my favorite kind of medicine,” Adam says with a coy grin. He whips out the vodka bottle. There’s not a whole lot left by now. “Drink up, kid.”

Kris pops off the cap and tosses it aside with a flick of his wrist.

“You only want me drunk so you can have your way with me,” he jokes before taking a swig. The vodka sears a path down his throat. He grimaces and passes the bottle back.

Adam raises one eyebrow. “I don’t have to get you drunk to do that.”

They polish off the rest of the vodka between them, and then Adam pulls out the pilot’s cigarettes and lights two. Kris has never smoked anything in his life, but he figures that if there’s an acceptable time to start, it’s now.

He watches the smoke curl off the tip of the cigarette and float away into the sky.

“I don’t think I’m ever going home,” he says suddenly. He chalks it up to the alcohol. He feels kind of loose and warm and weirdly emotional.

Adam is quiet for a minute.

“Yeah,” he says after awhile. He inhales deeply on his cigarette and breathes out three perfect smoke rings. “I don’t think so either.”

They sleep that night right out on the beach, under a blanket of stars and the swollen moon, and Kris buries his face in Adam’s neck, trying to feel a little less empty.

**

He wakes up to Adam screaming. In the first few seconds where he’s not fully awake, still caught up in the threads of his dissolving nightmare—something about snakes and vines wrapping around his ankles, tugging him into the forest— all he can remember is when Adam was sick. He stomach lurches and he thinks, oh, God, please, not again.

But he sits up and twists around in time to see Adam sprinting to the water, still yelling at the top of his lungs, waving the pilot’s jacket wildly over his head like a flag. And beyond Adam, there’s a tiny fishing boat bobbing in the distance.

Kris ignores the horrible pain in his ankle and stumble-runs to the shore. He splashes in, shouting himself hoarse and jumping up and down next to Adam. God, this is it, this is finally it. Rescue. They have to notice them, they have to—

Someone on the boat points in their direction, and he and Adam both scream louder. And then the boat actually turns inland. As soon as they’re close enough, Adam swims out to meet them, and Kris follows as fast as he can.

The two fishermen don’t speak English, but Adam somehow manages to convey they need rescuing by gesturing furiously to the camp and the raft and then to themselves. The tears probably help convince them of their plight, too.

Adam scrambles onto the boat first, and then they pull Kris up the ladder, onto the deck. Kris holds onto the boat railing for support. His legs are shaking hard, knees knocking together, and his head feels fuzzy, like he’s floating somewhere above himself.

“America,” Adam explains to one of the fishermen. “We’re Americans. U.S.A. California. We need to go fucking home. Please.” He’s in tears as he says it.

Kris lets go of the boat railing and steps forward, reaching for Adam’s shoulder, but the second he puts weight on his bad ankle, the pain is so bad black spots show up in front of his eyes. His legs buckle like crumpled paper, and he doesn’t remember hitting the ground.

He comes to lying on some kind of bench with the two fishermen’s head hovering over him. They speak in a rapid-fire language Kris doesn’t recognize, voices overlapping, disorienting him. Someone’s covered him with a blanket.

“Kris.” Adam is at his side, grasping his hand. “It’s okay. They’re taking us back. Just hang on, okay?”

All of this is too much for Kris to fully absorb, so he just nods. One of the fishermen hands him a water bottle. Real bottled water. He stares at the label with swimming eyes until Adam opens it for him and helps him drink it.

He takes a few swallows and a few breaths and looks at Adam again.

“We’re really going home?” he asks. His voice comes out scratchy and thin.

Adam smiles so hard it looks like it hurts.

“Yes,” he says, “we’re going home.” His voice cracks on the last word and he begins crying again, tears streaming down his face faster than Kris can wipe them away.

He’d cry, too, if he wasn’t so tired.

**

They take them to the Belau National Hospital, where people actually speak English.

“You’re borderline anemic, so we’ve got you on iron, and the electrolyte solution will help with your potassium levels,” his doctor tells him, flipping through his clipboard. “You’re dehydrated, so you may experience some swelling in your extremities as you rehydrate and discharge the salt.” He pulls out an x-ray and holds it up to the light. “The ankle’s not broken, just badly sprained. We’ll get you suited with a splint for that. Keep off your feet for a few days, elevate as needed, and it will be fine.”

Kris fingers the line to the IV. “What about Adam?” he asks. He hasn’t seen him since they were admitted, and he’s asked the same question fifty times, but no one so far has given him a straight answer.

“Mr. Lambert is suffering from the same dietary deficiencies, but frankly, he’s in better shape than you. Right now he’s resting comfortably,” the doctor tells him.

“I want to see him.”

“All right. We’ll try and get that worked out.”

“And when can we leave?”

“I want to keep you both overnight for observation. Someone from the U.S. Embassy is on their way. They should have more information for you then.”

Kris sinks back in his pillow. “Can I make a phone call?”

“Of course.”

One of the nurses comes in and helps him into a wheelchair, rolls him down the hall to a small private room. A bare bulb dangles from the ceiling, and there’s a table with a phone on it.

The nurse gives him instructions on how to make the call, and then says, “Take as much time as you need,” before shutting the door and leaving him alone.

He picks up the receiver and holds it to his ear, listening to the dial tone. The very sound of it makes him feel a little like crying. He considers calling Katy, but then he dials his parents’ home number instead. The line rings four times before anyone answers.

“Hello?” It’s hearing his mother on the other end that cracks him.

“Mama?” he says, voice small and quivery. His insides feel like they’re crumbling.

Her gasp is painfully sharp. “Kristopher?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

She starts bawling uncontrollably before he can get another word out, and a minute later his father commandeers the phone. Kris tries explaining what happened, but he can’t seem to string the words together. He can still hear his mother’s muffled sobs in the background.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t really. Think. Right now. I—”

His father cuts him off. “It doesn’t matter. Just come home, son. Come home.”

After they hang up, Kris puts his head down on the table and cries for a little while, thinking about those words. Come home. Come home.

**

“Hey, stranger.”

Adam leans against the doorjamb, one hand wrapped around the metal pole of his rolling IV. He looks okay, though his gauntness is more apparent under the hospital lights, the white fluorescent glow accentuating the sharp angles of his face, the dark bags under his eyes.

Kris sits up in the bed, studying him. “You okay?”

“Nevermind me,” Adam says. He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the mattress, touching the side of Kris’s cheek. His thumb edges around Kris’s jaw line, and Kris leans instinctively into the touch. “Shit, look at you.”

“I’m fine,” Kris says. He puts his hand over Adam’s. “I kept asking about you. They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Same here. Until I threatened to pull out my fucking IV if I they didn’t let me see you.” He grins and pushes his forehead up against Kris’s. “Told you we’d get out of this, didn’t I? And you didn’t believe me!”

Kris smiles back at him. “Guess we beat the odds, huh?”

“We beat the hell out of them, is what we did.”

They’re still sitting on the bed together when the representative from the U.S. Embassy comes knocking. The guy is in his forties, sporting a sleek business suit and a very unfortunate comb over, and the first thing he does is shake both of their hands and introduce himself as Mark Kessler.

“We’re doing everything we can to get you home as expediently as possible,” he explains. “Your doctors want to keep you both overnight as a precautionary measure, but you should be discharged tomorrow morning. You won’t be able to fly out until Thursday—bureaucratic procedure, need to get some kinks ironed out with your passports— but we’ve been in contact with your management, and they’ve arranged for your stay at a hotel tomorrow night. After that, we can transport you wherever you want to go.”

“Arkansas,” Kris says immediately, and at the same time Adam says, “L.A.”

Kessler nods and jots down a few notes on a legal pad. “I figured as much. We’ll get it all worked out.” He hands them each a business card. “Feel free to call if you have any questions. I’m available any time. I’ll be stopping by again before you’re discharged.”

The hospital releases them the next morning, and by then a whole team of handlers has flown in to Palau. Someone gives Kris a cell phone and new clothes—whoever bought them picked out a shirt and jeans and shoes all two sizes too big, but it feels so good to be in something clean and dry that he doesn’t mind how they hang off of him.

All Kris has that he brought with him is Wendy’s ring, still strung around his neck; he knows Adam has the pilot’s knife. He wonders what’ll happen to everything else they left on the island. Not that there was much.

But still, there was Wendy’s purse, and her phone with the photos, so he makes sure to tell someone about it. He gets the same rote answer he got from all the people he told about where they buried her body— a simple “We’ll take care of it,” no further elaboration given.

Belau is no Cedars-Sinai, isn’t equipped with any private secure exits, and so they’re ushered hastily into a waiting SUV, reporters and film crews stuffed behind makeshift barricades and news helicopters hovering overhead. He only gets a momentary glimpse of the chaos before someone slams the door shut, the tinted window obscuring his view.

Once they’re safe in the car, one of the handlers says, “If you’re comfortable with it, we’d like to organize a short press conference when we fly you to Hawaii. You wouldn’t have to answer any questions, just read off prepared statements. It might help curb the media frenzy.”

Kris looks at Adam, who looks back at him and shrugs. “I’m okay with it if you’re okay with it.”

Kris doesn’t really care one way or the other. Right now he just wants to sleep for about a million years.

At the resort he and Adam get adjoining suites, insanely fancy. He can’t remember the last time he was in a hotel room this nice. There’s a separate living area with a long sofa and a flat-screen television, a master bedroom with a regal four poster canopy bed, and a giant Jacuzzi tub near the balcony overlooking the beach.

The first thing he does is close all of the curtains. He doesn’t even want to look at the ocean.

Kris spends a long time staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. He almost doesn’t recognize himself—his face is a deep brown, skin peeling in places, cheeks rough with stubble. He finds a razor and some shaving cream in the cabinet and shaves carefully, dragging the wet blade across the sharp angles of his face. When he’s done, he splashes his face with water and watches the running tap. It sort of amazes him, all of that clean water; he dips his head under the faucet, laps at it like a dog, until he feels completely ridiculous. He can’t stop laughing at himself.

One very hot, very long shower later, where he scrubs the sand from his hair and uses a loofah and some perfumed body wash, he steps out feeling like a new person.

He sits on the edge of the huge bed and calls Katy, because it feels like the right thing to do, and because he’s missed her. Their conversation isn’t very long; she cries a lot. He tells her he loves her. He doesn’t really know what else to say after that.

“How did your audition go?” he asks, if only to break the silence.

“What?” Katy sounds confused, and then she laughs like she can’t believe him. “Oh, that? No. No, I didn’t get it. But that’s so— we can talk about it later. We can talk about everything later.”

Some other people try calling, business people, but he only takes one of the calls. It’s from his publicist. She runs the prepared statement for the press conference by him, and he tells her it’s fine, whatever, he doesn’t care, and then he hangs up and turns his phone on silent.

He orders room service—a hamburger and fries—and eats about half of it before he’s so full he thinks he might throw up. And then he tries to go to sleep, but it’s like the bed is too comfortable or something. Too big, too soft. He can’t relax at all.

Eventually he gives up on the notion of sleep and limps next-door to Adam’s suite. He hesitates in front of the door. Adam’s probably sleeping, probably wants time to himself. But Kris needs to see him, needs to talk to him, so he goes ahead and knocks anyway.

The door opens a minute later, and Adam stands there, clean-shaven too, dressed in a loose gray t-shirt, his hair shower-wet and sticking out in different directions. Kris is struck with the impulse to run his hands through it.

He smiles warmly when he sees Kris and says, “Hey. I thought you’d be asleep right now.”

Anything Kris planned on saying disappears from thought the second he lays eyes on Adam. He acts on instinct, instead, and crosses the short distance between them, kisses Adam so hard he actually stumbles. Adam catches an arm around his waist, grunting with surprise, and kicks the hotel door shut. Then he wrenches back, mouth open like he’s going say something, but he must think better of it, because instead he catches Kris’s mouth again in a hot, breath-stealing kiss.

Kris pushes him toward the bed until they tip over onto it, mouths still connected. The two of them maul at each other, struggling with clothes, groping and kissing, grabbing at cocks, grappling and tugging.

He doesn’t know why this feels so frantic, just this side of desperate, but it does. It feels big and important and intense, and the look on Adam’s face— it’s like he’s asking Kris to give him something he can’t even name, something Kris can’t figure out either, but it makes him ache all the same, makes his chest go tight.

Afterward, he catches his breath, Adam’s bare chest rising and falling underneath his cheek. The cold air pumping from the air conditioner dries his sweat and makes him shiver.

Adam is the first one to speak.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he says calmly. Too calmly. He looks away from Kris, casting the remarks toward the ceiling with an air of detachment. “We’re in the real world now.”

Kris’s stomach clenches, and he flinches at the words. Each one feels like a direct blow.

“This… this is real. It was always real,” he insists, defensive. “I wasn’t just— messing around, okay? You… you’re more than that.”

Adam’s face softens a little. “I know,” he says after a moment. “But you’re married, Kris. Do you understand? Do you know what the media would do if they found out?”

“I don’t care about the media.”

“You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

Now Kris is pissed. He pushes off of Adam’s chest and snaps, “I’m not naive.”

“Yes, you are. About this, you are,” Adam retorts, just as hotly. “You have no idea what it’s like. And I don’t fucking want you to.” He stops and sighs. “I love you too much, and I love Katy too much. And I’m not going to be that guy. Don’t make me be that guy.”

Adam rolls away from him and covers his sweat-slicked skin quickly, dressing with all the finality of a knight going back into a losing battle.

“I don’t want to make you be anything,” Kris says, reaching for him.

He curls his fingers in the soft folds of Adam’s shirt. He doesn’t want to let go, not until he’s sure Adam understands.

“Adam,” he says, not caring how pathetically desperate he sounds, and Adam turns around, his expression a little sad and a lot tired.

He never wanted this. He never wanted to be the person who put that look on Adam’s face. He knows deep down, knows Adam is right, about everything, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Adam looks at him and says, “God, come here,” and tugs him into his arms.

One of his hands strokes Kris’s hair, and Kris can feel him thinking.

“You’re my best friend,” Adam says quietly. “That isn’t going to change, ever. But this it. Whatever this is… it stops here. Tomorrow we go back to our real lives.”

Kris feels his throat close up. “What if I can’t do that?”

“You can,” he says. “You have to.”

**

The press conference is a media circus. Kris thought the plane ride would be the daunting part—he wanted to take a commercial flight, but they insisted on a private jet for “security reasons”—but it wasn’t so bad, not when Adam was there, holding his hand from takeoff to landing. Facing the sea of reporters in a crowded room is way scarier.

They make him sit in a wheelchair, which is annoying, but he’s not going to complain when he’s just grateful to be alive. Adam says a few words, and then Kris reads his statement. They’re both along the same lines—thanking the doctors in Palau for treating them, thanking everyone for their support, requests for privacy while they recoup at home.

“We’re just looking forward to spending time with our families,” Adam tells them, a line that sets off a wave of blinding camera flashes.

Leaving Adam is even harder than the press conference, because Kris doesn’t know when he’s going to see him again. He kicks back his wheelchair and catapults himself into Adam’s arms, wraps tight around him, presses his face in the hollow of his collarbone and breathes in deep.

“Hey,” Adam says, a little startled. He makes some shushing noises and rubs Kris’s back. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“Call me?” Kris mumbles into his shoulder.

“Oh, trust me. Every fucking day. I’m like the herpes of friendship. You can’t get rid of me.”

They both laugh a little at that, and then Adam draws back and kisses the top of Kris’s head, picks up his duffel bag and waves one last time before he heading across the tarmac.

Kris turns around so he doesn’t have to see Adam walking away. He can handle a lot of things, but he doesn’t think he can handle that.

**

Katy’s hair is so bright that it seems to illuminate the entire airport terminal. The second he sees her, he drops his carry-on to his feet, opening his arms, and she flies into them, squeezing all the breath out of his body. He closes his eyes and holds on; the feel of hugging her like this is the same as it always was, and he’s surprised, somehow, at that. He’s not sure what he expected to change.

“I’m sorry,” she says breathlessly, stepping back, brow furrowed with concern. “Am I hurting you? You’re so thin.”

“It’s fine,” he assures her. He can’t stop smiling, can’t stop looking at her.

His mother smothers him with more hugs and kisses, keeps repeating his name, “Kristopher, Kristopher,” like she can’t believe he’s really there, in front of her. He can’t quite believe it either.

“I’m going to cook all of your meals,” she tells him. They’re inside another SUV, en route to Conway, where his father and Daniel are waiting. “Get some meat on your bones.”

There are a lot more hugs when they get home, and some tears.

“These are, of course, manly tears,” Daniel says, clapping him on the back.

Kris grins back. “Of course.”

Conway is exactly the same, but that’s no surprise. Nothing ever changes here, it seems. Kris has always liked that. That no matter how crazy things get, no matter how much his life changes, he can always come back to this place, to this house, and everything is as it should be.

He’s standing in the living room, looking at the row of framed photos over the fireplace mantle—baby pictures, Daniel’s graduation, him and Katy at the wedding, family photos from last Christmas—when his father comes up to him.

He has Kris’s acoustic guitar in hand, his favorite—the Takamine.

“We had it shipped from L.A.,” his father explains. “I thought you would want it here.”

Kris takes it and touches the strings, almost reverently. They feel familiar under his fingers, the sharpness of them pressing into his fingertips. And then he holds the guitar up against his body. It fits perfectly; that hasn’t changed, either. The sudden rush of tears behind his eyes catches him off-guard.

This, more than anything else, feels like coming home.

**

No one asks questions until they’re having dinner. Steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, buttery rolls, and dump cake—his mom really wasn’t kidding about fattening him up. Kris’s appetite is still kind of wonky, but he shovels in as much as he can, just to placate her. He doesn’t need to worry her any more than he already has.

“This must taste pretty good after what you’ve been eating,” Daniel jokes. He cocks his head a little to the side, studying Kris. “What did you eat there?”

His mother shushes him. “Daniel, not now.”

“No, Mama, it’s all right. I don’t mind,” Kris says, and Katy slips her warm hand into his under the table, squeezing hard. He smiles a little at her and then looks at Daniel. “Fish, mostly, when we could get it.”

He talks about Adam fashioning up the spear, and boiling the roots, and the water collection system. These feel like safe conversational waters to tread, and once he’s started, it’s easier to keep going, so he talks about other things— about the plane crash, Adam’s food poisoning, and Wendy, though he skims on the details. Still, when he mentions it, Katy’s hand tightens on his.

“We are so proud of you,” his father says, eyes shining in a way that makes Kris go hot in the face and look away, down at his lap, where Katy’s fingers are intertwined with his. “And we’re so thankful God answered our prayers and brought you home safe.”

That night he and Katy share his bed, tucking themselves under the flannel covers. The same flannel bed sheets he’s had since high school. There’s still the same Abbey Road poster stuck on the wall, too, right over the headboard.

Katy doesn’t try anything sexual, which he’s grateful for, because he doesn’t know how he’d react. She just snuggles up against his side, head pillowed on his shoulder.

“You know how sometimes people who were missing come back, and you hear their family members say things like how they always knew they were still alive? Like, they could feel it, in their hearts?” she asks. “I wish I could say it was like that for me. But I really thought you were dead. I really believed it.”

Kris isn’t sure how to respond to that, so he just says, “I’m sorry.”

“Why? It’s not your fault.”

“I guess not, but still. That must’ve been… really hard. For you.”

She doesn’t say anything at all, for a minute. And then she rolls onto her stomach, half on top of him, and looks him in the eye.

“They said the plane crashed in the middle of the ocean,” she tells him. “They looked for you for two weeks, but they couldn’t find anything. They said there was no chance.” She looks up at him, frames his face with her hands. “I thought you were gone forever.”

“I’m here now, though,” he says, stroking his thumb against her shoulder. Her skin is like silk.

She looks at him hard, and even though she doesn’t say it, he can see the unspoken question in her eyes.

Are you?

Katy falls asleep right away, but Kris can’t. All he can do is stare up at his ceiling, wondering if he is. Here. He feels a little like he’s returned to a life that isn’t his anymore, except that it is. Of course it is. One month shouldn’t change that.

He disentangles from Katy’s sleeping form and slips into the hallway, leans his shoulder against the wall and calls Adam. Adam picks up at the end of the second ring.

“Hey there, rock star!” he greets giddily.

Kris hears voices in the background, like Adam is in a room full of people.

“Are you drunk?” he asks. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised; it is Adam, after all.

“Only on life,” Adam answers solemnly. And then he giggles. “Uh, and alcohol. A loooot of alcohol, actually.” There’s a pause as Adam says something away from the phone, presumably to whoever he’s with, and then he says, “So what’s up?”

“Nothing. Just thought I’d check in with you.” He pads down the hall into the bathroom and shuts the door with a soft click, sits down on the closed toilet seat. “How’s your family?”

“Awesome!” Adam says. “Seriously, they’re so great. They’re all here. They wanna say hi. Hang on.” There’s some rustling and muffled noises, and then Adam says, “Everyone, say hi to Kris!”

A chorus of “Hi, Kris!” and cheers sounds, so loud Kris has to pull the phone away for a second. When he puts it back, Adam’s laughing in his ear.

“Neil wants to know why we didn’t fashion a radio out of a coconut to signal for help,” he says. “Hey, why didn’t we do that, Kris?”

“Um, I don’t know. Because we didn’t have the Professor with us?”

“Hmm. Yes, you make a good point.” He giggles again.

“You seem happy,” Kris says.

“I am!” he says. “It’s so good to be back. This is just the Lambert family gathering— my friends are throwing me a Welcome Home, Bitch bash next weekend. Celebrating the glorious miracle of life, all that bullshit. It’s going to be wild.” Adam pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is a little quieter, a little more sober. “And hey, what about you? You okay?”

“I’m great,” he says automatically, though obviously he’s not, since he’s calling Adam at three in the morning. In a bathroom. In the dark. “It’s just. It’s all a little weird.”

It’s a lot weird, really, but he doesn’t want to say that, because he gets the impression Adam is readjusting better than he is. Or maybe he’s just better at faking it.

“I miss you,” he blurts out, and then immediately feels like an idiot. “Stupid, right?”

Adam laughs a little. “Well, it has been less than a day.”

“I know. But I still do.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I miss you too,” Adam says softly. “It’ll get easier. Really. You just need time to get back in the swing of things.”

“Time. Right.” Kris exhales a half-laugh, half-sigh, and rubs his bare toes across the cool bathroom tile. Suddenly he doesn’t want to talk anymore. “Hey, I’m gonna let you go.”

“You sure? I can still talk for awhile.”

“No, no. I’m good. Go back to your party, all right?”

They hang up with promises to speak later, and Kris sits on the toilet lid for awhile longer with his head in his hands. He hopes Adam’s right. He hopes time can fix whatever it is he’s feeling.

part three

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

fic: If It Kills Me (Kris/Adam, NC-17) (1/4)

buffyx — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 04:09:55 GMT

Title: If It Kills Me
Fandom/Pairing: American Idol; Kris/Adam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I mean, you guys are like— you’re like soul mates or something. Come on! You’re Kris and Adam, man!"

If Kris could’ve, he would have canceled the concert. He didn’t want to go in the first place. It’s exactly the kind of thing he likes least—playing for a room full of out-of-touch sponsors, having to mingle and suck up to them afterward. He thought those days were over after breaking out of the Idol bubble, but apparently no. It makes him feel like a sellout.

“You are a sellout,” Adam tells him cheerfully. “Everyone in the industry is.”

Kris groans and rolls his head back against the seat’s leather headrest. “Thank you. Really. That’s very reassuring.”

“Oh, please. It’s one weekend of schmoozing with the old-as-fuck cronies. You’ll survive. It’s the price we pay to do what we do.”

Wendy, their handler for this event, makes an annoyed sound from the bench seat behind them. Her legs are crossed at the knee, one high heeled foot jiggling as she types into her Blackberry.

“Please tell me you’ll rein in your language when we get to the resort,” she says without looking up.

Adam gives her a cat-like smirk. “Don’t worry, I know how to behave.”

Wendy responds with an unimpressed hmm under her breath. Kris only met her last night, but he’s amused to find she’s one of the very few people immune to the Adam Lambert charm.

Kris knows it’s ridiculous to complain; Adam’s right, it’s the price he has to pay. These are the people who will be funding his next tour. And they’re footing the bill for a trip to a five-star resort on Palau. Kris can’t remember the last time he had any kind of a vacation. Yeah, it’s business, but it’s still as close to a break as he’s had in awhile. He wishes Katy were here; she’d make this more bearable, take some of the attention off of him. She’s better at handling these things. He thinks a lot of the time that she’d be better at being famous than he is. But she’d had an audition lined up she couldn’t skip, and so it’s just Kris, flying solo.

At least he has Adam. He’s glad the label set it up as a joint appearance—doing this all on his own would be too depressing, too intimidating. Adam will keep him sane, will know exactly the right things to say to the industry suits, and they’ll eat it all up like always.

Adam is the only reason this fourteen-hour flight doesn’t feel like a monumental waste of time.

The speakers above them crackle, and the pilot’s voice comes out, a little muffled. “Folks, it seems we’ve lost radio signal. It’s likely temporary, but if it doesn’t come back in a minute, we may have to turn around.”

Turn around? To where? They’re supposed to be landing in two hours. Kris looks across the aisle at Adam, who just shrugs. He doesn’t look too worried, in any case, turning back to his phone a moment later.

“I’m going to go see what the problem is,” Wendy says with an impatient sigh, standing up and smoothing out her skirt, purse in hand. She shakes her head. “If we’re late, I swear to god, I will—” She grumbles the rest of that particular threat under her breath as she marches up to the cock pit.

She opens the door and then closes it behind her, and that’s when the plane starts to dive. Kris’s stomach drops to his knees. It’s like a steep roller coaster drop, except a hundred times worse. This time when he glances over at Adam, Adam looks worried. More than worried.

The pilot’s voice comes over the intercom again, a little frantic and garbled. “We’re making an emergency landing. Put on the life vests above you and buckle yourself in.” Anything else he says is drowned out by patchy, hissing static. The electricity cuts in and out, the lights flashing as the plane shakes like they’ve hit major turbulence.

Kris is frozen in place, paralyzed by fear, white-knuckling the arm rests. He can’t even move his head, but in his peripheral vision he sees Adam stumble out of his seat, throwing open the overhead compartment and yanking out two life vests. He staggers over to Kris and shoves one over Kris’s head, yanks the cord so it automatically inflates, and then does the same for himself, all before tumbling back into his seat and fastening the belt.

“Kris—” Adam says, just loud enough to be heard above the engine’s roar, and then the plane dips in another freefall, like it’s being sucked down by a giant vacuum.

Instead of finishing that sentence, Adam reaches across the aisle and clamps a hand down on Kris’s arm, nails digging hard into his wrist. They lock eyes for a few intense moments. Kris doesn’t know what Adam planned on saying, but he’s pretty sure he can guess.

He turns and looks out the little window. Flashes of the water below come at him in strange angles as the plane tilts to one side and then the other. He tries to remember the last thing he said to Katy. To his parents. He’s not sure, but—but they have to know he loves them, he figures, even if he forgot to say it. Of course they know. He starts praying. Not out loud, just in his head. He can’t form coherent thoughts, it’s just a steady stream of God, God, please, oh God, please please please—

The water outside of the window looms closer and closer, until he can see the waves more clearly, the caps of them cresting white, and then he can’t see anything at all. It’s all blurred, and everything rattles painfully hard as the plane skids against the ocean surface. The impact sends him up out of his seat. His head slams against the roof, smacked into stars, the belt strapped across his waist biting hard enough to break skin. Luggage tumbles out from the overhead compartments, and the entire world seems tipped to one side. But no, it’s just the plane.

For a few, heart-stopping seconds, he thinks this is it, they’re going to roll, but then the plane’s wings slant back the other way, evening out. Slowly it comes to a rumbling, shuddery stop, until the only movement is from the choppy bobs of the waves. The plane tilts forward, the loose luggage sliding down the aisle toward the cockpit.

“Kris. Kris. Kris.”

Kris doesn’t know how long Adam’s been saying his name before he can collect himself enough to look over at him. He tries to lift his arm, but it’s pinned down by something—by Adam’s hand. He never let go of his wrist.

“Are you hurt?” asks Adam.

“I— I don't think so,” he says, shaking his head. It hurts from where he hit it—that’s definitely going to bruise— and his ears won’t stop buzzing, and his bones ache from the violent vibrations of the plane as it went down, but he’s not bleeding anywhere. The rest of him seems mostly okay. Just a little banged up.

“Get up,” Adam says firmly. “We have to get off this fucking plane. Now.”

Kris’s hands are shaking too hard to undo his seatbelt; Adam does it for him, half-drags Kris out of his seat. He has to grab onto Adam’s shoulder for balance because the plane is rocking on the waves, threatening to pitch him to one side. Together they scramble toward the cockpit and kick the bags out of the way. Water seeps out from under the door crack, sloshing over their feet and then sliding back under again. More of it gushes out when they pry open the door.

Adam peers his head inside first.

“Shit,” he says, immediately retracting. His face is a sickly shade of white. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Kris steps past him, and is met with the sight of the pilot, a jagged shard of glass lodged deep in his chest, his face a bloody mess. He braces one hand against the wall to keep himself upright. He doesn’t have to look any closer to know that it’s too late; the pilot is already gone. Most of the front window is smashed in, allowing spray from the waves to pour in, the weight of it tilting down the nose of the plane.

He looks to the right and sees Wendy—she didn’t have time to get back to the main cabin, so she must have strapped herself into the co-pilot’s seat. She’s bleeding from her head and her neck, the blood from her head wound trickling down the side of her face in a sluggish trail. He presses two fingers to the base of her throat and feels a flickering pulse, weak but there. She’s unconscious, but she’s alive, alive, alive. He pushes his palm against the side of her neck in an attempt to slow the bleeding. It spills through the cracks of his fingers, and he can feel her body pulsing under his skin.

Adam reappears. “I found a raft,” he says breathlessly. “I got together some other things, too, and I think we can—Kris? Kris?”

“She’s alive,” he tells Adam, and sees the realization hit Adam, the way his body sags with relief at the news. He turns back to Wendy. “We need something to stop the bleeding.”

“Okay,” Adam says, “okay, how about—”

He picks his way over to the pilot, and then hesitates, closing his eyes before he reaches for the pilot’s jacket. It’s one of those shiny sports jackets with snap buttons and a thick cotton collar, and the pilot’s arms flop like a rag doll’s as Adam shimmies the torn jacket off of his body. He presses it to the side of Wendy’s head and gently picks the purse off of her lap.

“We don’t have much time,” Adam points out, his tone low but urgent.

He’s right; the water is still coming in, and planes aren’t meant to float. Moving Wendy is a risk—she might have internal injuries or something, for all Kris knows her spine could snap in half—but staying is certain doom, so the decision is made for him. Kris lifts her out of the seat as carefully as he can.

Adam shoves the emergency exit door open with his shoulder, and the wind from the waves whips inside the plane, hitting Kris full in the face, stinging and salty and thick with the overwhelming smell of jet fuel. The waves from this vantage point look huge, tossing the plane up and down like a tipsy cradle. Adam hefts the inflatable raft onto the water and keeps it in place with one hand.

“You first,” Adam orders. Kris wants to protest, but the look on Adam’s face leaves no room for argument.

He climbs in unsteadily, Wendy still in his arms, and lays her down, tightens his hold on the jacket against her head and neck. She looks paler than she did a few minutes ago. That can’t be good.

Adam chucks a plastic bag into the raft, along with Wendy’s purse and a tin first-aid kit, and then he climbs in himself, pushing them away from the plane. It’s already beginning to submerge, thick black smoke curling up from the tail. Kris doesn’t want to look at it anymore, doesn’t want to look at the debris floating around them, and so he focuses on Wendy. Even though it’s just as grim a sight as the sinking plane, at least he can do something for her.

There are paddles fixed to the inside of the raft, and Adam rows them away from the wreckage, the waves rolling them along. After a few minutes, Adam grunts with the effort, his teeth clenched.

Kris looks up at him, squinting in the harsh sunlight. “What do we do?”

“Look,” Adam says, and stops rowing long enough to point ahead of him.

Kris twists around and sees what Adam has in mind—there’s a tiny white-rimmed island, not too far off in the distance.

“We can’t stay out here. It’s close enough that when they come looking, they’ll see us. And—” Adam darts a glance at Wendy, swallows hard. “And we can do more for her there. Okay?”

“Okay,” Kris agrees, because it’s as good a plan as Kris can think of—he can’t even think at all, right now.

It takes half an hour for Adam to get them to shore. When they’re close, he hops out of the raft, hip-deep in the water, and pushes them in all the way until the raft hits the ocean floor. They both carry Wendy onto the dry sand, having to pause every few steps to readjust their hold on her blood-slick skin. Once she’s flat on the beach, Kris leans his ear down to her chest.

She isn’t breathing.

Kris learned CPR in ninth grade health class, but he can’t remember the specifics. So he does what he thinks he’s supposed to do: tilts Wendy’s chin up and breathes into her mouth a few times, and then pumps her chest with folded hands, one two three. His palms keep slipping against her skin, soaked with wet blood.

He waits for it to work. For her eyes to open, for her to cough and sputter out mouthfuls of seawater, to sit up and be okay. The way it happens in the movies.

He repeats the process over and over, breathe one two three, pump one two three, until it becomes more than just mechanical, but visceral, almost, he’s not even counting anything anymore, he’s just doing it—

Eventually Adam’s hand falls on his shoulder. “Kris,” he says softly. “She’s—” He stops, and in that heavy pause Kris hears everything he doesn’t want to say.

“No,” he pants, “I can still—” But he looks down at Wendy’s slack face, and it hits him, then, the uselessness of keeping at this, the horrible futility of it all.

When Adam draws him away from the body, Kris doesn’t resist. He doesn’t get far, though, before he sinks to his knees and vomits in the sand. He stays on his hands and knees even after he’s done heaving, and he can’t stop shaking, from nausea and fear and sobs trapped somewhere between his chest and throat.

Adam puts a hand on the back of Kris’s head and says, “Hey,” until Kris looks at him.

Behind Adam there’s the ocean, spread out as far as the eye can see; Kris can’t see the remnants of the plane anymore, but he’s not sure if that means it’s gone, or if it’s just too far away to make out in the fading light. The sun is setting already, and it’s happening fast, clear blue smoothed out into bruised violet and yellow.

“We’re going to wait here,” Adam says. “We’re going to wait, and they’re going to send help. They know where we are. They have satellites and GPS and coordinate locator thingies and, fuck, I don’t know, whatever they use. Shit, they’re probably already on their way now. So we just have to wait it out. Okay?”

Adam ducks his head to peer more closely at Kris, his concerned face filling his field of vision and blocking out the ocean. His eyes glitter dark in the twilight; you’d never know looking at them now how blue they are in the sun.

Kris forces himself to nod a little. “Yeah, okay.”

They sit on the sand and stare at Wendy for awhile in silence. There’s no sound save for the waves rumbling onto the shore, wind rustling through the trees somewhere behind their backs, and Adam breathing hard beside him. Kris pulls his knees up tight to his chest and wraps his arms around them, feeling something beyond hysterical. Mostly he’s just numb.

“Hey.” Adam nudges him in the side with an elbow. “Go clean up, okay? You’ll feel better.”

Kris is pretty sure that nothing will make him feel better at this point, but he gets up and walks to the shore anyway, dips his hands in the water and scrubs the blood off of his palms and arms. Not his blood. He tries not to think too much about that fact. The waves lap over his shoes as he leans down and splashes some of the cool water on his face. It stings when it hits the side of his temple where he banged his head. He touches the skin there experimentally. It’s already swollen. Shit.

Despite that, he actually does feel a little more human when he comes back. Adam has dragged the raft further up off the shore and started emptying its contents out onto the beach. Kris pokes through the plastic bag; it’s filled with whatever was stocked in the plane’s mini-fridge, a few cans of Diet Coke and little water bottles and five bags of pretzels and potato chips, and a bottle of Absolut. That one was on Adam’s request.

He turns it over in his hands and makes a face at Adam. “Really?”

“What? It was right there!” Adam says with a short laugh. “Besides, getting drunk seems very appropriate right now.” He holds out the bottle. “You want?”

Kris shakes his head no. Adam shrugs and twists off the cap, takes a long swig and then another, and then drags the pilot’s torn, bloodstained jacket off the sand and into his lap. He empties out the pockets—there’s a Swiss army knife in the pocket engraved with the guy’s initials, a lighter and half a pack of cigarettes, three cough drops, a wallet (“Patrick Dean McCormick,” Adam reads from the license, studying it for a few moments before tucking it carefully back under the plastic holder), and a phone that leaks water when Adam opens it.

Phones. They haven’t even checked theirs. Kris pulls his out and turns it on—no signal, and a dying battery. Of course. He turns it back off and drops it in the sand beside him.

“Fuck.” Adam pats all of his pockets, frowning. “I must’ve dropped mine on the—” He looks out at the ocean and shakes his head mournfully. “Well. This sucks.”

Now there’s an understatement for you, Kris thinks. He rubs the side of his throbbing head and says, “It wouldn’t have worked out here anyway.”

“No, but it’s going to be such a bitch reconstructing my contacts list.” Adam frowns at him. “Hey, is your head okay?”

“It’s fine. I just bumped it—”

“Let me look.”

Adam scooches over to him, brushes his fingers gently over Kris’s temple. Kris hisses when his thumb touches a tender spot, and Adam quickly withdraws his hand.

“Hang on,” he says, and reaches for the first-aid kit, rummages around and pulls out a packet of aspirin. He hands two of them to Kris along with one of the little bottles of water. “Take these. It’ll help.”

Kris swallows the pills dry and chases them with a mouthful of water, and when Adam rips open a bag of pretzels, he obediently eats some of those, too, even though he’s too queasy to be hungry.

“So what now?” he asks, after the pretzels are gone. The sun is sinking quickly behind the horizon, darkness creeping in. He shivers.

“Now we wait, I guess.” Adam shrugs. “If you want to sleep or something, I can keep lookout. I bet they’ll be coming any minute now.”

Kris really, really doubts that anyone even realizes they’re missing yet, and if they do, no one is going to send a rescue mission at night. But he doesn’t bother to point that out, just nods and lies with his back flat to the sand, gazing up at the rapidly darkening sky. The pounding in his head subsides after awhile, and he’s hit with a wave of exhaustion, but every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is Wendy’s face. The blood on his hands.

So instead he keeps his eyes open, focused on the stars overhead. Waiting.

**

He awakens to the insistent prodding of Adam’s boot in his ribs. At first he doesn’t remember where he is—but the waves rolling against the shore and the sand scratchy under his palms jerk him into awareness. Everything comes flooding back—the plane, the crash, the pilot, Wendy, all of it. Even more so when he sits up and his aching head screams in protest.

He blinks blearily up at Adam, who stands over him, hands fisted on his hips. “How long did I sleep?”

“Awhile,” Adam says. He waves a hand over his shoulder. “Long enough for me to do that.”

Kris stands up, brushing the sand off his jeans, and looks to where Adam’s gesturing. The letters SOS are spelled out huge in the sand.

“Nice,” he says appreciatively. He squints up at the sky. He can’t tell if he slept for a long time, or if the sun just rises early here; either way, it’s beating down hard. He’s sweating already. “Any planes go by?”

Adam sighs. “Not yet.”

They sit in the hot white sand, drinking lukewarm Diet Coke and staring out at the water. Adam picks up Wendy’s purse from where he’d set it with the other things and looks through it. There’s chapstick, a compact, a pack of tissues, a key ring, a pack of gum, her Blackberry, a trashy romance novel, other odds and ends. Kris takes the phone and turns it on. No bars, of course, but he can see the pictures she has saved. Most of them are of a little boy, no older than three, at what looks like some kind of picnic. He has bright blond hair and big eyes, and a wide smile on his face in each shot—eating a hot dog, feeding some ducks, sitting on the shoulders of an older man. Wendy’s husband, maybe. He thinks she mentioned having a son.

He shuts the phone and presses it to his chin, thinking about Katy. He wonders if she knows by now. If anyone’s told her.

Everyone probably thinks he’s dead.

The glare of the sun off the waves hurts Kris’s eyes, but he doesn’t want to look away, just in case he misses something. A boat, a plane, anything. But two hours pass and nothing comes, and it’s just getting hotter and hotter.

“We have to get out of this sun,” Kris says, when it becomes apparent that sitting around waiting isn’t going to get them anything but heat stroke.

Adam wipes the sweat off his forehead with one arm. “How, exactly, are we supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know, build a shelter or something?”

“Okay there, Tom Hanks.”

Kris ignores him and grabs the pilot’s pocket knife, heading toward the nearest grove of palm trees. After a few seconds Adam gives in, stands up and follows him. They use the pilot’s knife to cut some leafy palm fronds, and then drag them back closer to shore, where they stick the branches in the sand, carefully layering them across each other. The process takes a few hours, but eventually they manage to build something relatively sturdy that won’t collapse in on itself within five minutes.

In the time it takes to assemble a sort of lopsided lean-to, Kris doesn’t see a single plane, helicopter, or boat in sight. Nothing except a few birds circling over the waves.

He flops down next to Adam under the shade of the palm leaves and heaves a frustrated sigh. “Where are they?”

“On their way,” Adam assures him, sounding far more confident than Kris feels. He tears open another bag of pretzels and pops a handful into his mouth.

Kris watches him chew and says, “Maybe we should be careful with the food. Just in case…”

He doesn’t really want to consider the possibility that rescue isn’t on its way, but he figures one of them has to, and it’s not gonna be Adam.

“I’m telling you, the cavalry is coming,” Adam insists. He scoffs. “Hell, TMZ will probably storm in on a fucking motorboat any second now like this is Normandy. Those fuckers always track me down.”

But he rolls up the bag of pretzels and sets it aside anyway.

**

The cavalry doesn’t come.

Kris sleeps curled around Adam. He doesn’t stop to think about it; he just throws an arm over Adam’s waist and gathers him in, presses his face into the back of Adam’s neck. It gets surprisingly cold at night, and once the sun sets, it’s pitch dark. The total blackness freaks him out a little, so it’s nice to have Adam up against him, sharing his body heat, reminding him he’s not all alone out here. And Adam doesn’t seem to mind.

When he wakes up, though, his arms are empty. He crawls out of the shelter and finds Adam standing over Wendy’s body. It’s right where they left it.

“Hey,” he says softly as he approaches.

Adam starts a little and nods at him, then looks back at her.

“Do you think…” he starts, and then trails off. When Kris looks at him, he bites down on his bottom lip. “Should we do something? With… her?”

There’s a strong stench coming from the body, one that reminds Kris of the refugee camp in Mae Sot. It’s the smell of decay. Of death. And it’s only going to get worse with the sun out in full force like this.

“I mean, since we don’t know how long it’s going to be,” Adam continues, all in a rush, like he’s trying not to think too hard on what he’s saying, “before they find us, you know?”

Kris rubs his arms, suddenly shivery despite the heat. “Um. Yeah. We should probably… take care of it.”

They find a spot down the beach, further inland, where the sand is more compact. Together they dig a pit, using the pocket knife and rocks and sticks and their hands. Neither of them says a word as they dig; it takes a good hour before the hole is deep enough.

“You ready?” Adam asks, once they’ve returned to the body.

“Wait,” says Kris, and he peels off one of his socks, dips it in the ocean and uses it to clean some of the dried blood caked on her face; it doesn’t do much to make her presentable, but it’s the least he can do. He carefully slips off her high heels and pockets her wedding ring, and then he nods. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

They carry her to the grave, set her inside it and scoop the dirt back into the hole until she’s fully covered. By the time they’re done, Kris’s hands are streaked brown. Adam finds a few big rocks and places them at the head of the grave as a marker.

He comes next to Kris and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You want to say something?”

Kris thinks about it for a minute before shaking his head. Neither of them knew her well; this was a one-time assignment.

“I don’t know what to say either,” Adam admits, and then he starts crying. He quickly covers his face with one hand. “Shit, god, I’m sorry—”

“Shh.” Kris rubs his back. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay.”

“This is just—it’s so fucked up. All of it.”

Kris slides an arm around Adam’s waist and squeezes, feels Adam suck in a shaky breath.

“I know,” he says gently. “I know it is. We just have to… stick it out.”

**

A plan. What they need is a plan, or else this waiting around is going to drive them both out of their minds.

Kris racks his brain for everything he learned in every science class he has taken in his life. The problem is that Kris is not a science guy. Or a school guy in general. He managed to do well enough in his classes because he’s good at memorizing information quickly—it’s the same with sheet music and lyrics. But unlike the music, he never bothered to retain the academic stuff. It all ended up shoved down the garbage disposal of his brain in order to make room for what was more important. So while he could rattle off all the chord changes in Blackbird at the drop of a hat, he cannot for the life of him remember the periodic symbol for copper.

Still, it’s logic. Water has a cycle, right? Water evaporates in heat. And he’s pretty sure that when seawater condensates, it loses its salt. So he just needs to find a way to do that.

The first thing he does when they get back to their camp is empty out the first aid kit, fill it with seawater, and then collect some small shells and rocks. He brushes the sand off of them and puts them in the two empty mini water bottles. That weighs them down in the water when he sets them in the kit, and then he covers all of it with the plastic bag. The sun should take care of the rest.

Adam looks on with interest and says, “Did you used to be a cub scout or something?”

“Actually, no, I never joined their distinguished ranks.”

“I was.” When Kris twists around to shoot him a look of surprise, Adam huffs out a laugh. “Ooh, did I just blow your mind?”

Kris grins. “A little bit.”

“I was seven, and it was only for about two seconds. Not long enough to learn anything useful.” Adam picks up a piece of driftwood and twirls it around in his hand like a baton. “Of course, I didn’t think I’d ever need to know how to start a fire by rubbing sticks together. Jesus.” He flings the wood toward the water.

“We don’t have to rub sticks,” Kris says. “We have the lighter. We just need… you know. Stuff to burn.”

Adam looks over his shoulder. “I can take care of that.”

Kris follows his gaze to the dense jungle behind them, his stomach in knots. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he tells him. “There are probably, uh, things in there. Bad things. That bite.”

But Adam looks unconcerned. “I’ll be careful. I’ll bring the knife,” he says. “You stay here and keep lookout, okay?”

Kris hems and haws and—screw it. One of them has to go. “I’m giving you half an hour,” he says warningly.

Adam takes off, armed with the knife, while Kris sits under the shade of the shelter. He reaches a hand into his pocket and pulls out Wendy’s ring. The band is silver and encrusted with a white diamond. Kind of similar to Katy’s, only fancier. Of course, that isn’t saying much—he’d been near broke when he bought her ring, had to beg his dad for the money with the promise of paying him back, and even then ended up with something pretty cheap.

After Idol, he’d told Katy she could upgrade it, if she wanted, but she declined, said she would never. He loved her even more for that.

He swallows hard against the lump in his throat and yanks one of his shoe laces free, slides Wendy’s ring onto it. He ties it tight around his neck so the metal rests against his chest. It seems safer this way, where he doesn’t have to worry about losing it, where he can just feel it on him all the time.

It makes him panicky to not have Adam here, so he sings to himself to pass the time. He decides to sing ten Beatles songs, and if Adam isn’t back by the time he’s done, he’ll go searching. He gets halfway through the tenth song— Penny Lane—when Adam emerges back to their makeshift camp.

“Any luck?” he calls, jumping to his feet, heart thudding against his chest. He didn’t realize before how fast it was beating.

Adam walks toward him with a big grin, arms loaded down with bundles of branches and sticks, and—

“Are those coconuts?” Kris asks.

“Hell yes they are,” Adam nearly crows. He drops everything at his feet. “I hit the coconut tree jackpot, motherfucker. There are a ton of them, not far back.”

He tosses one of the coconuts to Kris, who catches it, and then picks up the other, attempting to spin it on his finger like a basketball.

“Maybe we can use the coconut oil as sunscreen,” he says thoughtfully.

“You would say that, ginger,” Kris teases.

But actually, that’s not a bad idea. This amount of sun exposure can’t be good; Adam’s already a bright pink, his eyes a little puffy. The last thing they need is to get sun poisoning.

“Let’s crack this baby open.” Adam whips out the pocket knife, holding down the coconut, and stabs it viciously. A second later he cries out. “Oh, fuck me—”

Kris hurries to his side. “What did you do?”

Adam holds out his hand—the blade sliced the webbed skin between his thumb and index finger. The cut’s not deep, but it’s still bleeding. Kris grabs the bandage tape from the first aid kit and wraps it quickly around the wound.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, once Adam’s all taped up.

“Not too bad,” Adam says.

Kris watches him, trying to figure out if he’s lying, but he looks okay.

“Give me that.” He takes the knife and steadies the coconut between his knees, carves a hole into the shell. It takes a minute but he manages to do it without stabbing himself. He offers it to Adam, and Adam brings it to his lips and drinks the milk thirstily.

“How is it?” Kris asks.

Adam shrugs and says, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He extends the coconut to Kris. “Wanna try?”

Kris shakes his head. “All yours.”

He starts to gather up the kindling when Adam’s hand grabs his wrist. Kris freezes as Adam runs his fingers over his faint bruises. They’re in the shape of Adam’s fingerprints, from when he squeezed too hard on the plane.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, eyes still on Kris’s wrist. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he cuts in. He looks down at the sand. “I’m glad that you—if that was gonna be, you know—”

The end. He can’t bring himself to finish the thought out loud, but it hangs in the air between them.

“Well,” Adam says after a moment, “this is pretty much the worst vacation ever, I’d say.”

“Pretty much,” Kris agrees. He lies down with his back to the sand and blinks up at the sky. “I’m just glad Katy couldn’t come. “

“Yeah, thank God for that.” Adam flops down next to him so their shoulders are pressed together. “How is she, anyway?”

“She’s good. I think.” Off of Adam’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “I feel like I never see her anymore, you know? I’m working so much, and I keep saying, once I’m done with this album, this tour, then we’ll have time. But it never happens. And now—” His voice wavers so badly he has to stop for a second. “What if I never see her again? And it’s all my fault, because I didn’t try hard enough while we—”

“Don’t say that,” Adam says sharply. “You’ll see her again. You’ll make the time. You will.” He reaches down and squeezes Kris’s knee. “We’re going to get through this. I promise.”

That night they manage to build a small fire using the lighter and some dry kindling and thick log-like branches, enough to keep them warm. This time Adam is the one to hold Kris. He winds an arm around Kris’s stomach, pulls him in tight, and kisses the top of his head. Kris doesn’t need the body heat when they have the fire, but he’s glad anyway.

He closes his eyes and thinks about what Adam said. He wants to believe him, but he’s not so sure.

**

Four days pass, and with each one, Kris’s hope dissolves a little more, and everything about this situation feels more and more real.

All of his joints ache, and he’s covered in bug bites, and even with the coconut oil, they’re both sunburned. The heat is blistering and intense, even under the little shade they have. He’s hungry and, he’s pretty sure, dehydrated, even though they’ve carefully rationed the water supply. His contraption which had, at the time, seemed so clever, doesn’t do much to collect water; he’s lucky to fill the bottle an inch overnight, and he ends up licking the drops off plastic.

Adam wandered one day into the jungle and managed to drain raindrops collected on leaves into a bottle, and found some puddles, too, deep enough to fill another. But it hasn’t rained since they arrived, and Kris knows it’s only a matter of time before that source dries up.

They’ve gone through not only most of the water, but most of the food—they’re down to Wendy’s gum pack, the cough drops, and a steady supply of coconut milk. The hunger gnaws at him, a constant ache, and it makes it hard to concentrate on anything, to want to do anything other than curl up in the fetal position clutching his stomach.

On top of everything else, Kris hasn’t seen a single ship or plane since they got here.

It feels useless, at this point, but he sits under the shelter and scans the horizon anyway, until his eyes nearly cross from the strain. He rubs them tiredly with one hand and looks over at Adam—he’s in the water, in past his waist, holding a long branch in one hand. The pocket knife is tied to the tip with one of his boot laces; all morning he’s tried to spear fish with it, to no avail. He’s been trying for days now.

Adam’s shoulders look less red today, peeling away to a tanner shade. Kris knows if he was close enough, he’d be able to make out the freckles sprinkled on his skin; sometimes at night, when Adam falls asleep first, he traces them with his fingers in the flickering firelight. He knows Adam’s embarrassed by his freckles, but it’s one of the things Kris loves about him. Something so simple, but it’s part of Adam the rest of the world doesn’t get to see, the pieces that make him so human.

He stands on shaky legs and walks up to the shore, watching as Adam lifts the spear up, perfectly poised. A second later, it splashes down hard in the water.

Adam growls in frustration. “Mother of fuck!”

“No luck?” Kris guesses, even though he doesn’t have to ask.

Adam doesn’t answer, too absorbed in… whatever he’s doing. Getting in the hunter zone. Whatever.

Kris says, “I’m gonna go check out the jungle. All right?”

“Yeah, okay,” he says without turning around, probably only half-listening. “Just be safe, okay?”

The jungle has no path; it’s all brush and thick vines, but Kris beats his way through, ignoring the slap of branches against his chest and legs. He stops after a minute and looks back, worried he might not be able to find his way back again. But he’s come this far, so.

After a little while the trees space out more, and he stumbles into a small clearing. There’s not much around—coconut trees, yeah, but that’s about it. He bends down to examine some of the other plants, experimentally pulls a few of them up out of the ground. Some of them have what look to be edible roots. He figures they can be boiled and hopefully be safe. At this point they have to take risks.

Unfortunately, Kris was right about the rainwater; he doesn’t see any out here at all. But he puts his hand on the ground and notices it’s surprisingly cool. He thinks maybe if he digs, he can hit groundwater. At first he uses the knife, and then once the hard dirt is broken through, he just hollows it out with his hands and digs and digs, ignoring the aching in his arms.

He’s not sure how long it takes, but finally the hole is big enough for him to stand in it. The clay seems to be getting more moist the further he goes down. That has to be a good sign. He decides to leave it for now and come back later to see if there’ll be any water in it.

“I am going to kill you!” Adam yells when he makes his way back to the beach. His eyes are a little wild, and he grabs Kris roughly, shaking him by the shoulders. “Do you have any idea how fucking freaked out I’ve been? You can’t just disappear like that.”

Kris pushes him off. “I told you where I was going.”

“You were gone for an hour! Jesus Christ, I thought something happened.”

“Something did happen.” Kris drops the roots down by the fire. “I think if we boil these in water, they should be okay to eat.” He looks up at Adam, who is still wide-eyed, expression borderline hysterical, and he goes over and puts his arms around him. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t do it again. I swear.”

“You fucking better not,” Adam mumbles into his shoulder, but he relaxes and returns the hug. He pulls back and smiles. “And hey, I have a surprise for you, too.”

He shows Kris the fish he managed to catch. Three of them. Skinny little ones, but still.

Kris stares at them in disbelief. “You actually did it? Are you serious?”

“You better believe it!” Adam replies with a broad grin. “Tonight, we feast like kings!”

Okay, maybe not kings, but it’s the best meal they’ve had so far. Adam spears the fish on a thin stick and rotates them in the flames. They have to eat them right off the sticks, and try to nibble around the bones, but still, it might as well be filet mignon as far as Kris is concerned.

He uses an empty coconut shell to boil some of the fresh water—the process is tricky, but he’s able to do it by using two pieces of driftwood as tongs and holding it above the fire. It takes a few tries but works. Adam places the roots in the coconut shell and lets them boil. They don’t taste that great, but they’re hungry enough to not care.

They sit around singing songs and eating and feeling better about the situation, and it’s sort of like a summer camp bonfire, minus the vodka that Adam breaks out.

“You clearly didn’t go to theater camp,” Adam says around the lip of the bottle, taking another pull.

And Kris laughs—a real laugh, loud and unexpected, bubbling out of him like champagne overflowing from an uncorked bottle. It feels so good that he doesn’t want to stop. Adam cracks up, too, reaching over to clap Kris on the back, and Kris leans into him, feeling better than he has in days.

**

Things start to get both easier and harder from there in out.

Easier because there’s more of a routine to their days: Adam spends the mornings collecting fish while Kris is in charge of the water. His hole in the jungle actually worked—Kris went back the next day to see that water had slowly oozed out of the clay and made a pool. The first time he saw it, he couldn’t believe it; he dipped his hand in it, touched a finger to his lips to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

The water is a little muddy and gross, but it’s fresh, and one night gives him enough for two days supply. And Adam gets better at the fishing thing—he manages to catch a few each day, enough for them to live off of.

But it’s also harder because they’ve been here long enough for Kris to realize that they may be stuck for a really, really long time. Indefinitely. He barely bothers to look out at the ocean anymore; it just seems futile, because nothing ever comes. It’s just azure water stretching out as far as the eye can see. It’d be gorgeous if it wasn’t so scary.

Kris doesn’t want a routine, but he gets one anyway. He doesn’t bother wearing his shirt anymore, or his jeans, just walks around in his boxers, barefoot unless he’s going into the jungle. When he looks in Wendy’s little compact mirror, his face stares back at him, browned by the sun.

He and Adam bathe in the ocean naked, scrubbing their skin with sand. It’s not really awkward; Kris has seen Adam naked before, once accidentally walked in on him naked in the early days of Idol when they roomed together. It wasn’t a big deal then, and it’s not a big deal now.

Still, Kris finds himself sneaking looks at Adam sometimes. The thing is, he doesn’t usually think of guys as beautiful—but Adam kind of is, like this. Well. Okay. Adam’s always been a pretty guy, but Kris likes him better this way, without hiding behind the stage makeup and crazy outfits. He’s always preferred when things are stripped down bare—songs and people. Like how he always finds Katy as her prettiest in the mornings, with her tousled bed hair and naked face. He likes how imperfections can make people more beautiful.

“I don’t usually get naked with boys and not fuck them,” Adam jokes, and Kris blushes all the way up to the tips of his ears.

He splashes Adam with a spray of water and says, “Well, Lambert, if you play your cards right…”

And then Adam reaches over and dunks him, laughing wildly.

When they’re not preoccupied with surviving, they sit around and talk. It’s the most time they’ve had with each other in a year.

They did drift apart a little, after the tour, but for Kris, it felt only natural for them to have a certain parting of the ways then. Most of the time, Kris was too busy to be too sad about that. And he knew Adam already had an established life in L.A.—he had a circle of friends and family nearby, not to mention an album of his own to record and promote, and a media damn near obsessed with his every move.

Besides, there were still phone calls and emails at least once a week, and the occasional lunch or dinner. It wasn’t a total blackout, even if they didn’t see each other as much as he wished they could’ve. He’s still always considered Adam one of his best friends. The kind he’d drop anything and everything for. He likes to think he’s the same to Adam.

If he couldn’t keep up with Adam as much as he wanted, all he had to do was check the tabloids. Every week Kris heard some new story. Adam supposedly trashing a hotel room at the Hilton, Adam getting in a fight with Britney Spears at a nightclub and calling her a crazy bitch, rumors linking Adam to pretty much every male celebrity on the scene— regardless of age, sexual orientation, or marital status.

“None of those are true,” Adam says with a roll of his eyes. They’re in the jungle, snapping off branches for firewood. It’s hard to find the dry stuff. He stops, considering. “Okay, I did call Britney a psycho, but that was only after she threw a drink on my friend Evan for no reason. I mean, seriously, bitch is straight up crazy.” He levels Kris with a curious look. “So what about you? Any scandalous celebrity encounters?”

Kris shrugs. “Not really.”

He doesn’t frequent the night scene in L.A., doesn’t attend many events unless the label forces him. He always feels awkward and out of place at those things, like he’s waiting for someone to walk up and ask him what he thinks he’s doing there.

He thinks for a minute and snaps his fingers. “Oh! Once I peed next to Jack Nicholson in the bathroom at a Lakers game.”

“No shit! Did you get a look at his dick?”

“Are you kidding? The guy is scary. I was terrified. But I did notice he left without washing his hands. That was, uh, kind of gross.”

Adam snorts. “Jack Nicholson is unhygienic? Someone alert Page Six!”

Kris pokes him with a stick, and then they start sword-fighting with the branches, until Adam jabs him in the ribcage and Kris jumps on his back.

“You’re like a damn monkey!” Adam cries, staggering under Kris’s weight.

Kris locks his arms under Adam’s neck. “I’m scrappy.”

“You’re so going down, Allen.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so. You underestimate me. I’m the underdog. The dark horse. It’s my schtick.”

Adam sinks down to his knees and rolls Kris off his back, and they wrestle with each other, biting at shoulders and elbows until they’re both exhausted with laughter. Kris ends up sprawled with his face pushed into Adam’s stomach. Adam smells like sun and dirt and sweat, and when he opens his mouth a little, he tastes the salt of Adam’s skin.

“Stop trying to distract me,” Adam says breathlessly. He rolls over, pins Kris underneath him and holds down his wrists. His face hovers close, chapped lips breaking into a triumphant grin. “Ha! I win. Suck on it.”

With no one else around, Kris touches Adam a lot. When they first met, Adam kept a safe distance, and once Kris caught onto why he was doing it, he went out of his way to make sure Adam knew how much it didn’t matter. And once Adam realized that, they always made excuses to touch each other—hugs and back pats and neck squeezes and kicking each other under the table.

It changed a little after the Rolling Stone piece, at least in public. The media didn’t blink twice at stories about drug-fueled epiphanies at Burning Man and instead ran with the ADAM LAMBERT WANTS IN KRIS ALLEN’S PANTS angle until Adam was embarrassed he’d said anything in the first place—or at least as embarrassed as Adam ever got.

“I just really don’t want the ‘predatory gay’ label,” Adam explained. “And your career doesn’t need the fucking speculation either.”

Kris didn’t care about the speculation—the media would say whatever they wanted to say—but he cared about what Adam wanted. That was most important, so he’d agreed, and after that there was always an uncomfortable awareness in public that hadn’t been there before.

But there are no cameras or paparazzi here. Kris likes that he doesn’t have to think about it before he grabs Adam in a hug, or leans against him, or huddles by him at night when it gets cold. They wake up tangled together and it just feels natural. It’s funny because he’s spent months living out of hotel rooms, and hardly any time in the same bed as Katy; he’s missed this, having someone this close.

And he needs it. He needs the closeness, the human contact, needs Adam.

But that’s nothing new.

**

One early morning Kris wakes up and Adam isn’t there.

He lifts his head off the ground and peers out from under the palm leaves toward the shore. Sure enough, there’s Adam, bathing in the ocean, completely naked, his back to Kris. He cups his hands and splashes the water onto his front, over his shoulders. It runs down his back in rivulets. Kris watches the lines of him, the way his black hair shines in the emerging sunlight.

His hand moves seemingly of his own volition. He doesn’t even fully realize what he’s doing until it’s slid under his boxers, over his dick, and he’s already halfway to rubbing one out. He closes his eyes and holds his breath and tries hard to think of Katy. Of her soft curves and pink mouth and glossy blonde hair. But the images don’t come, and all he can see is Adam, Adam’s sculpted shoulders, Adam’s brown skin so hot to the touch, the shape of his hips, the flat of his muscled stomach leading to that curl of dark hair—

And that’s when he comes.

Oh, he thinks, and then: Shit.

He lies there for awhile, trying to figure out what, exactly, this means.

His relationship with Adam has always been… different. And it isn’t that he hasn’t ever thought of Adam in this context. Who hasn’t? It’s Adam, after all—he exudes sex, practically demands for people to think of him like that. Kris is secure enough to admit he’s always found Adam attractive, if only in an objective sort of way.

It’s just, there’s always been Katy. And Katy’s always been enough. She should still be enough, he thinks, and his stomach twists with guilt. He shouldn’t be thinking of anyone else like that when he’s married. If he’s going to jerk off at all, it should be to the thought of her, not Adam.

But it isn’t that simple. It’s not about loving Katy less. It’s just that part of him wants Adam now, too.

Eventually he comes to the conclusion that he needs to just push this all out of his mind. Adam is his best friend, and Katy is his wife, and that’s how it is. How it will stay. Even if his dick has other ideas.

He drags himself into the ocean, shivering at the first cold wave that breaks over his legs, and cleans himself off as discretely as possible before Adam notices.

Adam doesn’t notice. He just turns and smiles at him like nothing’s changed.

Except Kris is pretty sure that everything has.

part two

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

fic: kris/adam drabbles

buffyx — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 05:39:29 GMT

A couple more dumb short fic things I've written:

"What are you doing?"

Kris jumps when he hears Adam's voice behind him and tries to minimize the browser window, but it's too late; Adam's already peeking over his shoulder, cheek nearly pressed to his own.

He squints at the screen. "ONTD_AI? What is this?"

"Matt told me about it," Kris says with a sheepish shrug. "I dunno, he said they're all crazy and it was good for a laugh. And I was bored, so..."

"'Kristopher Allen Appreciation Post.'" Adam lets out a breathy laugh and looks at him with one eyebrow raised. "A little navel-gazing, huh?"

"It's so weird," Kris laughs back. He points to the screen at a series of images. "Like this one girl? She's, like, obsessed with my feet. I don't get it."

"Oh, I totally do. Your feet are adorable."

Kris looks at Adam to see if he's kidding, but his expression is completely serious. Something about that makes Kris's face heat up.

"And two of them are having this conversation," he continues, tearing his eyes away from Adam. "Something about cloning me as a baby? Or turning babies into me? But not their babies, because then it'd be incest? It involves time travel, I don't know, I can't really follow their logic."

"Fans are crazy about you," Adam says, one hand on Kris's shoulder. "And trust me. I can see why. But you should know by now, the internet is for one thing, and that's--"

"--porn," Kris finishes with a good-natured eyeroll. "Yeah, yeah, I know."

Adam flashes him a wicked grin. "That's also what our bunks are for. Care to join me?"

He’s completely kidding, of course, and Kris laughs him off, but when Adam disappears back to bed, Kris’s stomach feels weird and fluttery. The feeling doesn’t go away, even when he crawls into his bottom bunk, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about Adam above him.

*

Kris knows he shouldn't, but sometimes when he has a spare minute, he checks back at the community Matt had told him about. Matt was right; they are kind of crazy. It's surreal that so many people spend hours a day discussing him and Adam and the others, dissecting every photo or Twitter posting or concert performance.

Sometimes he likes to tweet something totally ridiculous and then look at their response. Like when he wrote about the plums. He figured they'd have nothing to say about that; instead when he refreshed the page two minutes later, lo and behold, there were already over a hundred comments freaking out about it. It is beyond bizarre to him that inspires that kind of reaction in people.

Adam says the internet is for porn, and ONTD_AI has that too. People write stories, mostly about him and Adam, and they're always having sex. In hotel rooms. Backstage. In the Idol mansion. On the beach. Sometimes Matt is featured in these stories, and he's almost always crying or plotting revenge against Adam. That whole "scorned Matt" thing seems to be a running theme for the community-- no wonder Matt kind of hates them.

It should be repulsive, or make him feel like all kinds of lines have been crossed-- but mostly he's amused. And, okay. Maybe a tiny bit turned on.

Fictional Kris usually swears more than actual Kris does, and always begs Adam to do dirty things to him that make Kris blush just reading. Sometimes fictional Kris has really witty banter or meaningful dialogue that make Kris feel a little sad about his life, that he's not actually clever or insightful enough to speak any of those things.

Those are the times he realizes he really needs to step away from the computer and go for a jog, or listen to some music, or go track down Adam and see what he's doing.

*

Kris has been lurking on and off for a few weeks before he decides to make his own account. He does it while they're on the road one night, and he's squished between Anoop and Adam in front of the bus, slyly checking the community on his phone while the two of them watch Jeopardy on tv. Adam keeps getting annoyed because Anoop knows all of the answers off the top of his head, but then there's a category for Broadway shows that Adam totally owns, so it works out okay.

While the two of them trade banter about the trivia, Kris signs himself up for a Livejournal account. The only time he'd ever commented to the community before was during one of their weekly anonymous posts. Since they all seemed to go crazy over "Kradam," he thought it'd be nice to anonymously throw out a tidbit their way-- he left a comment about a moment that had happened a few days ago, when he and Adam actually did use the headphone splitters and listened to Adam's favorite Muse album during Gokey's sound check.

To his surprise, though, no one believed him. People responded with things like, "PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN," or "OBVIOUS TROLL IS OBVIOUS," or "lol yeah right i fucking wish" or "Did the stylist tell you this?". Whatever that meant.

He makes his account name totally unrelated to who he is, doesn't bother to get an icon, and the first few comments he leaves are innocuous. Neutral comments on liking Adam's outfit in one post, or saying that Allison's YouTube video of Cry Baby sounded amazing, that kind of thing. Sometimes he tries to be funny, like after a photo of him and Adam touching during Don't Stop Believing is posted, and he comments with a joke about how Matt was curled up in a corner crying, since they all believe Matt is secretly in love with him or something. He gets a few "LOLs" in response and feels weirdly excited and proud for the validation.

And then he thinks in his head, LOL MY LIFE, and turns his attention back to the game show, and the comfortable warmth of Adam's weight pressed against his side.

*

"People on the internet think-" Kris pauses to swallow, tries to make his voice sound light, "--that we're actually. Like. You know."

"Having sex?" Adam supplies. He doesn't look up from what he's doing-- which is applying eyeliner in the tiny bus bathroom.

Kris is positioned awkwardly in the doorway, hanging off the frame, watching Adam's practiced, careful movements as he traces the black under his eyes, pretty puckered mouth gaping open slightly.

He can’t stop staring at Adam’s lips without his mind going to the gutter. Stupid fanfiction.

Obviously he needs to spend less time online. He’s just glad that he thought to password-protect his laptop, because otherwise Adam might have found the secret picture he made in MS Paint of him and Katy, with text talking about how they have an open marriage, the one he submitted to the weekly secrets thing on ONTD_AI. He knew none of them would believe it, and they didn't, but he still felt almost... liberated, knowing that the idea was out there.

The open marriage thing is true, but Adam has nothing to do with that, though. Or. Well. He hasn't factored into it. Yet.

"But I mean they seriously believe it," he tells Adam. "There are these people called tinhatters. They make these blog posts analyzing our pictures and recruit, like, body language experts to discuss the way we look at each other. And somehow that proves we're in love with each other."

Adam sets down the pencil and turns to him.

"It's not exactly like you're discouraging them," he points out. "Joking about how you have a crush on me. Repeatedly."

Kris ducks his head, unable to hide a smile. "That... is true."

Except for the part about the joking. Since he isn't, really. But Adam doesn't know that.

"They also do tarot card readings," he blurts out. "And compare our astrology signs."

This catches Adam's attention, just like Kris knew it would. His eyes light up. "Really?" he says, and when Kris nods, he breaks into a smile. "I kind of want to see that now."

And I kind of want to see you naked, Kris thinks, but of course he doesn't say it.

*

ONTD_AI becomes sort of addictive. Like, he doesn’t have the time to sit around on Twitter all day like Danny and Sarver and Matt do, but he gets downtime between rehearsals and sound checks and being on the road and waiting around in airports when he’s flying back and forth to L.A. for recording. It starts to get where he only uses the internet to check three things: His email, Twitter, and ONTD_AI.

He even makes a folder on his Macbook for the stuff he finds there. He hides it deep within his music collection, with like three subfolders, because he’s still paranoid that one day he’ll accidentally forget to close his laptop and someone will find it. In the ONTD_AI folder he saves his favorite photos (mostly of him, Adam, and Allison), the funny macros people make, and a Word document where he copies and pastes his favorite responses to the kink and drabble memes.

Yeah, he still reads the stories, sometimes. Some of them are really good. And hot. Almost all of the ones he saves are pairing him and Adam together.

Fanfic makes it look easy. In fanfic, Adam is always up for anything, or they’re already in an established relationship, or Adam chases after Kris. Fictional Adam also calls people “honey” a lot, which is weird, because in real life he doesn’t think he’s heard Adam use the word “honey” ever.

Real Life Adam also does not chase after Kris. And would never to think to chase after him. Because Real Life Kris is 100% straight and happily married.

In theory.

One night when he hasn’t seen Katy in weeks, and he’s aching and lonely and alone in his hotel room, he opens the Word document and scrolls down to one of the fics with him and Adam. It’s one where they’re in an alley somewhere, Adam is on his knees in front of Kris, Kris’s cock in his mouth.

And then Kris slides one hand underneath the waistband of his flannel pajama pants, balancing the laptop awkwardly on his stomach. He thinks about what it would be like, as the fanfic describes: his back against a dirty brick wall, Adam below him, looking up with glittering wet eyes, his mouth around Kris.

The image alone is… well. It’s enough.

*

He feels a little bad that he never sees a specific post on ONTD_AI dedicated to appreciating Adam, so one day he makes one. It goes better than the other time he tried to make a brief introduction post and everyone replied with, DO YOU EVEN GO HERE? and spammed him with animations and mocked his typos and tagged it with things like “you dumb bitch” and “i actually have an high iq.srsly” and “wtf is this shit”.

The time he did that, he didn’t know how to turn off comment notifications, and everyone on the bus kept staring at him when his phone buzzed every two seconds as it exploded with email alerts.

“Look who’s Mr. Popular,” Gokey had joked, laughing a little too loud and looking at his own phone a little forlornly.

Now Kris knows to turn the notifications off, and a few hours later he refreshes the post and sees thousands of comments. A few people replied with “Every post is an Adam Lambert appreciation post!!”, but most commended him for making it and posted their favorite Adam photos and quotes and performances.

He figures making an Adam post is the least he could do. None of the commenters on ONTD_AI get to appreciate Adam in person, every day, the way Kris does.

Too bad for them.

*

One time in the dressing room, he’s messing around with Adam and yanks on Adam’s trademark snakeskin boots. They’re way too big for him, but he struts around the room in them anyway in his best Adam imitation, striking poses and rubbing his crotch until Adam falls out of his chair from laughing so hard.

Kris snaps a picture of his feet in the boots with his phone. He posts it to Twitter along with a message: Check out mah boots. Pretty fly for a white guy, right?

He thinks about the ONTD_AI girl with the Kris Allen foot fetish and smiles to himself. She’ll be thanking him for this. And so will the Kradam tinhatters, once they recognize the boots as Adam’s.

Two birds, one stone. Fangirls are easy.

*
It’s toward the end of the tour dates, during the overnight drive to Pennsylvania, when Kris walks from the bathroom to his bunk and finds Adam sprawled out stomach-down in his, Kris’s Macbook in front of him.

Kris’s stomach drops to his knees. Oh, God. “Adam?” he croaks out.

Adam snaps his head up fast and moves the laptop away from him.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, “I wasn’t trying to pry. I just saw you had a video open.”

Oh, right. The birthday video ONTD_AI had put together. The one with Trugs. Some fan had given him a DVD copy of it awhile ago, and he’d randomly found it tonight, stuck in his suitcase while he was searching for new socks, and decided to watch it for kicks. If that’s all Adam saw, then that’s not so bad.

He crawls into the bunk next to Adam, stretching out on his stomach and looking at the screen. There’s not enough room for personal space here; he’s pressed up right against Adam, a warm line from where their shoulders and sides and legs touch.

Adam reaches up and rubs a sleeve across his eyes.

Kris stares at him. “Adam, are you… are you crying?”

“No!” he protests, and then sniffles a little. “Okay, fine, a tiny bit. It’s sweet, okay?”

“It’s No Boundaries,” Kris reminds him dryly. He is so glad he was able to convince the producers to let him drop it from his set list. If he never has to sing that song again, it’ll be too soon.

“Yeah, but I like the way you sing it,” Adam says, glancing at him sidelong with a small, soft smile.

If this was fanfic, this would be the part where Kris leans over and kisses Adam. But it isn’t, it’s real life, and he loves Adam way too much to ever risk that. To make things even more complicated.

He settles for resting his head on Adam’s shoulder. “You’re my best friend, you know,” he mumbles. He looks up at Adam. “Not just, like, on the tour. I mean. You’re my best friend. Period.”

A note of surprise flashes across Adam’s face, and then he smiles, warm and wide, in a way that makes Kris’s heart feel too big for his chest.

“You’re my best friend, too,” he says, and presses a kiss against Kris’s temple. He pulls the laptop in closer and cues the video to the beginning. “Now, I wanna see this one more time.”

Two months.

It has been two months since the tour ended, and Kris has seen Adam exactly two times since then. He hates that it’s like this—that there’s no time for anything except recording and press and being shoved into countless business meetings, where he shakes the hands of decrepit white-haired business men who think they know what’s relevant in the music industry and has to keep a straight face while they discuss his marketability.

He never thought he’d see the day where he’d miss that damn tour bus, the cramped bunks and constant motion of eating up miles on the interstate and endless parade of meet-and-greets and sound checks and singing the same handful of songs over and over again.

But it’s not really the tour he misses. It’s the people. Specifically, person. Singular.

Adam.

He doesn’t expect an answer when he calls in the middle of the night, but he gets one anyway.

“Hello?” Adam mumbles groggily.

“Uh, hey man.” Kris glances at the kitchen clock—two thirty-four. Crap. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” Adam says, and Kris hears the rustling of bed sheets, imagines Adam in his new house, the one with the spacious master bedroom, sitting up on his mattress. “What’s up? Everything okay?” he asks.

Kris’s heart actually aches at hearing Adam’s voice. He tells himself he’s just tired. Lonely. It hasn’t been the best of days. The ones with business meetings never are.

“Yeah, totally, I just—” After expecting to be speaking to Adam’s voicemail, he’s now entirely unsure of what to say. “Just wanted to check in with you, I guess.”

There’s a heavy pause on the other end of the line. “At three in the morning?”

“It’s two thirty-six.”

“Semantics.” Another pause. “Kris. You’re sure everything’s okay?”

Kris rubs his eyes with one hand and leans back into the counter on an elbow. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he says quietly. “I don’t even know why I’m calling. It’s stupid.”

“Kris.”

“Adam.”

“Kris. Seriously.”

“I’m fine, I swear,” he insists, even though he knows being defensive will just make Adam worry more. He drops his voice a few notches. “I just couldn’t sleep. Late night cappuccinos are the devil.” He tries to make his tone light, turn it into a joke.

That gets a huff of laughter from Adam, and he can practically hear him smiling through the phone.

“Adam. With the tour… Do you ever—” he starts, and the cuts himself off, not sure if he wants to finish the question.

But he doesn’t even have to ask.

“Miss it? Not really.”

His heart sinks. “Oh.”

“But I miss you,” Adam adds pointedly, and something warm spreads through Kris’s chest at the words.

“Yeah. I miss you too,” he mumbles, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“You free tomorrow?” Adam asks. “We can lunch at the Ivy. My treat.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Kris teases.

“Are you saying yes?”

“Only if you promise to hold my hand in front of the paps. You keep stealing my media thunder, Lambert. Guy’s gotta get attention somehow.”

“It’s a deal.”

After they hang up, Kris stands there, staring at his phone for a minute with a stupid grin on his face he can’t shake. Doesn’t want to shake. And when he goes to bed that night, and when he wakes up the next morning, it’s still there.

It’s fucking hot as balls somewhere between Cali and Utah when the bus breaks down, and it’s been broken down for almost an hour, but Adam hasn’t taken off his jacket, and Matt thinks it’s starting to get a little weird.

When Matt pointed the strangeness of this out to Anoop, Anoop said, “Dude, stop being such a freak,” and threw a hacky sack at his face. Which, okay, seriously, the nineties are over, man, who the fuck still plays with a hacky sack? What, is Anoop going to bust out Ace of Base next? Try and rope Matt into a game of Pogs? What the actual fuck?

The thing with Adam-- it’s weird. It’s just weird, and no one is going to convince Matt otherwise. Adam may be in love with his jackets—ohh, Skingraft this, Skingraft that, Matt is so fucking sick of hearing about fucking Skingraft all the time—but it’s like eighty-five degrees outside, and there’s no one around but them to admire his questionable fashion sense, so really: What the fuck is wrong with him?

Even Kris lets go of the beanie he’s been wearing non-stop since Portland, tucks it into his back jeans pocket as he attempts to style his fluffy hair with one hand. Adam is next to him, and he reaches over and ruffles a hand over Kris’s scalp, until Kris swats his him away and they’re both laughing.

How fucking perfect. The fucking bus is broken down and it’s fucking hot as fuck and Adam and Kris are having the goddamn time of their lives. It really fucking figures. The two of them had been the last to come out and stand on the side of the road with everyone else. Probably too fucking busy braiding each other’s hair and trading best friend bracelets or something.

He scowls at them. Fucking Kris and Adam, man. Peas in a fucking pod. Whenever he sees them together, there’s this, like, prickling sensation crawling up his skull. He kicks a stray pebble their way and walks over because Kris is his friend, too, okay, he can hang out with Kris whenever he feels like it, it’s not like he needs Adam’s permission or something.

“Heeeeeeeeeeey,” he says to Kris, pitching his voice high, in the way that makes Gokey laugh every time—except Kris and Adam are not Gokey, and Kris just smiles a little and Adam stares at him like he’s trying not to laugh. Except he’s pretty sure Adam wouldn’t be laughing with him.

“Hey, man,” Kris says, slipping on his sunglasses. Up close, there’s something weird about Kris’s mouth. Like. Not that Matt notices Kris’s mouth a lot or anything, but it’s kind of. Swollen. He’s not sure, maybe the heat is just making him see things, like people having mirages in the desert.

Kris and Matt make small talk for awhile while Adam plays on his phone—yeah, this sucks, man, dress rehearsal’s gonna be rushed, hope the mechanic finishes soon, et cetera et cetera.

And then Matt says, “It’s so hot out here, man,” and shoots a look at Adam. Adam does that thing where lifts one eyebrow, and that annoys Matt, because Matt totally can’t pull that off and it does look cool. He cocks his head to one side and says, “Hey, Adam, can I try on your jacket?”

“My jacket?” Adam echoes.

“Yeah, man, it’s fly as hell,” Matt says. “I’d love to see how that puppy feels.”

Adam and Kris trade a look he can’t read, but Adam shrugs off the jacket and hands it over, and then Matt looks at him in his black tank and. Wow. There are these weird marks on his chest. Like scratches. Or maybe bite marks? What the hell?

Before he can think on it too long, though, something hits him on the back of the head. He turns and looks down, sees a hacky sack near his feet, and looks up and sees Anoop, striding toward him.

“Come on, loser, they’re done. Get on the bus,” he calls.

Adam takes the jacket back from him and says, “Maybe next time,” with a smile that looks more like a dog baring its teeth.

Matt chucks the hacky sack back at Anoop—who catches it easily, the fucker—and watches Kris and Adam walk back to the bus, bumping shoulders. He thinks about Kris’s mouth and Adam’s chest and suddenly his stomach hurts.

Must be the heat.

Nothing brilliant, but I like having everything on my journal anyway, for posterity's sake.

random american idol fic stuff

buffyx — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 02:57:51 GMT

Here are a few random short AI/bandom fics I wrote for ontd_ai's Kink Meme challenge, and also for the anonymous email spams:

Like. Okay. The thing is, Allison totally didn’t mean to get a crush; it just happened. Like when you’re out at a restaurant with a buffet, and you’re not paying attention and accidentally scoop out way more mashed potatoes onto your plate than you mean to, but you can’t just put them BACK because it’s a BUFFET and other people are in line behind you, so you’re just like, “AHHHH MASHED POTATOES!” and have to deal with it.

Allison is dealing! Mostly! It’s just hard because Alisan is around, like, a lot, hanging out with Adam, and since Allison likes hanging out with Adam, it’s becoming sort of a problem.

It becomes a TOTAL problem after dinner one night, with Adam and Alisan and Kris and one of Adam’s other cool L.A. friends, some broody hipster blond boy with that my-style-is-artfully-arranged-in-a-messy-way look. Alisan sits next to Allison, and secretly giggles with her over sushi rolls about singing Janis Joplin and how ridiculous Adam is and oh my god, could Kris and Adam be flirting with each other any more? PROBABLY NOT.

Sometime between the drinks being served and the time Alisan leaves with blond hipster dude for a cigarette break, Allison is, like, totally crushing. It is ridiculous. It’s just. Alisan is so effortlessly cool it hurts. She lives this totally glamorous life, singing at cool clubs and partying with gorgeous fabulous gay men and rocking this amazing style that Allison could never replicate even with a team of stylists. She’s like ALTERNATE UNIVERSE ALLISON, if Allison was older and spelled her name in a funky way instead of the boring way her parents do.

When Alisan walks out for a smoke break, Allison watches her leave, watches her long fishnet-clad legs, the way her dark hair spills over her shoulders as she digs through her little clutch.

“Could you be more obvious, Alli?” Adam is smirking at her from across the table, and she throws a straw at him.

“Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lies, but she’s blushing, and now Kris is looking at her, a little confused.

“Wait, what?” he says. He looks to Adam. “Someone wanna clue me in?”

“Alli has the hots for Alisan,” Adam sing-songs. “She wants to kissssssssss her, she wants to—”

“OH MY GOD!” Allison throws her hands up in the air. “I am not! Like! You are so!” She’s too flustered to get a complete sentence out.

Kris says, “Don’t you think she’s kind of old for you, Al?”

And then Allison’s annoyed. Like, THANKS, DAD. She doesn’t need another fucking reminder of how young she is right now!

“YOU BOTH SUCK!” she declares, and flounces out of the restaurant, even though she was too busy talking to Alisan to eat most of her rolls and she’s totally starving, but a good exit is a good exit so whatever.

##

Alisan shares her cigarette with Allison and doesn’t give her shit for being too young, and she laughs at Allison’s jokes, and touches Allison’s arms and even plays with her hair and tells her how much she loves it.

“It’s so bold! In your face! Fierce!” Alisan says admiringly, her fingers rubbing some strands, and Allison is glad it’s too dark for the girl to see her blush.

“I love your hair,” she says, and Alisan smiles.

“We should hang out again,” she tells Allison. She pulls out her cell phone. “Let’s trade numbers, okay?”

Then it’s like Allison just swallowed a fuckload of butterflies, holy shit. She might actually puke, except she can’t, because that would just be dumb.

##

“You’re wearing that?”

Kris’s face is hilariously pale when Allison meets his eyes in the mirror. She turns around and cocks her hip to one side and plants a hand on it, like, yeah, what of it?

Allison looks hot right now and she knows it. She’s pulling out all of the stops for the party Alisan invited her to tonight. She’s got on this leather skirt and chunky heels and crazy bright red sparkly shirt that Adam helped her pick out.

“You like?” she asks, even though she can tell by Kris’s face that he is sooooo not comfortable with the amount of leg she is showing.

“Um, yeah,” he finally says. “I… like that glittery top.”

Adam pops his head into the room. “Are you two talking about me?”

And then Kris is laughing and the two of them start elbowing each other in that weird halfway gay manner that they do, but no one gives Allison any more shit for her outfit, so that’s a plus.

##

Every time Allison grabs a beer, Adam takes it away from her, which is kind of fucking annoying, but she knows he’s just looking out for her or whatever. At least he’s not trying to steer her clear of Alisan. She guesses he thinks it’s just a harmless crush that isn’t going anywhere. And he’s probably right.

But she does like the way she’s squished right next to Alisan on this couch in some West Hollywood apartment, their thighs touching, Alisan’s arm resting comfortably on Allison’s leg.

They’re watching Kris bounce around the room, owning everyone on Guitar Hero. He’s had a couple of beers and is adorably drunk at the moment. And then someone brings out the shots. Kris does one shot straight up, one shot off this weird ice slide thing someone set up on a table, and then he does the last shot off some shirtless gay guy’s stomach, and that’s when Adam drags him up off the floor and says they need to take him home.

“THIS IS HOME!” Kris yells drunkely. “HECK YEAH CALIFORNIA!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” He pumps both fists in the air, and everyone in the room cheers.

“Seriously, we need to get him back,” Adam says to Allison, while Kris hums the tune to The O.C.’s theme song. “We should go.”

Allison so does NOT want to leave yet. Alisan looks at her, and then at Adam, and says, “Hey, I can drive her.”

Adam hesitates. “Are you sure? There’s a curfew—”

“Relax, Adam, it’s FINE!” Allison tells him. She makes shooing motions with her hands. “Go take care of Arkansas over there. He’s humping the wall.”

Sure enough, Kris is actually flattened against the wall, singing “CALIFORNIAAAAAAAAAAA, HERE WE COOOOOOOOME,” arms outstretched and eyes closed, hips swaying side to side in some interpretative I-am-wasted-off-my-cute-ass dance.

“Okay, okay. I’m getting him out of here.” Adam leans down and smacks a kiss on top of Allison’s head. “Be safe, baby girl.” He looks at Alisan. “If anything happens to her… I know where you live.”

Alisan gives him a mock salute. “Duly noted.”

Adam hauls Kris out of the apartment (but not before Kris can turn to the room and shout, “I LOVE YOU ALL! GOODNIGHT!”), and then it’s just Allison and Alisan.

##

What exactly leads to them making out in Alisan’s car, Allison isn’t sure.

The party after Adam and Kris left was fun. Allison took a few sips of beer, but it tasted pretty crappy, and she played video games against Alisan and danced to some music someone blasted from the stereo and felt drunk without even being drunk. And then Alisan pulled her aside and said, “Shit, I gotta get you home, girl,” and so the two of them left.

At some point Alisan said, “I wish I'd been as cool as you when I was sixteen,” and that made Allison feel, like—she doesn’t even know. It made her feel really awesome.

“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “You are, like, the coolest person I have ever met, hands-down. No contest.”

And somehow that led to the kissing.

Allison hasn’t done a lot of kissing in her time. Even less with girls. There was this one girl—Sam—who she was friends with back in ninth grade. Sam had short pixie hair and big eyes and wore as much plaid as Kris does. One time she slept over in Sam’s basement and they played Truth or Dare and kind of made out. But it didn’t matter if Allison had realized then that OH SHIT I KIND OF LIKE GIRLS A LOT, because it was just a stupid game and Sam moved to, like, Nebraska or something two months later anyway.

Alisan’s mouth is soft and warm, and Allison likes the little breathy sounds she makes. They’re really pretty compared to boy noises. And Alisan keeps sweeping Allison’s hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears, and then she slides her hand down over Allison’s chest, and Allison is like, oh fuck, this is really happening, and she doesn’t even mean to, she just breaks away on instinct at the touch.

“Sorry,” Alisan says quickly, mouth quirking down in apology.

Allison shakes her head. “No! I mean. Don’t. I just. It’s kind of. Like. Late or whatever.” She looks at the clock. If she isn’t home in five minutes, her mother is going to ground her for fucking life.

Alisan drops her off and kisses her on the cheek, and Allison leans into it, a little, and says thank you, and Alisan says she’ll call, or text, or something, and Allison smiles and walks into the mansion feeling giddy and light on the inside. Like right after you’ve gone down a huge drop on a rollercoaster, and your stomach is still flipping a little, but the fear is gone and you’re just enjoying the feeling.

##

“People are going to have a really hard time smooshing your names on the internet,” Kris tells her when she comes in. Kris is still more than a little drunk, and Adam keeps bringing him glasses of water, like that’s going to help.

“What are you talking about?” she asks, nose wrinkled.

“Allison and Alisan.” Kris pauses. “It’d be, like—A-L-L-I-S-A-N. But it sounds the same, you know? ALLLISSSSSOOOOON. Very. Very. Confusing.”

“You are soooooo drunk,” Adam laughs, sitting next to him on the bed and ruffling Kris’s hair.

Allison giggles. “And still a good speller!”

"I love you Allison," Kris says. He blinks up at Adam. "I love you Adam. I love us. Tonight was good times. It was totally awesome. We are awesome. We are Kradison, and Kradison is awesome times awesome times awesome. Awesome to the third power. That's, like. Awesome cubed. Whoa."

Kris leans against Adam woozily, like into his neck, eyes drooping closed, and Adam smiles and pets the top of his head, and seriously, even with the whole Katy situation, those two need to resolve that sexual tension, like, yesterday.

“Okay, I am going to bed now,” Allison declares around a yawn. “Goodnight, guys.”

Adam’s mouth falls open. “Excuse me! We still need more details!”

“That is SERIOUSLY not happening.”

“I just gush because you’re so fresh together.”

“Well, I don’t kiss and tell, perv.”

She chucks a pillow at them both and leaves.

##

Right before she crawls under the bed covers and goes to sleep, she checks her phone one last time. Sure enough there’s a text from Alisan, quoting Janis.

i'll always be around if you ever want me

Allison closes her eyes and smiles.

/end

A/N: Written for ontd_ai's Kink Meme challenge. The prompt: allison femmeslash of some sort with bonus uncles!kradam. All I know about Alisan Porter is that she's friends with Adam, played Curly Sue in the movie, is an awesome singer and sang "Cry Baby," which Allison also sang on the show.

"on your knees," adam
says, pushing brendon down hard.
he complies. gladly.

##

"cheer up, emo kid,"
adam laughs, even with brendon's
cock in his sweet mouth.

impressive.

##

stars in adam's eyes
shine so bright, but that might be
brendon's weed talking.

/end

Frank is really surprised at how pretty Kris Allen is in person. Like, with Adam, it's a given-- no surprise there.

Gerard, of course, is all over Adam, babbling to him about comic books and makeup and clothes and astrology and who the fuck knows what else; so it leaves Frank and Kris in a corner, nursing beers, Frank trying to be subtle in his staring, because seriously. The guy is way good-looking.

Too bad Kris is married and not at all gay, except maybe a little for Adam, if those looks and the way they drape their arms around each other and make excuses to touch all the time is any indication. But that really doesn't even count, not for real, because everyone is a little gay for Adam Lambert.

It is a real shame though, because Frank is pretty sure Jamia wouldn't mind; her only complaint would be if he didn't let her join in.

But maybe Frank judged Kris wrong, because later that night when he goes out for a smoke, he sees Adam and Kris in the shadows, kissing, but kissing in that familiar way, like it can't be their first time. Maybe Kris is a more than a little gay, and maybe his wife is cool with it. Maybe Frank should ask Kris about it later, because if that's the case, he should totally have Kris give Katy Jamia's number so they can hang out. He bets they'd have a lot in common.

/end

Look at that, I finally wrote some bandom. Sort of.

friends cut

buffyx — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 07:09:42 GMT

I just did a significant friends cut. Mostly journals that have been abandoned, but some that are still active. If you were cut, I'm sorry, I promise it's nothing personal, I just felt we didn't share any common interests and I've had a hard time keeping up with my friends list lately. Sorry!

KRIS ALLEN, PLEASE TAKE ME TO PROM

buffyx — Sat, 30 May 2009 00:11:07 GMT

So likeserendipity and I just had the GREATEST conversation about what kind of boyfriend Kris Allen would be:

The conversation stemmed from these quotes that surfaced today:

On speculation that he and Adam Lambert painted their nails as a campaign to get a Kradam finale. (i.e. at the exclusion of Danny Gokey)
That's not what we were saying. This is what we were saying: There was this tabloid thing that came out about me and Adam, about how we don't get along because I'm this conservative kid from Arkansas and he's this L.A. liberal guy. Which, I could be nothing less than conservative. I'm just from Arkansas. And they were like, "He's cranky because he misses his wife and Adam's nail polish is all over the place and they can't get along." And we were like, "That's so stupid. That's the stupidest thing." We just didn't want people to think that we didn't get along. Because we're really great, great friends.

and:

On his frustration with Christians who wouldn't accept Adam Lambert.
There [were all these rumors] about how all the conservative, Christian people that would vote for me hate Adam and never want him to win because of who he is. Oh, it was so frustrating—really bad, because we are really good friends. Why can't everyone get along? It never made any sense for me to judge anyone, who they are. It frustrates me that people can't get along with people because of their differences. And I'll tell you what, especially Christians. Christians have a hard time accepting people like Adam—liberal, from L.A., looks different, maybe acts a certain way. He's a great, great guy. They don't even give him a chance. And it's frustrating because I come from that. A lot of my friends are not that way, which I appreciate, but a lot of people in Arkansas or in the South or wherever are that way. We really hope that our relationship can be an inspiration to people. I could go on about that forever.

likeserendipity: OMG TAKE ME TO PROM!!!!
buffyx: LOL SERIOUSLY
KRIS ALLEN PLEASE TAKE ME TO PROM
AND WRITE ME LOVE LETTERS
AND ASK ME TO "GO STEADY" BY PUTTING A TRAIL OF POST IT NOTES IN MY HOUSE LEADING TO MY BED COVERED WITH HERSHEY KISSES AND YOU SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF IT IN RIPPED JEANS AND A BEATLES T-SHIRT AND YOUR ADORABLE SMILE
likeserendipity: AND HAVE A CONDOM HIDDEN IN THE DRAWER BY THE BED "JUST IN CASE" -- NOT THAT YOU'RE PRESSURING ME OR ANYTHING, YOU'D NEVER!
AND PLAY A SPORT JUST SO I CAN WEAR YOUR LETTERMAN JACKET
AND THEN PIN ME
Sent at 6:03 PM on Friday
buffyx: WE CAN HAVE BARBECUE WITH YOUR AMAZING FAMILY
buffyx: IN YOUR BACKYARD
HE PROBABLY HAS A GOLDEN RETRIEVER TOO
GODDAMN HIM FOR BEING SO PERFECT.
HE HAS RUINED ME FOR ALL OTHER MEN
likeserendipity: HHAHAHAHAH
OMG YES
MAKING NICENESS SEEM AWESOME AND FABULOUS AND COOL
THE WAY IT SHOULD BE
UNLIKE THESE OTHER BOYS, WHO MAKE IT SEEM LAME
buffyx: KRIS ALLEN IS LIKE, "OH SURE I'LL PICK YOUR GRANDMA UP FROM THE AIRPORT. HOW ABOUT I PICK UP SOME MUFFINS AND BRING YOU BREAKFAST IN BED ON THE WAY BACK?"
likeserendipity: KRIS ALLEN IS LIKE, "WOW, YOU HAVE SWINE FLU? WELL, HOW ABOUT I SING YOU A SONG OVER THE PHONE AND MAKE SURE YOU GET TO SLEEP?"
buffyx: "SURE YOU CAN HOST A GIRLS NIGHT AT THE APARTMENT! WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO PICK UP SOME CHEX MIX? OHHHH I CAN MAKE YOU ALL ROOTBEER FLOATS!"
likeserendipity: "DO YOU WANT ME TO MAKE YOU SOME SOUP? I KNOW YOU HAVE A COLD. MY BIRTHDAY? NO, DON'T WORRY. IT WOULDN'T BE RIGHT IF YOU WEREN'T HAPPY, TOO."
buffyx: "OF COURSE I DON'T MIND IF YOU KEEP YOUR TAMPONS IN MY BATHROOM. I LOVE EVERY PART OF YOU"
likeserendipity: "A DRAWER? YOU KNOW YOU'RE WORTH MORE THAN THAT. HAVE I SHOWN YOU YOUR SIDE OF THE CLOSET?"
buffyx: "PLEASE, TELL ME MORE ABOUT YOUR PROBLEMS WITH YOUR ROOMMATE. I AM REALLY CONCERNED."
likeserendipity: "DID I EVER TELL YOU ABOUT HOW I LOVE WHEN YOU CONTROL THE TV AND MAKE ME WATCH ALL OF YOUR FAVORITE BUFFY EPISODES? BECAUSE I DO."
buffyx: "OF COURSE I DON'T MIND THAT YOU FLOODED MY TIVO WITH EPISODES OF PROJECT RUNWAY. IN FACT LET'S WATCH TOGETHER. YOU KNOW I LOVE ME SOME TIM GUNN."
buffyx: "WE SHOULD TOTALLY GO SEE THAT MOVIE. AN ENTIRE HOTEL FOR DOGS??? I AM SO THERE!" [yes I stole this from ryan gosling’s “twitter”]
likeserendipity: "WHEN YOU'RE SAY YOU'RE 'NOT IN THE MOOD TONIGHT,' I NEVER TAKE IT PERSONALLY! I JUST WISH THERE WAS MORE I COULD DO TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER!"
buffyx: "OF COURSE I WOULD RATHER WATCH RERUNS OF SEX & THE CITY THAN GO OUT WITH BOYS. DO YOU WANT ME TO PICK UP SOME TWIZZLERS? I KNOW THEY'RE YOUR FAVORITE."
likeserendipity: "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T KNOW I COULD BAKE? LET ME MAKE YOU A CAKE AND SOME BROWNIES ON THE SIDE RIGHT NOW. ALSO, I GRILL A MEAN STEAK."
buffyx: "HOPE YOU DON'T MIND YOUR BRAKES SOUNDED KIND OF FUNNY SO I ADDED MORE STEERING FLUID TO YOUR CAR. AND TOOK IT IN FOR A WASH. THEY THREW IN A PINE SCENTED FRESHNER! BUT THE NEW MIX CD OF LOVE SONGS IN YOUR PLAYER WAS MY DOING. GUILTY AS CHARGED."
buffyx: "OH HEY I REMEMBER THAT ONE TIME ON OUR THIRD DATE YOU MENTIONED OFFHAND HOW MUCH YOU LOVED NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK WHEN YOU WERE A KID, SO I BOUGHT YOU FRONT ROW TICKETS AND A BACKSTAGE PASS FOR THE REUNION TOUR"
likeserendipity: "IS IT WEIRD THAT I FEEL LIKE I CAN TOTALLY TRUST YOU? I DON'T GET THAT WHOLE BROODY GUY THING GIRLS LIKE SO MUCH. MAYBE THAT'S WHY NONE OF THEM COME AFTER ME."
buffyx: "I KNOW I'M SUPPOSED TO WAIT THREE DAYS ACCORDING TO THE 'RULES,' BUT I COULDN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU AFTER OUR FIRST DATE. CAN I TAKE YOU BOWLING TOMORROW NIGHT?"
likeserendipity: "I KNOW IT'S SORT OF DORKY, BUT I SEARCHED FOR ALL THE SONGS THAT MENTION YOUR NAME. THEY WERE ALL DOWNLOADED ILLEGALLY, THOUGH, IF THAT BOTHERS YOU. I'M SORRY, IT'S JUST KIND OF MY ONLY VICE."
buffyx: "I BOUGHT YOU THIS LAMP BECAUSE IT REMINDED ME OF YOU. YOU BOTH LIGHT UP THE ROOM. AND MY HEART."
likeserendipity: "DO YOU MIND IF I CRASH HERE THE NIGHT? THE RAIN'S POURING KIND OF HARD AND I FEEL SAFER WITH YOU, ANYWAY."
buffyx: "I'M SORRY WE CAN'T GO OUT THIS WEEKEND, I'M VOLUNTEERING AT THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL AND SINGING SONGS FOR KIDS WITH CANCER."
likeserendipity: "OF COURSE YOU CAN COME WATCH ME SING, IT'S JUST THAT... WELL... SOMETIMES I CRY. I CAN'T HELP IT. IT JUST MAKES ME SO SAD TO KNOW THAT I'VE BEEN BLESSED WITH THIS LIFE AND THEY HAVEN'T."
buffyx: "IF WE GO TO LONDON CAN WE POSE LIKE THE BEATLES ON ABBEY ROAD? I KNOW IT'S CLICHE AND TOURISTY, BUT IT'S SORT OF A LIFELONG DREAM OF MINE.'
likeserendipity: "I HAVE VINYL RECORDS. DO YOU WANT SOME?"
buffyx: "I BUY CASSETTE TAPES FROM GARAGE SALES BECAUSE IT HURTS MY SOUL TO KNOW MUSIC OUT THERE WON'T BE PLAYED ANYMORE."
likeserendipity: "I KNOW THINGS LIKE THIS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE A SURPRISE, BUT SINCE YOU HAD SUCH A SHITTY DAY AT WORK, I THINK NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO TELL YOU THAT I HIRED YOUR FAVORITE BAND TO PLAY AT OUR WEDDING."
buffyx: "I CAN THINK OF NO BETTER WAY TO SPEND SATURDAY NIGHT THAN TAKING YOUR LITTLE SISTER TO THAT JONAS BROTHERS CONCERT!"
likeserendipity: "DON'T TELL ANYONE I KNOW ALL THE WORDS!"
buffyx: "OOPS, YES, THAT IS A TAYLOR SWIFT CD PLAYING IN MY CAR. I JUST REALLY LIKE HOW EARNEST HER LYRICS ARE."
likeserendipity: "THANKS FOR HOLDING ME UP THAT ONE TIME WE MET MILEY CYRUS AND I ALMOST FAINTED."
buffyx: "I AGREE, CORY AND TOPANGA'S LOVE JUST CANNOT BE MATCHED. I CRIED WHEN THEY GOT MARRIED. AND SHAWN HUNTER IS A GOOD KID, JUST TROUBLED. I'M GLAD HE HAD MR. FEENY LOOKING OUT FOR HIM."
"WOULD YOU PLEASE BETA MY BOY MEETS WORLD FANFIC FOR ME? EVERYONE ON FANFIC.NET SEEMS TO LIKE IT, BUT I TRUST YOUR OPINION THE MOST."
buffyx: "I HATE THESE GIRLS GONE WILD COMMERCIALS. IT'S SO DISRESPECTFUL TO WOMEN. CAN WE WATCH SOMETHING MORE FEMALE EMPOWERING?"
likeserendipity: "MY FAVORITE AUTHOR IS MAGGY ATWOOD --- BUT I DON'T KNOW IF YOU'VE EVER HEARD OF HER."
buffyx: "WHEN I REALLY NEED A GOOD CRY, I LIKE TO READ MAYA ANGELOU POETRY."
likeserendipity: "I TOTALLY PROTESTED JD SALINGER BEING ON MY BOOK LIST IN HIGH SCHOOL. I MUCH PREFERRED ANIMAL FARM OR T O KILL A MOCKINGBIRD OR SOMETHING MORE SOCIALLY AWARE. OH, I NEVER TOLD YOU I LIKE TO TALK POLITICS?"
buffyx: "I REALLY DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY ISRAEL AND PALESTINE CAN'T GET ALONG. I FEEL LIKE IF WE COULD GET THEM TO HAVE A BIG GROUP HUG, IT WOULD SOLVE THE MIDDLE EAST CONFLICT IN A HEARTBEAT. HUGS ARE MEDICINE FOR THE WORLD!"
likeserendipity: "SOMETIMES, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, I ROLL OVER AND HUG YOU. I LOVE YOU."
buffyx: "IN THE MORNING I LIKE TO TURN OVER AND TOUCH YOUR SHOULDER JUST TO MAKE SURE YOU'RE REAL. BECAUSE BEING WITH YOU IS LIKE THE BEST DREAM I COULD EVER HAVE."
buffyx: "YES I OWN THE NOTEBOOK. I'D LOVE TO WATCH IT WITH YOU. LET ME MAKE A QUICK RUN TO WALMART TO STOCK UP ON KLEENEX FIRST, THOUGH."
likeserendipity: "WHEN RYAN AND RACHEL BROKE UP, I THOUGHT THE WORLD MIGHT END."
likeserendipity: "I REALIZED I WANTED TO MARRY YOU WHEN YOU WALKED OUT OF MY BATHROOM WITH THOSE THINGS FOR YOUR PORES ON YOUR FACE."
buffyx: "I'D REALLY LIKE TO LIE WITH YOU AND LISTEN TO THIS BEATLES RECORD. IT CHANGED MY LIFE. ALMOST AS MUCH AS MEETING YOU DID."
likeserendipity: "I CHANGED MY MAJOR AFTER WE MET BECAUSE, SUDDENLY, MATHEMATICS DIDN'T MAKE AS MUCH SENSE AS YOU."
buffyx: "I KNOW MY STUFFED ANIMAL COLLECTION IS KIND OF RIDICULOUS, BUT I PICK THEM UP FROM DUMPSTERS AND THE SIDE OF THE ROAD BECAUSE I CAN'T STAND THE IDEA OF THEM NOT BEING LOVED."
likeserendipity: "I'M COMFORTABLE ENOUGH WITH MY SEXUALITY TO WEAR PINK. I HOPE THAT DOESN'T BOTHER YOU."
likeserendipity: "IF MY FRIENDS GIVE YOU WEIRD LOOKS, IT'S NOT YOU. IT'S JUST THAT I TALK ABOUT YOU A LOT. THEY SAY I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU. PSH. WHAT A CRAZY IDEA, RIGHT? WHERE'D THEY GET THAT FROM?"
buffyx: "HEY GIRL I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU LOVE THE FRAY SO I BOUGHT THIS JUKEBOX AND LOADED IT WITH ALL FRAY SONGS FOR YOU"
likeserendipity: "MAYBE IT'S LAME, BUT I LIKE DRESSING UP FOR HALLOWEEN. THIS YEAR, WOULD IT BE OKAY IF YOU PICKED MY COSTUME? I WOULDN'T MIND IF WE MATCHED. FOR THE RECORD."
buffyx: "OH, I DON'T GO TO HALLOWEEN PARTIES. I REALLY ENJOY GIVING OUT CANDY. THE JOY ON CHILDREN'S FACES IS THE BEST GIFT ANYONE CAN GIVE. OR RECEIVE."
likeserendipity: "YOU'RE THE CUTEST EATER I'VE EVER MET. ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU TEAR INTO A CHEESEBURGER. MMM."
buffyx: "THANKS FOR SAVING ME THE PICKLES, YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE THEM."
likeserendipity: "I KNOW HOW YOU HATE DUST, SO I MADE SURE TO CLEAN MY HOUSE WITH AS MANY CLEANING SUPPLIES AS POSSIBLE BEFORE YOU CAME OVER TODAY."
buffyx: "IT WAS NO CHORE. I REALLY LOVE CLEANING! IT MAKES EVERYTHING SMELL LIKE LEMONS!"
likeserendipity: "OKAY, I HAVE TO CONFESS: I BORROWED YOUR PERFUME TO SPRAY IT AROUND MY BEDROOM. I LIKE THE IDEA THAT YOU'RE ALWAYS THERE WITH ME."
buffyx: "I MADE GEORGE HARRISON'S 'SOMETHING' MY RINGTONE FOR YOU BECAUSE IT SO DEEPLY REPRESENTS MY FEELINGS FOR YOU"
likeserendipity: "BUT THAT WAS ONLY AFTER I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED MY PREVIOUS RINGTONE - A CLIP OF YOU LAUGHING"
likeserendipity: "THAT TIME WE SAT UP ALL NIGHT AND MADE UP CHUCK NORRIS JOKES MIGHT HAVE BEEN ONE OF THE BEST NIGHTS OF MY LIFE."
buffyx: "YOU LOOK SO SEXY WHEN YOU SLEEP IN MY GAP T-SHIRTS."
likeserendipity: "I'M SORRY I DIDN'T TELL YOU YOUR FAVORITE JEANS HAD A HOLE IN THE BACK. IT WAS JUST SO ADORABLE HOW YOU DIDN'T SEEM TO NOTICE."
buffyx: "REMEMBER THAT TIME WE DID NOTHING BUT QUOTE MATCHBOX TWENTY LYRICS AT EACH OTHER FOR LIKE AN HOUR? I LOVED THAT. "
likeserendipity: "WOULD YOU KILL ME IF I TRIED TO SING TO YOU AT OUR WEDDING RECEPTION? IT'S JUST THAT THE BEGINNING OF A NEW SONG CAME AT ME WHILE WATCHING YOU SLEEP AND IT WOULDN'T LEAVE ME ALONE."
buffyx: "THAT TIME WE RAN THROUGH THE RAIN AND KISSED WHILE WE WERE LAUGHING AFTER THAT RYAN ADAMS CONCERT WAS ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL MOMENTS OF MY LIFE"
likeserendipity: "I'M SORRY I WOULDN'T MAKE OUT WITH YOU ON MY COUCH, IT'S JUST THAT MY MOM WAS IN THE NEXT ROOM. I'M SORT OF LOST IN SITUATIONS LIKE THESE."
buffyx: "DID YOU SEE THAT NOTE I WROTE WITH MY FINGERS ON THE MIRROR AFTER YOU TOOK A SHOWER? IT'S TRUE, I REALLY DO LOVE YOU FOREVER."
likeserendipity: "EVEN THOUGH I HATE WRITING IN ACRONYMS AND ABBREVIATIONS, I KNOW YOU DON'T HAVE FREE TEXTING AND DIDN'T WANT YOUR BILL TO BE CRAZY."
buffyx: "I ONLY PUT YOU IN MY TOP 8 ON MYSPACE BECAUSE NO ONE ELSE COMPARES."
likeserendipity: "MY FIRST THOUGHT AFTER OUR DATE ENDED WAS WHETHER YOU'D THINK I WAS CLINGY IF I RAN HOME AND CHANGED MY FACEBOOK RELATIONSHIP STATUS."
buffyx: "THANKS FOR NOT MAKING FUN OF ME THAT ONE TIME I SANG 'WALKING ON SUNSHINE' IN THE MIDDLE OF TARGET. I JUST GOT REALLY EXCITED TO SEE THEY HAD MOUNTAIN DEW ON SALE."
likeserendipity: "IT'S NOT THAT I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES OR ANYTHING. I JUST REALLY LIKE THAT NATASHA BEDINGFIELD SONG. HONEST."
buffyx: "I NEVER KNEW WHAT JOURNEY WAS SINGING ABOUT IN 'OPEN ARMS.' AND... NOW I KNOW."
likeserendipity: "THANKS FOR NOT CORRECTING ME EVERY TIME I SPELL SOMETHING WRONG ON GCHAT. IT'S JUST MY DAMN FINGERS TYPING TOO FAST. IT'S JUST THAT I WANT TO GET THE WORDS TO YOU AS SOON AS POSSIBLE."
buffyx: "I THINK GOOD GRAMMAR IS A REALLY IMPORTANT QUALITY. IT SAYS SO MUCH ABOUT A PERSON."
likeserendipity: "EVEN IF I'M HAVING A SHITTY DAY AND MAKE MYSELF INVISIBLE ON IM, I ALWAYS MAKE SURE TO WRITE TO YOU IF YOU'RE ONLINE."
likeserendipity: "I WON MY SCHOOL SPELLING BEE TWELVE YEARS IN A ROW. I CRIED WHEN I DIDN'T MAKE IT TO NATIONALS!"
buffyx: "BUT THAT'S OKAY. THE KID WHO BEAT ME REALLY DESERVED IT."
"MALFEASANCE IS HARD TO SPELL, AND HE NAILED IT. WELL DONE."
likeserendipity: "WOULD IT BE COOL IF I INVITE HIM TO OUR WEDDING? I FEEL LIKE HE'S TAUGHT ME SO MUCH."
likeserendipity: "DON'T TELL ANYONE, BUT I ACTUALLY ASKED GOD TO LET THE BETTER GUY WIN. PRAYER WORKS."
buffyx: "I LIKE LISTENING TO NPR WHILE I GET READY IN THE MORNINGS. AND THE 'THIS AMERICAN LIFE' PODCAST IS SO GREAT. IRA GLASS IS A TRUE GEM."
likeserendipity: "I NEVER DOUBTED MY RELIGION BEFORE, BUT WHEN THE PHONE RANG FIVE TIMES WHEN I CALLED YOU THE FIRST TIME AFTER GETTING YOUR NUMBER, I CAN'T LIE, I GOT A LITTLE NERVOUS."
buffyx: "I ALWAYS GIVE MY TOAST CRUSTS TO MY DOG. I CAN'T HELP IT! HIS PUPPY EYES ARE TOO CUTE FOR ME TO RESIST."
likeserendipity: "I LOVE COOKING BREAKFAST FOR YOU. YOU'RE JUST SO CUTE WITH YOUR BED HAIR. HOW CAN I NOT WANT TO SEE YOU SMILE?"
buffyx: "EVERY TIME I WAKE UP AND SEE YOU IN MY BED IT'S LIKE CHRISTMAS MORNING."
"I'M RALPH AND YOU'RE THE RED RYDER BB GUN."
likeserendipity: "I'M GLAD YOU DON'T THINK IT'S DORKY WHEN I LISTEN TO MY RAP ALBUM AND SELF-CENSOR MYSELF."
buffyx: "SORRY I DIDN'T BUY YOU SOMETHING BETTER BUT I GAVE ALL MY MONEY TO THOSE SANTA GUYS WHO RING THE BELLS FOR THE SALVATION ARMY. IT MAKES THEM SO HAPPY!"
likeserendipity: "I STARTED A SAVINGS ACCOUNT FOR YOUR LITTLE SISTER. I WANT BOTH OF YOU TO KNOW SHE'LL ALWAYS BE TAKEN CARE OF."
buffyx: "I LOVE HANGING OUT WITH YOUR MOM. SHE IS SUCH A COOL LADY."
likeserendipity: "I KNOW YOU'LL GROW UP TO BE JUST AS BEAUTIFUL AS HER. YOU HAVE SUCH GOOD GENES."
buffyx: "MEETING CHILDREN DURING MY MISSIONARY WORK IN BURMA JUST MADE IT CLEAR TO ME HOW MUCH I CAN'T STAND THE SUFFERING IN THE WORLD. AND THEN I SAW THE GORGEOUS SUNSET FROM MOUNT POPA AND REALIZED HOW MUCH BEAUTY THERE IS TOO."
likeserendipity: "OH MY GOD IS THAT SHAKIRA? PLEASE TELL ME YOU'LL DANCE WITH ME TO THIS. JUST ONCE!"
buffyx: "HEY I KNOW IT'S TWO IN THE MORNING BUT DO YOU WANT TO GO TO WENDY'S? I HAVE A MAJOR FROSTY CRAVING"
"WE CAN CONTINUE THIS DISCUSSION ABOUT WHETHER LINDSAY LOHAN WILL BE ABLE TO TURN HER LIFE AROUND OR NOT IN THE CAR. I'M TELLING YOU, I THINK THE GIRL IS GOING TO SURPRISE EVERYONE."

Y'ALL JUST THE PILGRIMS.

WE JUST FELT EACH OTHER'S ENERGY, AND IT WAS NICE.

buffyx — Mon, 25 May 2009 04:30:25 GMT

Haha, okay, so I threatened blahblahologist that I would make this post, and now I am.

The Epic KRADAM Bromance Guide For Idiots
(© tnmisery)

Let's start off with some background info on both of them. First up:

Kris Allen
He's Kristopher Columbus, y'all just the pilgrims.

"I'm that laid back guy. I stick my head behind everyone else and every once in awhile peek out and say, 'Hello!'" - Kris

Kris is 23, from Arkansas, and plays the piano, the guitar, and the viola. Possibly more instruments than that, I'm not sure. He's done missionary work in Burma, Mozambique, South Africa, Spain and Thailand, and recently married his high school girlfriend, Katy, but pretty much the second they got back from their honeymoon, he was flying off to Hollywood for the show. He is tiny-- shorter than Ryan Seacrest, even-- and has thus been dubbed the Pocket Idol.

Kris has a sort of Andrew McMahon/early Matchbox Twenty/John Mayer vibe I adore. And he makes the greatest faces:

(This is afer Simon said the finale was going to be a "big ding dong." Hahaha, wtf???)

And he's just plain.. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. LOVE.

(AGAIN, YES, THAT IS ADAM AT THE END OF THIS GIF. THESE BOYS TOUCH EACH OTHER. A LOT.)

Anyway, coming into the show, he had nearly zero facetime until the Top 36. Then he sang Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror." Even with no sob story or previous camera time, he made it into the Top 13. He was basically set up as canon fodder, but somehow kept making it week after week. Probably because he is KICK AWESOME (yes, he has used that phrase before).

I think his breakout performance was his cover of Ain't No Sunshine, which is freaking amazing:

Yeah. (This is actually his reprise of it from the top two night, since I can't find an embedded video of the original.)

For movie theme night, like three people did lame Bryan Adams songs and all this boring shit, and then Kris broke it out with "Falling Slowly" from the film Once. I love his studio recording of this, so here you go:

He kiiiilled it. Fun facts: Apparently he watched the movie like three times that week to prepare himself (lol ~METHOD SINGING~), and after his performance, Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová (the original singers) sent him a fruit basket and a letter or some shit because they loved him that much.

At that point, it was obvious Kris wasn't working out to the show's plan for him (ie: GET KICKED OFF EARLY SO THEIR CHOSEN ONES CAN STICK AROUND).

Which segues into our next subject.

THE NUMBER ONE VILLAIN OF THIS SEASON WAS:

DANNY G(TF)OKEY

Every tv show needs an antagonist, and while I am sure Danny Gokey is not an evil, soulless, horrible person, he fit the role perfectly. And he does happen to be a socially awkward, self-important DOUCHEBAG.

Normally I would feel bad about calling someone whose wife just died a douchebag, but his douchiness is so extreme that it outweighs any sympathy I have. Plus, his voice is not that great. He has no musical curiosity. He questionably exploited his wife's death to get on the show and get votes. On a shallow note, he looks like an uglier, chubbier Robert Downey Jr.

Worst of all, he thinks he can "save people" through his music-- and not even in the Pete Wentz way, but in the "I'm an instrument of God" kind of way. He sang shit like "Jesus Takes The Wheel" and belongs to an evangelical church that is possibly also a cult?? I don't even know. But he's really pushy about it and brings it up in interviews, so of course he garnered a fanbase of right-wing nutcases.

Anyway, the judges sucked his dick all season, for reasons I don't really understand, because he wasn't that great and every song he sang sounded the same, and he is so far from anything relevant in today's music scene. So, you know, WHATEVER.

What really made me hate him though is his clear disapproval for Adam Lambert (yeah, we'll get to that later). There was a video clip of him and Michael Sarver, who ties for gold medalist in the AI DOUCHEBAG OLYMPICS this year, talking about how they love each other, then quickly saying, "BUT IN THE RIGHT WAY. THE GODLY WAY." And Adam was quoted as saying that him and Danny had to "agree to disagree" on most things. ALL SIGNS POINT TO DANNY BEING A SMUG, JUDGMENTAL PRICK.

He also butchered my favorite Aerosmith song, "Dream On," in epic proportions with this animal-like scream at the end. And the judges STILL sucked his dick. And he did a duet on "Renegade" with Kris during the Top 4 week, and was horrible and trying really obviously to outsing Kris, and the judges sucked his dick again, and Kris was pissed. When Simon told Kris that Danny did better on the duet, he made this face:

KRIS ALLEN KNOWS WHAT IS UP AND DOES NOT APPROVE OF THIS FUCKERY.

Somehow Danny inexplicably survived, and in the process led to the booting of Allison Iraheta, who is so awesome and adorable there are not even words. She's said in various interviews that she, Kris and Adam were like "two bros and a sis," and it's clear that the three of them are very close. So as you can see, Gokey outlasting her in the competition was rage blackout-inducing on many, many levels.

However, the night after Rock Week performances, when Kris was announced the first to go through to the top three, his reaction was this:

ADORABLE, no?? (And yes, that is Adam he faceplant hugs.)

Top Three week had more blatant attempts by the judges to send Kris home, but then for his second song, he pulled this out of his ass and it was FANTASTIC:

YEAH, KRIS ALLEN JUST BITCHSLAPPED KANYE WEST WITH HIS OWN SONG. HATERS TO THE LEFT.

So DESPITE THE JUDGES' ATTEMPTS, Kris beat Danny to the final two. It was the most glorious moment of television this year. I literally screamed for two minutes straight.

Oh, and if that wasn't enough to make you hate him, after being eliminated, Danny did interviews saying that Kris would win because he got Danny's fanbase, and Danny would've won against Adam because he would've gotten Kris's fanbase, the implication being that NONE OF THEM WOULD VOTE FOR THE SINNER THAT IS ADAM LAMBERT.

And he said shit like this:

When I’m on tour, I want to be able to give the vision of Sophia’s Heart Foundation to my employees, to the workers of my company. And I want them to implement that vision and take the necessary steps to make that vision come to pass. They’ll do all the leg work, do all the writing, do all the meetings, hopefully. And then I want to work on my album. I want to work on writing my own songs, and then coming up with the plan to attack, and I can work on the album at the same time. Because you see, if you put the right people in the right place it will work, because I carry the vision, but I can’t implement the vision. I don’t have enough time. But if they can implement it, I can just spread the word, and they take it from there. Someone else can accomplish my vision for the foundation, but nobody can be me on the stage. I can’t have someone else sing my songs and be me.

Um, OKAY.

Did I mention his pastor told everyone on Twitter to vote for "the believer," ie, Kris? DOUCHEBAG.

I'm pretty sure EVERYONE AGREES, because during the Larry King Live interview with the top 13 contestants, when Danny said that he'd predicted Kris would win because of the "shared fanbase" thing, Kris muttered, "You jerk," into his coffee mug, and it was hilarious, because you could tell he probably meant it (even though he did say "just kidding" right afterward). EVERYONE HATES DANNY GOKEY.

To sum up, my reaction to Danny Gokey's existence is as follows:

NOW, ONTO BETTER THINGS. NAMELY:

Adam Lambert
Bow down and suck his dick because he probably ejaculates glitter or some shit I don't know.

"You guys, I think someone put drugs in this weed"
- Adam
(ACTUAL QUOTE)

Adam Lambert is fabulous. I know way less about him than Kris Allen, because Kris is my favorite. Adam does the glam rock thing for the most part, and his performances are hit or miss for me personally, but he's pretty fucking fierce, and that cannot be denied. He's 6'2". He has real life anime hair. Oh, and he's totally gay, if that wasn't obvious.

One of the greatest things to ever happen to the internet was Adam's personal MySpace. He wrote some really hilarious "dark" poetry:

Dawn.

The ink of night slow dances with muddled fire.

Jagged mountian tops in a breathy mauve peak out of vague camouflage.

A crow moans in horny recovery. Rubbing a last one out amid coconut ghosts and spiderwebs.

This alley cat block still a mystery to me.

On the roof. Seeking proof.

His brother Neil is fucking hilarious. He commented on Adam's Myspace with the following in reaction to this picture:

I see you've reached the stage of your life where you pose topless for Myspace.
I see you've also reached the stage of your life where you do daily Crisco rubdowns.
Sorry about your life.

And he made a post on some forum confirming the gay rumors:

Adam's father also commented on his Myspace saying, How come every time you come over I don't have any vodka left? And his mother apparently wanted him to make more weed butter for her cooking. Basically, the Lambert family is insanely awesome.

As far as the music goes: My favorite performance of his was his version of Mad World. It was pretty stunning. The studio version:

NOW FOR THE REAL REASON I AM MAKING THIS POST:

~KRADAM~
Like a homoerotic Lifetime movie or some shit I don't know

Kris and Adam were roommates from the beginning in the ~Idol Mansion~.

They did "video confessionals" like they do on The Real World. Kris and Adam talked about each other in theirs.

Kris Confessional:

Adam Confessional:

Adam's bidet story is hilarious. And you can tell how much they liked each other from the start.

They had a BUDDING BROMANCE all season long that was fabulous to witness. ALLOW ME TO JUST SPAM YOU WITH MORE GIFS AND JPEGS.

(The reporter just asked if they had made "a secret pact." He was referring to them saying they weren't going to compete against each other, but Kris's WTF face is priceless.)

And, okay, THERE'S THE NAIL POLISH STORY:

According to (friend of the Allen family) Megan Malone, Adam painted Kris's thumbnail after the homecoming visits and removed the polish from one of his own nails, stating 'If you can carry around a piece of me, man, I can do the same for you.' Malone said, 'The Allens believe Kris wears the black fingernail polish in support of Adam because he wanted Adam in the finale. Also, Kris wanted to dispel any rumors claiming the two weren’t great friends.' Kris and Adam were roommates in the Idol Mansion throughout their stay."

“Kristopher painted one fingernail, or I actually think Adam painted it for him. I can’t physically imagine Kristopher painting his fingernail, but he did have one fingernail painted and Adam had one fingernail unpainted. And so it was a little of Kristopher with Adam and a little of Adam came to Arkansas with Kristopher. I thought that was really cool.” -- Mama Allen

Like I said to blahblahologist: TELL ME THAT IS NOT THE GAYEST THING YOU HAVE EVER HEARD.

Their families also are BFFs, their mothers especially. Kris's mom went to Adam's mom's birthday party! They spent the same amount of hours in labor (lololol, what a random thing to reveal, Mama Allen)! Adam's mom says Kris's mom was the only one she was close to, and the night of the finale they all went to dinner and rode in the limo together! They both talk about how their friendship will last for life! IT IS THE SWEETEST THING.

More proof on how awesome Kris's parents are:

Okay, so being from Little Rock definitely has its perks. My mom heard from a lady who's niece is good friends with Katy (Kris' wife) that Adam approached Kris' dad and complimented him on "how he raised him" saying: "He's the only Christian I've met that hasn't judged me." and that he "genuinely loves and accepts me for who I am." Of course I'm only hearing this through the grapevine, but I totally believe it.

♥ ♥ ♥

They made the greatest Top Two ever. You could tell they were having a blast. Like during their duet of "We Are The Champions" with Queen:

"We were roommates, and looking at him across the way singing the lyric 'We are the champions,' I felt very connected to him at that moment. It was the perfect symbolic ending to this whole journey and it really felt like it put the period at the end of the sentence." -- Adam, Rolling Stone

And when Kris won, both of their reactions were adorable:

One of the first things Kris said after he won (after "ARE YOU FREAKING SERIOUS?!") was, "Adam deserves this." HOW IS HE SO HEARTBREAKINGLY HUMBLE ALL OF THE TIME. IT KILLS ME.

Their interviews after the finale had some wonderful gems, too. Like when in the immediate post-finale press conference, a reporter asked them which one looked better naked.

Adam responded with: "We don't get naked together. Not like that." It was amusing, to say the least.

But seriously. They both are SO CLASSY AND AWESOME AND SUCH BFFs, IT IS TOO AMAZING TO HANDLE.

"To go through all of this - with HIM - has been the best part" - Kris (on Adam)

"For me, I feel like I relate to a lot of people. And we got to be roommates. It was just like this closeness, you know? I don't know what happened. I think we just felt each other's energy, and it was nice. It just became this really good friendship. Yeah, I adore the guy. I think he's a really great guy. I'm proud of him." - Kris

"We are seemingly so different, but we found a way to get along and find a common bond, mostly through music, but also just through talking and getting to know each other. And if there's anything that can come from this experience that I hope all the fans out there can pick up is that even if you're really different, there's a way to get along with each other. It's not about, 'You beat me because of this.' Or, you're different. It's about finding the common stuff that makes it work. We got out there and did the Queen duet and we made it work because we found a common ground with each other. If there's anything we can take from this, it's bringing you guys together is what our goal was, not separating you." - Adam

"I would hope that in society today that people would accept Adam just as much as they would accept me. You know, that's kind of what the world is about: accepting people and loving people. I hope that that's what me and Adam's friendship has shown people, that no matter how different you are, that you can still love people and be friends with them." - Kris

"I support him 100%. I think he's so talented, and even more than that, I think he's a really good person." - Adam

"We love each other, and we have a great friendship." - Kris

"I said, 'You know, no matter what happens, I'll be your friend for life.'" - Adam

And now for possibly my favorite moment of theirs, THE TACKLEHUG:

It looks like this was the first time Kris was seeing Adam again after his win, and I just love how he flings himself at him. And Adam's face as he says congratulations, and asking him if he's dizzy tired, and Kris is just all !!!!!, I don't know, I love it. They hug like three times in fifteen seconds. So adorable. THOSE BOYS.

Here is hoping the EPIC BROMANCE continues, even though the show is over. SIGNS SO FAR POINT TO YES:

When asked who will get the top and bottom bunks in the AI tour bus:

Adam: I like the top.
Kris: ...
[both laugh]
Adam: That was inappropriate.
Kris: That was good, that was good.

Swapping t-shirts on Ellen:

And from an article about their joint Today Show appearance:

All battle talk aside, the guys legitimately seem to like and support each other. While Kris warmed up, Adam stopped signing autographs, so he could watch (and groove). Kris clearly made googly eyes back at Adam ("in the godly way," as Danny Gokey might say). Later, while Adam crooned "Mad World," Kris strummed his guitar and sang along backstage.

Video evidence:

On speculation that he and Adam Lambert painted their nails as a campaign to get a Kradam finale. (i.e. at the exclusion of Danny Gokey)
That's not what we were saying. This is what we were saying: There was this tabloid thing that came out about me and Adam, about how we don't get along because I'm this conservative kid from Arkansas and he's this L.A. liberal guy. Which, I could be nothing less than conservative. I'm just from Arkansas. And they were like, "He's cranky because he misses his wife and Adam's nail polish is all over the place and they can't get along." And we were like, "That's so stupid. That's the stupidest thing." We just didn't want people to think that we didn't get along. Because we're really great, great friends.

and:

On his frustration with Christians who wouldn't accept Adam Lambert.
There [were all these rumors] about how all the conservative, Christian people that would vote for me hate Adam and never want him to win because of who he is. Oh, it was so frustrating—really bad, because we are really good friends. Why can't everyone get along? It never made any sense for me to judge anyone, who they are. It frustrates me that people can't get along with people because of their differences. And I'll tell you what, especially Christians. Christians have a hard time accepting people like Adam—liberal, from L.A., looks different, maybe acts a certain way. He's a great, great guy. They don't even give him a chance. And it's frustrating because I come from that. A lot of my friends are not that way, which I appreciate, but a lot of people in Arkansas or in the South or wherever are that way. We really hope that our relationship can be an inspiration to people. I could go on about that forever.

PLEASE DO, KRIS ALLEN. PLEASE DO.

There is also, of course, Adam Lambert's epic Rolling Stone interview, in which he revealed his first reaction upon rooming with Kris in the mansion:

"I was like, 'Oh, s---, they put me with the cute guy. Distracting!" Lambert told the magazine. "He's the one guy that I found attractive in the whole group on the show: nice, nonchalant, pretty and totally my type — except that he has a wife. I mean he's open-minded and liberal, but he's definitely 100% straight."

He also discussed his crush on Kris more in his Access Hollywood interview (thanks to the awesome littlepunkryo for the transcription!!):

Interviewer: Kris was your roommate for Idol....

Adam: Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Interviewer: ...and you said that you had a little crush on Kris.

Adam: He is a cute guy, come on, now. I mean, I'm sure the viewers at home...

Interviewer: Who could blame you, right?

Adam: Yeah, but um, his wife is, like, the coolest, coolest girl, they make such a good couple...I've, like, learned a lot from just talking to them about relationships and romance and I think they - they're a great example. They're really, really precious.

Interviewer: Did Kris know that you had a crush on him before you told RS magazine?

Adam: Yeah, I just told him. Like, I told him one day, I was like, "Mm-hmm. Yeah, alright, Kris, yeah you're cute. He's a good-looking guy, so.

Interviewer: And he said he was really flattered by it.

Adam: He's - Kris is so well adjusted. That's how everybody should be, 'cause really it's not a big deal, you know. You can find somebody attractive and it shouldn't be scary, you know what I mean? It's just a compliment.

Video of that exchange:

Kris's response to all that?

"I'm flattered," the Idol winner tells PEOPLE exclusively, "And think it's hilarious."

He later elaborated:

“He was so funny,” Allen says. “He texted me that day, like, ‘I’m so embarrassed.’ I’m like, ‘No, are you serious? Don’t be embarassed. I think that’s hiliarious.’ My wife, she’s so funny. She was like, ‘Tell Adam I have a crush on HIM.’ “

A few days after the Rolling Stone article leaked, they were seen walking into a recording studio together:

Adam mentioned in an interview that one day he'd like to star in Jesus Christ Superstar... with Kris:

"I'd love to play Judas," he said. "That's my dream role."

As for 'Idol' winner Kris Allen, Lambert sees him right up on stage next to him.

"Kris," Lambert said, "he could play Jesus!"

Kris did a recent interview with Yahoo.com:

Kris Allen Talks To Reality Rocks - PART 1 @ Yahoo! Video

Quotes of interest:

--"We are Kradam!" When the interviewer tries to suggest Adamis as a smooshed together name, he tells her that sounds like a robot.

--"Adam stands out like a... like a... like a Adam!"

--The interviewer tells him that in some ways he was the "rebel" by not conforming to expectations of what a Christian stands for by befriending a flamboyant gay Jewish man; Kris's response? "It doesn't feel rebellious. It feels the way it should be."

Really you should watch the whole thing (it's in two parts), he talks a good deal about Adam in general, and some other stuff.

Chilling at Seacret's radio station:

And they recently interviewed each other for the L.A. Times:

The New York Times recognizes their friendship in an article called I Love You, Man (As a Friend) (you have to be a subscriber to see the entire thing on their site, but here is the relevant part):

WELCOME to the flip side of homophobia.

“I’m flattered, and I think it’s hilarious,” Kris Allen told People.com recently, responding to the news that his former roommate and runner-up on “American Idol,” Adam Lambert, had a crush on him.

Mr. Lambert, who favors black eyeliner and leather pants, had told Rolling Stone that Mr. Allen, an aw-shucks Christian from Arkansas, was “the one guy that I found attractive in the whole group on the show — nice, nonchalant, pretty and totally my type — except that he has a wife.”

This all went down in the same interview in which Mr. Lambert finally confirmed the long-simmering rumor that, yep, he’s gay.

Mr. Allen’s cool, self-assured response to being the object of his gay roommate’s affection doesn’t exactly qualify him as a civil rights hero, not at a time when straight men march against Proposition 8 in California and the most anticipated gay-themed film of the year, “Brüno,” is coming from a straight (if highly waxed) comedian.

But do give him credit for overcoming one of the most common deal-killers in friendships between straight and gay men: the awkward crush.

Kradam interview for TV Guide Magazine:

Allen, 24, told TV Guide magazine, "They gave me a couple feathers ... they wanted to glam up my look a little bit, which I really appreciate, thanks. And they also gave me a headphone splitter so that me and Adam can listen to music after the shows and cuddle."

"They're clearly misinterpreting our friendship," Lambert interjected.

But Lambert collapsed into gleeful laughter when Allen put his arm around him.

"A crush is a very nonthreatening thing," Lambert said of his infamous "crush" on Allen during their time on "American Idol".

"Yeah, I have a crush on Adam," Allen deadpanned. "Can I say that?"

"They'll run with that," Lambert warned.

"Yeah, I'm screwed," Allen said.

Watch the videos; they speak for themselves!

I'm not going to add everything that's taken place over the tour, because this post is long enough as it is, and after all, this is only really a primer. But here is a video of some nice Kradam interaction during the Don't Stop Believing group number:

And some pics:

♥ ♥ ♥

To sum up my feelings on Kris and Adam and what makes their friendship so special: Here are two guys who on the surface have little in common. Here are two guys who society says should barely be able to co-exist, who the show tried to pit against one another, whose competition the media tried to turn into a culture war. And instead of pandering to any of that, they instead became amazing friends who embraced each other fully (literally and figuratively) and without reserve.

To me it is a testament to the power of music, and to the power of the goodness of people. They didn't judge each other. They didn't get competitive. They learned from each other, supported each other, pushed each other to be better. They were able to look past all of the cultural bullshit thrown their way by so many people and see the goodness in one another.

Regardless of whether you're a fan of American Idol or not, this is an example of how people should treat each other. This is something a lot of people could learn from.

If these two guys can love each other the way they do, then maybe there really is some hope for the world.

/sappiness

If none of the above convinced you, this absolutely AMAZING fan vid by bubbleforest will (it includes voiceovers with some of the above quotes, and amazing editing!):

The sad (best???) part is this doesn't even cover everything. THEY ARE THAT EPIC.

......If you actually read all of that and did not defriend me, I applaud you.

Kris Allen thanks you for your time.

ETA: I'm going to be trying to keep this up-to-date as more epicness rolls in. If you think I'm missing something, feel free to comment with suggestions and I'll take 'em under consideration. If you give me links to sources and such, that's even better, and I will be way more likely to add it. I'm totally lazy that way.