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linzeestyleAt twenty-five thousand words, I am posting this before I lose my mind. I have been calling it the "Kradam House Lights," which is appropriate, I suppose, because this one story is the same length as all three of my bandom House Lights stories. Consider this my obligatory entry into the Futurefic Genre. Now I have sex pollen to write.
The summary was originally a joke, but I have since become so fond of it that it is staying. If you wish to have a soundtrack, I think you should download this song:
Rob Thomas - Years From Now
As it is important.
Title: And Play a Favorite Song
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
linzeestyle
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Word Count: ~25,000
Summary: Nobody wants to write that song, the break-up song. It's more about knowing what you want after that. In which Kris Allen is Rob Thomas and Adam Lambert is plagued by men.
Disclaimer: This story lies.
Extra:katekat1010 made this gorgeous cover for the story. ♥
*
I don't want to be a faded memory
I don't want to be the ghost that you can't shake;
I want to be the real thing.
*
Adam gets a copy of "Girls in Movies" a week before its street date, in a small, brown-wrapped package to Adam's hotel in Las Vegas. The album arrives at the front desk forty minutes before Adam does; it, and he, have barely made it to his hotel room before his phone is ringing with Kris's number.
"Did you get it?" Kris sounds anxious, so damn much like a kid it makes Adam's heart twist, a little. It's the first time he's heard Kris's voice -- the real one, not the recorded, top-40 radio version -- in at least a month, and he can't help the grin that stretches his face, even as he tosses down his duffel and shrugs out of his jacket.
"Wow, it's really good to hear you, too." Adam laughs, trailing packaging like confetti on the plush suite carpet. "Yes, I got it -- Jesus, how did you even get it here in the first place?"
"You don't want to know how much shipping cost," Kris chuckles, and Adam glances down at the CD in his hands, feeling the ache like a tangible thing. It's weird, holding the album, knowing Kris made it largely without his input.
"I can't wait to hear it," says Adam, softly, and oh, how he means it.
"I'm really proud of it. It feels like me, you know? Not like--I mean, first albums are hard, but I guess with everything..." He trails off, pauses before he says anything else. "I wanted you to hear it first, though."
Adam makes a soft sound, agreeing, turns the album over to look at the back. He recognizes the first single. "Years From Now" is a soft, sad thing, has already hit the Hot 100 and A/C top twenty. It's getting Kris compared to artists from Rob Thomas to Jason Mraz, but the first time Adam heard it - halfway between Reno and Las Vegas, on a radio station that cut out with the cloud coverings - all Adam could think was how real it was. I guess anyone can get it, Kris had said, then, in an interview with Michael Slezak, heel bouncing against the edge of his chair and fingers twisting aimlessly around his newly-bare left hand. Nobody wants to write that song, the break-up song. It's more about knowing what you want after that. It had gutted Adam, and he'd turned the interview off before they'd even talked about the record, faded sense of not quite guilt making him shake his head, move on to the next link in his publicist's email. He'd meant to call Kris, then, but it had been so late and then with the his own tour ending...
Adam sets the jewel case down, shakes his head to clear the memory. They've had so many missed connections -- lately, yeah, but even before, and Adam looks down at the album in his hands.
"Thank you."
Kris laughs. "What else would I do? Hey, I actually called for a reason. I've got some stuff in LA next week and I figured, since you're gonna be around--"
"You are a stalker, Kris Allen!"
"Well that and we're kinda on the same management." Adam chuckles. "Seriously though, next week. I get in on Monday, I'll see you then, right?"
There's a firmness to Kris's voice, like it's not really a question -- and fuck, of course it isn't. Even if Adam did have plans, none of them would hold up next to the chance to see Kris again. It's been too long: almost a year, and God, it's crazy to think how much things have changed since then. Adam still remembers living with him, still forgets, when he's on tour, that Kris isn't the one in the bunk right below him.
"Of course, baby." It comes out low, voice thick with how much he means it.
On the other end of the phone line, Kris sounds happy, the genuine kind Adam hasn't heard in months. "I can't wait."
*
The Kris that Adam picks up at LAX on Thursday is thinner than Adam remembers, almost impossibly small, weighed down by his duffel and omnipresent guitar case. There's a five-o'clock crowd but Adam would be able to find him anywhere. He still looks out of place like he's never seen Los Angeles; his hair's too long and spiked awkward in the back, but he's wearing a shirt that Adam remembers from Idol, bought him during one of the early press junkets because Adam couldn't handle all of the plaid. Seriously, how has no one dressed you, back home?, Adam remembers asking him, pointing him towards sizes that actually fit. Kris had been so new, then, all wide eyes and too-big clothing and no idea how beautiful he was.
Some things don't change, Adam thinks, brushing off the memory and pulling his eyes from Kris's hand. He feels guilty, but he's never seen Kris without it -- not in person, at any rate, not like this. It makes it real in a way all of the magazines and quiet phone calls never did, and the part of Adam's brain that still looks at Kris that way sits up and takes notice. Adam could hate that part of his brain, right now.
And then Kris is smiling at him, and all Adam thinks is oh my God, I missed you, all the time stretching out between them evaporating like it never existed at all. He says it out loud, and Kris throws himself at Adam, arms going tight around his waist and face buried in the fabric of Adam's t-shirt.
"Aw, man. You look..." Kris glances up, grins mischievously at Adam's now green-tinged shag cut, flopping in his eyes and grazing his shoulders. "Exactly the same."
"You look like someone else dressed you this morning," he teases back.
Kris huffs, pulling away to glance down at himself. "Freaking stylist. She packed for me, seriously. 'No, Kris, no more plaid.'" He wrinkles his nose and Adam is struck by the how badly he wants to touch. Kris is adorable, this way, unselfconscious and perfect. "C'mon, I'm not that bad."
"You are, in fact, that bad." Adam nods, somberly, then moves to grab Kris's duffel off the pavement, slings it across his shoulder and into the backseat of the car. "I wish you'd let me put you up, seriously, I feel like an awful host."
Kris laughs. "Jive's footing the bill. Besides, I know you -- no way you're getting up early enough to put up with my schedule."
It's not untrue, and Adam grins, slinging his arm over Kris's shoulders in a squeeze. Between tour rehearsals and radio promotion, Kris probably won't be spending much time in one place, anyway. The whole rock deal, Kris had told him, on the phone; it's lead up to his first real arena tour, opening for OneRepublic over the next month. The venues are a far cry from the college junket, and Adam can't help but think, it's about fucking time.
"Okay, okay, point. Still, if you change your mind: mi casa es su casa." It's second nature to open the car door for Kris, but Kris has never been the type to get weirded out by the gesture: he climbs into the car, hopping up to get to the elevated chassis, and just smiles when Adam touches his lower back gently to guide him inside. "That's all the Spanish Alli can get in me," Adam clarifies, shutting the door and walking around to the driver's side. "She tries, but all the words have genders! Oh, please, that's the end of that."
Kris tips his head back against the seat. "So this is what I've been missing."
"That and so much more." Adam glances over at Kris. He looks tired, lines under his eyes the same ones Adam remembers from his own hectic album promotions. It's the same look they both had, once upon a time, in the days and weeks following American Idol, and Adam's hit with the same wave of irrational protectiveness he always is, like Kris has ever needed someone to look out for him. "So, food, first? I need to feed you, for real."
Kris laughs. "Oh jeez, yes."
*
There are photographers around Nobu. Not many, but a few, enough that lights flash as soon as Adam climbs out of his car. "Hang on," he says to Kris, and slides around to open the door for him -- another habit from an entirely other situation, but Kris just goes with it, lets Adam grab his hand and tug him out onto the sidewalk. "Oopsie-daisy," says Adam with a sheepish smile. "Gotta watch out for those cameras."
Kris laughs, but he's wide eyed, and Adam doesn't really blame him. It's easy for Adam now, he's gotten used to it: the cameras aren't as bad as they were right after Idol but he still shows up in magazines at least every couple of weeks, usually when he's on a date or getting his nails done or doing other things that fall under the heading of what Neil calls Hollywood's Adopt-a-Fag program. Like he isn't quite gay enough when he's just going into the studio alone. Following them to the door of the restaurant, one of the paps calls out Adam's name, tries to flag down Kris by yelling Idol guy! Adam rolls his eyes and waves, calling, "After dinner, okay?!" and hoping they'll just go away.
"That was weird," Kris says, finally, inside and seated. He runs his hand through his hair, spiking it further. It makes him look impossibly young and absurdly innocent, and Adam is reminded all over again just how cute Kris is.
"It's Hollywood, darling," says Adam in his best Tallulah Bankhead. "They're usually nice, I guess. I don't feel unsafe or anything like that." He makes a face. "I think they're hoping they'll catch me in high heels, waving a boa."
"Not your style?"
"I'm only a cliché when it suits me," says Adam, taking a sip of his drink. It's a fairly accurate description: Brad's, actually, said not long after Adam's first interview with Rolling Stone. You're lucky that's true, or I'd hate you for that, Adam had told him at the time, mildly, over sugary drinks at a club in West Hollywood, and Brad had laughed and pulled the Twizzler straw from his cocktail.
"As if. If it hasn't happened yet it ain't going to. First loves." And Adam had leaned back, thoughtful, because God but it was true.
Right now Kris looks the way Brad did that night, the way he always does. The same combination of fragile and impossible, boneless against the slick black booth, shoulder warm where it brushes Adam's because Kris has never had the straight-boy aversion to touching. He's using the thin straw that came with his drink to trap ice cubes against the bottom of the glass, watching the dark forms of patrons absently, guileless, like there's some part of him that never left the heartland. It's all bigger in Texas, Brad still camps, eyes weighted with the memories he doesn't admit to keeping. Yellow roses, Adam thinks -- there's something that always stays with you.
He's got a thousand questions in his head: are you happy? Are you okay? Why are you here? Why now? Instead Adam knocks their shoulders together, whispers with mock conspiracy behind it. "So, craziest thing you've done lately."
Kris ducks his head. His face still scrunches up when he's really giggly, Adam notes, and it's like that re-centers him, assures him that he's still Kris. "No way," Kris gets out, looking up at Adam. "You go first."
Adam always wins Truth or Dare. He puts his elbows on the table, using the excuse to lean closer. "I had sex with a girl."
Kris's laugh is so loud it makes one of the hostesses turn to look at them; Adam waves at her apologetically, finds himself laughing, too. "I did! With Alisan after one of her shows. We were a little stoned." More than a little, actually -- but Adam had spent the two weeks leading up to that talking about how he thought he could have made an 'excellent straight man,' and Alisan had flopped down across the couch, pushed his shoulder with her foot, told him to put up or shut up, pretty boy. It was pretty weird, Adam sure as hell won't be doing that again, but he loves that he did it, loves that he can say he had the experience.
Loves the wide-eyed reaction from interviewers when he says it. They're so afraid of his sexuality.
Leaning back against the booth again, Kris closes his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. "That rock star life'll get you." His smile is gentle, warm and familiar on his face.
"Mmm. So," Adam pokes his thigh. "Your turn."
Kris cracks an eye open. "Really?"
"Rules are rules."
"Okay. Huh." Kris grabs his glass. "In Chicago a few months ago, I was at some after-party thing. It was right in the middle of everything, and I kinda... no, really, got just totally wasted." He ducks his head, huffing at his remembered behavior, and Adam reaches across the small space between them to rub the nape of his neck. Kris glances over at him, some combination of embarrassed and mischievous. "Made out with some dude."
If Adam had been drinking, just then, he would have choked. "You're kidding."
"I feel really weird about it, too, 'cause I don't think I got his name. But man." He shakes his head, like he's clearing a memory. "It was probably so bad."
"Doubt it," Adam says before he can think better of it, and hides his own matching flush behind his hand. Because he can see it: Kris, giggly and clingy and friendly the way he gets when he's been drinking, sliding into a booth or maybe into someone's lap, making those little sounds Adam used to hear sometimes on the tour bus, when Kris thought everyone else was asleep and the curtains were more soundproof than they were.
He needs details.
"So, Kristopher. What's your type? What did he look like?" Adam is completely aware he's being an ass, but Kris has never been all that self-conscious and he wouldn't have shared if he wasn't okay talking. Adam scoots closer, leaning in conspiratorially. It takes him away from his drink, but some things are too good to pass up. "Let me guess - total jock, right?" Adam pictures blonde hair and muscles, someone who hulks over Kris and looks like they stepped out of an episode of Friday Night Lights.
Kris smirks. "Not even close."
"Ooh, really?" Playful Kris is Adam's favorite Kris, and he always forgets what a tease Kris can be. "Dish."
Kris rolls his eyes, but the blush is back, and he's looking at the ceiling instead of Adam when he says, "Ah, I don't know. He had black hair, I think he works for a label. Really tall, kinda..." Kris makes a gesture that could either mean 'lithe' or 'well hung'; Adam's assuming the former, for his own sanity. "Totally not a jock." Kris pauses, laughs self consciously. "Looked like you, sorta." Adam's eyes go wide despite himself, and Kris shakes his head. "Forget it."
Adam has no idea how he's supposed to do that. Still, he hums his agreement, reaches over to squeeze the back of Kris's neck in a gesture he hopes Kris will take at face value. The menus are both still at the center of the table and Adam slides one in front of Kris with an insistent, you eat something; Kris laughs, says, "Yeah, yeah," but he picks it up and lets Adam tell him what's good, wrinkles his nose when Adam suggests things he thinks are particularly "weird."
"Hollywood's a freaky place," Kris says when Adam describes the Bluefin Toro. He sounds genuinely overwhelmed and Adam grins, because Kris is sitting in a West Hollywood hot spot being photographed by nine cameras, having dinner with a big faggy Jew who wore bondage straps to the Grammys last year -- and it's the idea of eating fish eggs that has him freaked out.
"You would think that was the crazy part," Adam says fondly, and Kris shrugs and lets himself list sideways, head heavy and familiar against Adam's side.
It's close to eleven when they leave the restaurant -- prime-time for paparazzi, at least in Hollywood, and Adam slides his sunglasses on against a sudden flash of cameras.
"All these boys, just for me?" Adam wiggles his fingers at the cameras.
Flash-bulbs go off; he's pretty sure he hears someone say something about Kris's presence but it's drowned out by other questions, about Adam's post-tour plans and if he's got a new boyfriend and stupid things, things Adam's pretty sure no one answers, but there's a car waiting for them at valet and Adam tries to stay polite, stares straight ahead with his arm around Kris's waist.
"Okay guys, come on, it's a late night for everybody."
It doesn't always work, but tonight, it seems to. Adam helps Kris into the passenger side of the car, turns and gives the cameras a tired wave. Slides into the drivers' seat, finally, and lets the last of the flashes slick down off the dark tinted windows when the door shuts, firm click and catch of a lock behind him.
"Jeez." Kris cranes his neck when the car starts up, watching the photogs recede into the car's exhaust fumes as Adam pulls into traffic.
"That's Hollywood, baby." Adam wraps an arm around him, merging into the fast lane. "Best reason ever to take a party home."
"Home," for the next week at least, is the Beverly Hills Hotel. "It's pink!" Adam announces when he hands his keys off to a valet, perhaps a little too loudly, then covers his mouth with an 'oops' that he doesn't actually mean. There's no sense in everyone expecting you to be flamboyant if you don't get to be that way, every now and then. "You sure they meant to send you here?"
"Nope, there's a Motel 6 down the street." Kris deadpans, then rolls his eyes. "Jive's not that cheap."
"And you're their new golden boy, that helps." They follow an attendant up to Kris's suite, a sprawling, expansive thing that goes out of its way to look as expensive as possible. It's huge, more room than someone Kris's size could ever need, and it manages to give Adam one of those moments, where with his sunglasses on inside and lavish lifestyle around him he actually feels like he's living the 'rock star' life.
Kris whistles. "I think I'm outta my league here."
"Oh, please." Adam flops down on the bed with an exaggerated oof, waving his hand until Kris comes over to join him. He sits down far more tentatively, but then that probably makes sense; he's had more to drink than Adam, and there's a good chance if he goes down, he might just stay there. "They'd better love you. Everybody loves you."
It's true: Kris is a hot topic, and it's about damn time. Post-Idol, it was Adam that exploded, Adam who got all the attention and limelight. Kris had been happy, glad to be left alone, but it had always frustrated Adam, how no one seemed willing to work any harder, see all that talent being glossed over. Kris's first album went gold, did fine by Jive's standards, but "Girls in Movies" is set to release at number one, and "Years From Now" will go platinum by the end of this quarter. Kris is in town on PR, to finish working out a tour for which he got three separate offers.
Everybody wants him now, and every so often Adam thinks, with a touch of pride, I saw him first.
There's a minibar hiding under a marble counter divider, and Adam grabs out the Grey Goose and two crystal tumblers, because there's no sense in wasting Jive's goodwill. "Here," he says, filling one glass and handing it to Kris, still sunken into the bed like it's eaten him for good. "To you. It's about damn time they started treating you right."
Kris scoffs, says something about it's never been that bad, but he tilts his head back and takes down half the glass in one shot. Adam makes an impressed sound and reaches over to top him off. "Niiiiice."
Kris snorts. "Been practicing."
It's as good a time to bring it up as any, Adam supposes. He sits back down on the bed next to Kris, reaches out to trace the veins in Kris's hand.
"So. How are you," whispers Adam. "Really."
Kris snorts and takes another drink.
"You gotta stop mom-ing me." he says, watching Adam's finger run over his knuckles. "M'cool. Totally awesome, even."
"I haven't seen you in a long time," says Adam, more quietly. "Not since you and Katy..."
That makes Kris close his eyes, shoulders slumping. "Oh."
Oh. For everything they talk about, they've never talked about this. Adam had tried, of course, called the day they'd made the separation public; Kris had answered on the fourth ring, said I just...need some time, his voice dry and tight over the phone, and Adam had gotten that, understood the need to process. They've talked a dozen times since then, but never about anything that actually mattered -- Adam had told him about his own dates and hook-ups, about video treatments and songs for a third album, and Kris had talked about homecoming games, about recording in Nashville and Chicago in the fall. Lies, and little details, like everything was normal. Like Kris wasn't splitting his life up into memories and paperwork and cardboard boxes of 'before' and 'after.'
"Yeah, 'oh.' And then you write that stupid song and you made me cry, bitch. So yes, I'm worried about you. Talk."
"There's nothing to talk about, really. Touring was hard, she was lonely and I was..." Kris shakes his head, like he's clearing a thought. "I'm doing okay. And besides, you'd know if I wasn't, right? Thought I was easy to read."
"You are an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in oh my God, that's a lot of plaid." He smiles. "I feel like I've missed so much. You're out there writing hit songs and getting all kinds of crazy songwriter things and kissing boys, what the hell?" It's the last one that Adam can't seem to shake. Kris said it like it was casual, like it wasn't contrary to everything Adam had always known about him. He's 100% straight. Adam doesn't believe that -- doesn't believe it about anyone, really, because Kinsey was a smart man and even Adam is only a five -- but he always thought Kris did, and it's that change that makes the difference.
Kris just shrugs, leaning heavy against Adam's side. "I'm full of surprises."
Adam isn't sure how to respond to that, and he doesn't, just takes a thoughtful sip of his drink and lets the quiet sit.
"She's the one that asked for it," says Kris, softly, after a while. "I wasn't surprised. It felt sort of... it was kind of a relief, jeez, I felt like a jerk. But I wasn't any good for her and it wasn't fair, I mean, she was holding down the fort and putting everything on hold and I wasn't, I loved her, man I still love her, but..." Kris makes an expansive wave that ends in rubbing a hand down his face.
Adam squeezes his shoulders. "You weren't in love anymore?"
Kris nods. He looks tired, suddenly, and Adam leans over to kiss the side of his head. "It happens. We change, and it doesn't mean anyone's a bad person." Which is easy enough to say, Adam knows, but it's nearly impossible to learn: Adam's stayed friends with almost all of his exes, but it kills him, at first, every single time.
"It's not that," says Kris. "The fame thing. I'm just a long way from home, I guess." He shrugs. "I'm hoping we can do the friends thing, eventually."
Adam shakes his head, unable to help himself from reaching over, running an affectionate hand over Kris's cheek. "I'm so sorry," he says quietly, because it's true and he's never really said it, before. Kris shakes his head a little, still leaning into the touch.
"You didn't do anything."
He sounds so serious, the words nuzzled into Adam's palm, and Adam's back straightens, a twinge of odd, misplaced guilt making him intensely aware of Kris's physical closeness. He pulls his hand away.
"Okay, rock star. Bedtime for you."
"You're leaving?" Kris looks up at him, surprised.
"Busy morning -- and you too." Adam stands up and shuts off the television, grabs his keys off of the bar table. When he turns back around, Kris looks lost, mussed and too-small on the big hotel bed. "You're probably exhausted," he says, softer. "Give me a call tomorrow, okay? Let me know how it's going?"
There's a pause, like it takes Kris a minute to get the words through. Adam wants to touch, and it's not even sexual, really -- Kris's bangs are flopped over in his face and his eyelids are swollen and puffy with sleeplessness, and Adam wants to brush his hair back, run his thumbs over his cheekbones. His fingers twitch with it, and it's an old feeling, really: Adam's not used to not getting what he wants, and he's never gotten over just how perfect Kris is.
Not his though. Might as well have DO NOT TOUCH written on his forehead. Adam steps forward and pulls him into a hug. "I'm not kidding. Call me."
Kris nods into Adam's stomach, pulls back far enough to mumble something into Adam's skin. It's indistinct, and Adam replies with a hmm, and Kris presses his forehead into Adam's ribcage and repeats himself.
"You shouldn't call when a boy wants you to. Cosmo says it makes you look easy."
Adam laughs in disbelief. "Kristopher! You read Cosmo?"
"It's a brave new world out there." Kris exhales, still leaning heavily against Adam. "Good thing I'm easy. I'll call. I promise."
*
Outside the hotel, Adam spins his key ring on his index finger, considering before he changes his mind and calls a driver. He's not drunk, but he feels light-headed, foggy and nostalgic and years back from where he is. There are things you can't have, and that's okay -- Adam's a big kid, and he doesn't do a lot of pining. It never works out, and there's a world of difference between wanting someone for who they are, and wanting someone for who you want them to be.
Kris has only been single for four months. Experience teaches that, and Kris doesn't have any.
The car that pulls up is sleek and black, the inside slick leather and rock star style. Adam lies back, closes his eyes. It feels like being on tour, with the wheels rolling beneath him, and it's homey, familiar. He knows it well enough that he falls asleep on the drive, wakes up disoriented, thrown off by his own driveway. Over a year and it still feels weird, sometimes, looking up at the rich shadows of the Hollywood Hills and thinking home, rather than someday. It's a surreal thought because he still feels like himself, still thinks like the same boy that came at this from the other side.
Inside his house, Adam texts his mom and grabs a Smart Water from the kitchen, leaves a trail of clothes strewn like breadcrumbs to his room. The cleaning service only comes on Mondays and Thursdays, and he's got laundry scattered across his bedroom in gender-fucked piles, stretchy Lycra and sparkling fabrics along leather and rivets, a pair of black patent combat boots with winking golden detailing. The covers are still turned down from the night before, and Adam flops down onto the mattress with a gusty sigh, starfishing his body until there's no space on the bed that he hasn't claimed. "Oh, fuck me," he says to the silent bedroom, and then huffs at himself for talking out loud. "God, this is silly."
He falls asleep just like that, still unsure what this is.
*
Adam doesn't have downtime very often. It's rare enough that he finds he's not sure what to do with it: boredom sets in fast, along with the antsy feeling that he's missing something somewhere. Fortunately for him, alcohol solves at least one of those problems, and after a meeting with 19 and a much-needed manicure he meets up with Alisan at a gay bar in WeHo, a weird little place near his former apartment. It's got purple lacquered tables and a disco ball shaped like a circus tent, and Adam's been coming here through thirteen years and about a dozen different styles. If he thinks about it, he imagines the latter probably explains why no one ever even blinks when he walks through the door: once you've seen someone go from chubby redhead to purple lipstick and glitter, a Rolling Stone cover or two loses its shock value.
"Dave swears he saw Zach Quinto in here last week," says Alisan when they're seated, gesturing towards the boy who just brought them their drinks.
"Huh. He should have gotten a picture. Or a date." There's a guy at the bar: pretty, slim, exactly Adam's type. His hair is loosely spiked and he's got stubble over his jaw; from a distance, in the dim light, he looks almost familiar. It's eerie, even for Adam, and Adam takes a drink of his cocktail and stays where he is.
"I feel like I'm watching the Discovery Channel," says Alisan, looking between Adam and the bar. "You gonna pounce?"
Adam shakes his head. "Too tired."
"Too tired for ass? I don't buy it."
Adam shrugs. He doesn't hook up with strangers anymore. Not that he did that often, before, but he's done his best to keep his personal life out of the tabloids. It sucks, because so much of "famous" Hollywood is so scared and closeted -- but Adam has good friends, even more acquaintances, and he's never been lacking for a quick fuck, when he wants it. "I got home so late. I hadn't seen Kris in forever."
"Oh, the Idol kid?" Alisan's face lights up with recognition. "I hear his album's gonna sell over a hundred thousand."
Adam can't hide the proud smile that stretches his face. "Isn't it amazing? He keeps playing it down, but it's silly. He's incredible." The boy at the counter laughs at something the bartender said, showing teeth. The smile's too starched, Adam thinks. His nose doesn't scrunch, he doesn't really mean it. He rolls his eyes at himself.
"God, you're obvious. You're lucky it's cute." Alison laughs, shaking her head and sliding out of her side of the booth. "B-R-B," she spells out, and Adam watches her head down to the bar, waving for a drink. The bartender - a girl, Kacee, with blonde hair and a sleeve that makes him think, occasionally, of Megan - leans over the bar to get Alisan's order, and Adam gives up watching in favor of looking around. He doesn't get many opportunities to just be, in LA: he's a star, or a sleaze, or tabloid gossip, or remember-when. It's the danger, he guesses, of having dabbled in most of West Hollywood's scenes at one point of his life or another, and Adam sometimes finds himself wondering what it's like for people who don't live in the eye of it.
Kris, he knows, won't move to LA for just that reason. Even after the divorce, in the days and weeks that followed, Kris stubbornly stayed in Conway. It's still home, he told People, right before his album dropped -- and Adam gets that, he does, because he figures it's like his own feelings on LA. It hurts you, but you wouldn't leave it. Everyone knows every mistake you've made, but the place gets into you like you couldn't breathe without it. It's funny, Adam thinks, how after all of that difference he and Kris finally have that sense of place in common. Being famous makes everywhere you go into a small town.
And then there's a familiar guitar coming down over the speakers, and Adam doesn't have time to think about it anymore. His eyes go wide, and he whips his head up to look over at the flat screen on the wall next to the bar: his own dark-lit profile looks back at him, and his hands come up to his face, embarrassed.
"Oh my God," he calls over at the bar, where Kacee and Alisan, the traitors, are giggling amongst themselves. "No. Fuck you, you turn that off right now."
"You're no fun, Lambert!," shouts Kacee back at him. "I like this song! It's Sirius anyway, we only get like, six options that aren't country." She complies, though, and when she hits a button the screens switch over to basic cable, some Leno rerun on NBC. It's not exactly classy, but Adam wouldn't like the place if it wasn't kind of a dive.
"Oh, hey, speaking of." Alisan gestures back towards the television. "Isn't that your boy?"
Adam blinks, twisting to look. Sure enough, it's Kris, and this must be a rerun from just a couple of weeks ago, because he's performing "Years From Now." It's a stripped-down version, and the sound is barely audible in the growing second-wind crowd, but Adam's seen this performance before, remembers watching it in a hotel because Alli texted him to tell him to waatch our fuckin bro, dude!!!! Remembers watching, blown away, at how small and vulnerable and absolutely brilliant Kris had looked on that big stage, all guitar and white chucks and the piano and snare rounding out his soft strong voice, like he was playing to a quiet room and not a television studio for millions of home viewers.
Adam knows all the words, now, could sing the song by heart. He mouths along, it wasn't supposed to be this real, just tell me how you feel, watches the way Kris's face broadcasts every fucking emotion he's probably ever had. It makes it hard to watch, and Adam wonders if the audience feels it, if people sitting in their recliners also feel like the bottom of their chests dropped out when Kris's little world upended.
On the screen, the song ends, and a pre-recorded Kris rocks on the sides of his feet, staring down at Converse sneakers that glitter, just slightly. Adam has to grin at that, because he doesn't think he noticed it, last time.
Sitting back in the booth, now, Alisan's voice pulls him away from the screen. "I can see your boner for that kid from fucking space, Lambert."
Adam's stomach drops out, but he still manages to brush it off with a dismissive wave.
"Fuck you. I was promised booze, I believe."
"Depends -- are you buying, or am I shelling out for shots tonight?"
Adam pulls out his wallet. "Man up, bitch."
Alisan laughs, and doesn't mention Kris again -- not until they leave together, anyway, Adam walking her the few blocks to her apartment even though they could have driven. It's a good night for it, palm-tree winter making Adam grateful for his city, surreal as it is.
"You wanna crash here?" Alisan turns to look at him before she gets her door open, and Adam tucks his hands into the lizard-green pockets of Cassidy's newest creation, sees a flash of the jacket's oil-slick polish when he shrugs his arms out, smiles and says no. Alisan nods; it's still early (late) enough to justify a cab.
"Hey, I didn't mean to rag on you about Kris. It just threw me. I didn't think it was still like that."
Adam huffs. "It isn't! It's not! It was never 'like that,'" he says, making air quotes. "It's a crush. I'm allowed to get those, remember? I think everybody in America mentioned it once."
"You're a good actor and a shitty liar."
Adam sighs. "He's straight, Ali. I love him to death. But I'm not that guy, you know? Too damn old."
"Thirty -- you're ancient, babe," she says, reminding him with a familiar tease. "Just be careful, please? Sometimes I don't think you even know how easy you break."
There's no way to respond to that, really -- because Adam wants to argue, wants to tell her she's making too big of a deal out absolutely nothing, but he just can't seem to find the words to do it. Instead he steps forward, pulls her into a hug that smells like night and leather and glitter. "Thank you," he says into the top of her head, and she squeezes him harder.
It's after three AM when Adam gets home; he notes the time only because it feels too late for a phone call, and he's startled when his phone buzzes in his pocket. This late at night, Adam's come to expect drunk dials or panic; instead Kris's name flashes on his iPhone, and Adam hits receive.
"Shouldn't you be in bed? You know it's tomorrow in Arkansas, right?"
"It's tomorrow here." Kris's voice floats through the speaker, thick and slurred with sleeplessness. "Can't sleep, and I figured, who else do I know that's up right now?"
"Mmm." Adam chuckles, flopping down onto the rich black sofa in the center of his living room. Rolls onto his side so he can tuck the phone between the leather and his ear. "It's so nice that you thought of me," he croons, sarcasm-sweet, before remembering: "hey! I saw you on Leno tonight! Again."
"Yeah, so did I." Kris sounds embarrassed, the way he always gets when Adam mentions he's watched him, listened to his music or taken the time to hear a show. "I can't believe that's already a rerun, jeez. You'd think they'd get sick of it."
"You're incredible," says Adam, simply, because it's true.
"I bet you say that to all the guys." Adam shivers, flips over onto his back. On the other end of the line Kris laughs, softly. "This is stupid, but I missed you like crazy."
"I see you again tomorrow, remember?"
Kris chuckles. "I know. Hippie food."
"LA experience!" Adam doesn't think of Urth as 'hippie food,' but he can imagine Kris anyway, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust.
"Yeah, yeah." There's a pause, and then Kris makes a frustrated noise. "That's not what I meant though. I'm just sorry, I guess. I didn't think it'd be a whole year."
"Things get crazy. It happens."
"You know that wasn't it. It's not like I wasn't in the neighborhood." Half of Kris's album was recorded at the Swing House, in Hollywood; 19's offices are all in Los Angeles. Their schedules have never quite matched, of course, but if Adam really considers it, the last year has been full of ignored and passed-by chances. "I just didn't want to get you involved."
Adam shifts on the sofa, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "Kris..."
"I didn't want you to get dragged into it and start thinking you'd done something. With me and Katy. When things got bad, I mean, before we were done, I think she kind of wondered--"
"--I never would have. Ever."
Kris laughs. "Yeah, she knew that. It wasn't you that made her wonder."
Adam closes his eyes. Nothing Kris is saying is a surprise: Adam's known about Kris's crush on him for longer than Kris has. Still, there's always been amusement, along with everything else, like some part of Kris was laughing at himself for getting hung up like that. Adam doesn't hear any trace of that, now.
He must stay quiet for too long. "I should probably try that sleep thing," Kris says, breaking the silence Adam hadn't even realized he'd let stretch. "They want me down at the studio tomorrow for some acoustic thing."
It's sort of a cheap change in the subject, but it's late enough that Adam is willing to take it. "Radio? I'll listen."
"You're gonna wake up for a morning show?"
"Um. Maybe online later."
He can hear Kris huff, amused. "I could just sing it now."
"Lullaby on demand?"
"Free, one-time offer."
Adam should decline: Kris is obviously tired, raw-sleepless, and it's sort of terrible of Adam to want to see just how far he'll push this. But Adam hasn't made it to this point in his life without taking advantage of opportunities, and besides, they can only cause so much damage with a phone-line in between them. He slides down against the soft leather and closes his eyes, letting the sound of Kris's breathing regulate his own. "Sing me a song, Pocket Idol."
"Years From Now" is softer, even prettier like this. Maybe just because Adam can picture Kris in a hotel somewhere, voice calm and quiet and just for him. Adam's eyes flutter closed again and he lets himself drift. His last thought before he falls asleep is, he's changed the song, a little. The version on the record, that one talks about girls.
Right now you're very young, the world is at your feet. Pretty things are calling you, and they all sound so sweet.
*
The song is in his head when Adam wakes up, forty minutes too early and with the beginnings of a headache in the back of his brain. It stays with him while he showers, and he finds himself singing the chorus to the mirror, heavy, like it's the words somehow building the pressure between his eyes.
"You look beat," offers Kris when Adam shows up at Urth, fiddling with his key-chain absently as Kris orders. He looks worried when Adam asks for water, brushes off the food menu with a weak smile.
"You say the nicest things." Adam shakes his head, wincing when he remembers why that's a terrible idea. "Just a headache." Adam used to get them on the Idol tour, goaded on by the noise and the screams from the barricades, and Kris has more than a passing familiarity with Adam's medicine cabinet. "I think maybe I was out too late."
Kris glances up from the menu. "Oh?"
"Oh?" Adam mimics, mouth turning up into a smile. "I went out with Ali. Mine, not ours," he adds, as an afterthought. "It was fun, but I think maybe I should have left earlier. I got home right before you called me."
Kris shrugs. "I kinda figured. I just didn't know if maybe it was a date or something." It sounds casual, but there's a weight behind it, and Adam raises an eyebrow. "I'm not seeing anybody, if that's what you mean," he says, carefully. Not seriously, not since Drake, and he knows Kris knows that. "There's no time," he adds, deliberately light. "You know that!"
Kris nods, looks at Adam thoughtfully. "Right, no. I'm sorry, that was weird." He glances back down at the menu. "Hey, if I order fries you'll eat those, right?"
Adam lets his eyes slip closed, wonders if Kris can see his relief. "I always do," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I'm going to get fat and it's going to be your fault."
"Fat and happy. It's how we do it at home."
"California, hon. We like our boys skinny and fucked."
"California has a type?" Adam opens one eye and stares at Kris, whose smirking at him over the edge of the menu.
"Mmm-hmm. So get me some fries, Small Town Boy."
Adam's headache doesn't go away, but it fades enough that he can hear himself think. It helps, Adam supposes, to have Kris here with him. When they saw each other more often, on Idol and in the months after the show had ended, Kris would tiptoe around Adam when he was sick, or stressed, did it until Adam caught him by the wrist, just outside of Atlanta, said distract me? and made room in his tiny bunk for Kris to hop up, too. Kris has all kinds of stories -- missionary work, or that fan in Glendale with a life-sized blow-up cactus -- and Adam could just listen, fade out, borrow someone else's spotlight, for once. In Missouri, the night there were protesters, Kris hadn't even said anything before he was scooting his way into the thin space of Adam's bunk, back pressed against the opposite wall from Adam and telling him about barbecue, and direct messaging, and how in elementary school, Kris thought the state was actually named 'misery.' Adam had fallen asleep with his toes tucked under Kris's thighs, and he still remembers it, now, because of how easy it was. How easy it is to fall back into that now, Kris telling him about fans, about radio shows and give-aways and going to Disneyworld with the Idol winners.
Adam pops a fry into his mouth and laughs at Kris's impression of Taylor, "it's an encore, you know, they do that on Broadway," hands sweeping in exaggeration over the table.
"Have I mentioned lately I am so glad you won? Because I am."
"Whatever, man, I hung out with Mickey."
"I pictured you more of a Tinkerbell person. Waving pixie dust? We could get you up on a string."
"Does that make you Peter Pan, or Wendy?"
Adam wrinkles his nose in disdain. "Never again, tights. I got famous so I could wear pants and pants only."
Kris leans back in his chair, glancing under the table at Adam's slick-leather pants with something that looks a whole lot like skepticism. He doesn't say anything, though, and Adam smiles around his glass of water. It's so easy like this, like the best date he's ever had, and Adam could forget, if he let himself, slip into the fantasy. He doesn't, of course, but when Kris kicks him under the table and looks wide-eyed, fake innocent, it would be so, so damn easy to do so. That's part of the problem, Adam supposes -- maybe he's just out of practice. He hasn't seen Kris in a long time, after all. When the waiter clears their dishes, Adam excuses himself to the bathroom long enough to splash water on his face, caring more about the reality check than the way it fades his makeup, letting bare skin show through. Forget it, he tells himself sternly, still trying to shake the remnants of Kris's song from his mind.
Adam's car is barely a block away from the restaurant; he means to say goodbye to Kris at the door, but it's easy, somehow, to wind up walking together, Adam's hands in his pockets against the not-too-cool air and the sudden desire to reach out and make contact.
"Thank you," Adam says softly, at the door of his car. Kris laughs.
"You make it sound like a hassle. I told you, I miss you."
Adam's fingers close around the keys in his pocket, sifting the weight between his fingers and concentrating on that when he says, "I'm still just right here."
It doesn't seem to be the answer Kris is looking for, because he leans heavily against the side of the car, frowning. "I know, man. I just wanted..." He snorts, rolls his eyes, probably at himself. "Okay, screw it. Can we talk about this?"
Adam tugs his keys out of his jacket. "What is 'this,' again?"
"What I said last night. Over the phone."
Oh, that. Adam purses his lips unhappily, hand freezing on the car door.
"I meant it -- all of it. About the whole thing. And you. I can't even tell you how much I wanted to... I don't know, anything, come see you or fly out here or show up on your tour bus and just hide from the whole thing. I thought about all the time. But I didn't want you to think--you know how I feel, and I didn't, I didn't want it to be about that. That's why I... But it's not, now, so I guess that's why I'm saying this."
"Kris."
"You know."
"I know that this isn't a good conversation to have right now."
"I think it is, actually. Before I crap out on it again." Kris catches his arm and Adam turns around, grateful for the relative anonymity of the garage. He pushes himself forward, leg sliding between Kris's thighs. It puts him at full height and Adam's not above using it to his advantage: he can be intimidating like this, and whatever Kris is getting at, there's no way he can get around the fact he's got a guy, another man, standing between his legs.
It should be enough to make whatever this is stop. Adam hopes it is, because he really is only so good of a person here. "This? Is over a line," Adam says.
"Finally."
Adam doesn't generally spend a lot of time speechless, but he's stumped, now. Even more when Kris pushes forward, wrapping his hand around the back of Adam's neck and tugging him down. The kiss is shallow and light, barely a brush of lips. It still makes Adam's whole body jerk like he's touched an electrical cord. He pulls back, reaching up to dig his fingers into Kris's hair. "What are you doing? Do you even know?"
Kris's mouth is open; his bottom lip looks wet, and oh God, the things Adam could do to him.
"Honestly? Not really. But I'm serious about this." Kris's fingers trail down Adam's neck and it makes him close his eyes, shiver. "Do I have to?"
Under any other circumstance, Adam would say no. Because Kris wouldn't be the first straight boy Adam's slept with. But Adam doubts Kris understands the idea of a friendly fuck, and he doubts even further that he would be able to keep it that way, in his head.
"This is a bad idea. You don't know what you're doing. You just--holy shit, Kris, I have been paying attention to you, all those songs you're writing? You're--you're lonely, and you're scared and you're just, you're remembering that I have a thing for you--"
"A crush is not a 'thing,'" says Kris, and Adam laughs because it's exactly what he's been saying. "Non-threatening, right?"
"This feels threatening." Adam punctuates the comment by gripping Kris's wrists, just tight enough to emphasize that he could keep Kris in place, if he wanted to.
Kris's eyelids flutter; he inhales sharply, but doesn't try to get his hands away. "Feels pretty safe to me."
Which, Adam supposes, is the point. His whole body tenses, mouth set in a hard line. "Yeah," he says, terse. And he leans in, close to Kris's ear, tightening his grip on Kris's wrists when he whispers, "I'm not a fucking safety net." Lets go and turns back around, jerking the car door open with more force than completely necessary. "I've got to go. I'll see you later, okay?"
He half-expects Kris to stop him, argue, not let the conversation end there of all places. He isn't sure if it's a relief or a disappointment when Kris just lets him go. Not that it matters. Adam manages to get home -- barely -- before he gives in, vision blurred in the constructed dark of his garage and fumbling for his iPhone to tap out a text message.
im sorry i freaked. bad idea shouldve stayed and talked.
He rests his head on the steering wheel; he feels shaky, off-balance. The ping of the incoming text startles him, almost makes the phone fall out of his lap.
i dont think youre fucking 'safe.'
Adam hits the steering wheel, once, sting of his palm grounding him, pulling him out of his own melodrama. didnt mean it like that. not mean. just... its 2 new.
The return text comes back fast, like Kris was just waiting to send it. what if its not? Adam tilts his head at the screen, puzzled, and then a second text appears, seconds after the first. i have a meeting. after that.
Easy for Kris to say; Adam would really love to have share-holders or businessmen distracting him, right now. He makes an exasperated noise and climbs out of the car, letting his front door slam hard enough to rattle the glass paneling in the windows.
"What the fuck," he asks the foyer, helplessly. His keys miss the dining room table and land on the tiled floor; when he kicks them, it's hard enough that they hit the wall on the other side of the room, a hard ringing crack that makes Adam wince, drains the rest of his anger. He fumbles through the kitchen cabinets for a glass of water and a codeine, rubbing at his eyes like it could make his head hurt less.
His phone's screen is really too bright. call.
He tosses the phone down onto the counter and lays down on the couch.
Adam isn't really sure how long he falls asleep for -- he wakes up to the vibrating synth of his ring-tone, buzzing away on the kitchen counter. Getting up off of the couch in time is something of a hat trick; Adam nearly trips on the cushions and catches it on the last ring.
"I was worried you weren't going to answer." Kris's voice is startling on the other end of the line, and Adam rubs away the remnants of his finally-faded headache.
"Oh, oh no. I was asleep, actually." He yawns, as if on cue. "I'm awake now though, I swear."
Kris chuckles. "Which is great, 'cause this would be pretty hard if you fell asleep on me."
"I would never." But. "Can we do this face to face, though?"
"That sounds pretty ominous." The volume on Kris's phone is up enough that Adam can hear the rustle of fabric, tap of tile and indoor echo. He's probably still at 19, called even before he'd gotten back to his driver. "Yeah, um, yeah--we can definitely do that."
"It's not bad." Adam glances down at his fingers, picks nervously at the polish on his thumbnail. "I promise."
Kris makes a soft noise, like agreement, and Adam imagines him nodding his head, weighing the potential of what Adam's just said. "Tonight?" he asks finally. "I've got a dinner with some people, but then we could..."
"Perfect. I'll meet you at your hotel?"
Another rustle, and Adam imagines Kris nodding, phone pressed to his ear against the reverberation of the 19 hallways.
"You know where to find me."
continued in part two
The summary was originally a joke, but I have since become so fond of it that it is staying. If you wish to have a soundtrack, I think you should download this song:
Rob Thomas - Years From Now
As it is important.
Title: And Play a Favorite Song
Author:
linzeestyleRating: NC-17
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Word Count: ~25,000
Summary: Nobody wants to write that song, the break-up song. It's more about knowing what you want after that. In which Kris Allen is Rob Thomas and Adam Lambert is plagued by men.
Disclaimer: This story lies.
Extra:
katekat1010 made this gorgeous cover for the story. ♥*
I don't want to be a faded memory
I don't want to be the ghost that you can't shake;
I want to be the real thing.
*
Adam gets a copy of "Girls in Movies" a week before its street date, in a small, brown-wrapped package to Adam's hotel in Las Vegas. The album arrives at the front desk forty minutes before Adam does; it, and he, have barely made it to his hotel room before his phone is ringing with Kris's number.
"Did you get it?" Kris sounds anxious, so damn much like a kid it makes Adam's heart twist, a little. It's the first time he's heard Kris's voice -- the real one, not the recorded, top-40 radio version -- in at least a month, and he can't help the grin that stretches his face, even as he tosses down his duffel and shrugs out of his jacket.
"Wow, it's really good to hear you, too." Adam laughs, trailing packaging like confetti on the plush suite carpet. "Yes, I got it -- Jesus, how did you even get it here in the first place?"
"You don't want to know how much shipping cost," Kris chuckles, and Adam glances down at the CD in his hands, feeling the ache like a tangible thing. It's weird, holding the album, knowing Kris made it largely without his input.
"I can't wait to hear it," says Adam, softly, and oh, how he means it.
"I'm really proud of it. It feels like me, you know? Not like--I mean, first albums are hard, but I guess with everything..." He trails off, pauses before he says anything else. "I wanted you to hear it first, though."
Adam makes a soft sound, agreeing, turns the album over to look at the back. He recognizes the first single. "Years From Now" is a soft, sad thing, has already hit the Hot 100 and A/C top twenty. It's getting Kris compared to artists from Rob Thomas to Jason Mraz, but the first time Adam heard it - halfway between Reno and Las Vegas, on a radio station that cut out with the cloud coverings - all Adam could think was how real it was. I guess anyone can get it, Kris had said, then, in an interview with Michael Slezak, heel bouncing against the edge of his chair and fingers twisting aimlessly around his newly-bare left hand. Nobody wants to write that song, the break-up song. It's more about knowing what you want after that. It had gutted Adam, and he'd turned the interview off before they'd even talked about the record, faded sense of not quite guilt making him shake his head, move on to the next link in his publicist's email. He'd meant to call Kris, then, but it had been so late and then with the his own tour ending...
Adam sets the jewel case down, shakes his head to clear the memory. They've had so many missed connections -- lately, yeah, but even before, and Adam looks down at the album in his hands.
"Thank you."
Kris laughs. "What else would I do? Hey, I actually called for a reason. I've got some stuff in LA next week and I figured, since you're gonna be around--"
"You are a stalker, Kris Allen!"
"Well that and we're kinda on the same management." Adam chuckles. "Seriously though, next week. I get in on Monday, I'll see you then, right?"
There's a firmness to Kris's voice, like it's not really a question -- and fuck, of course it isn't. Even if Adam did have plans, none of them would hold up next to the chance to see Kris again. It's been too long: almost a year, and God, it's crazy to think how much things have changed since then. Adam still remembers living with him, still forgets, when he's on tour, that Kris isn't the one in the bunk right below him.
"Of course, baby." It comes out low, voice thick with how much he means it.
On the other end of the phone line, Kris sounds happy, the genuine kind Adam hasn't heard in months. "I can't wait."
*
The Kris that Adam picks up at LAX on Thursday is thinner than Adam remembers, almost impossibly small, weighed down by his duffel and omnipresent guitar case. There's a five-o'clock crowd but Adam would be able to find him anywhere. He still looks out of place like he's never seen Los Angeles; his hair's too long and spiked awkward in the back, but he's wearing a shirt that Adam remembers from Idol, bought him during one of the early press junkets because Adam couldn't handle all of the plaid. Seriously, how has no one dressed you, back home?, Adam remembers asking him, pointing him towards sizes that actually fit. Kris had been so new, then, all wide eyes and too-big clothing and no idea how beautiful he was.
Some things don't change, Adam thinks, brushing off the memory and pulling his eyes from Kris's hand. He feels guilty, but he's never seen Kris without it -- not in person, at any rate, not like this. It makes it real in a way all of the magazines and quiet phone calls never did, and the part of Adam's brain that still looks at Kris that way sits up and takes notice. Adam could hate that part of his brain, right now.
And then Kris is smiling at him, and all Adam thinks is oh my God, I missed you, all the time stretching out between them evaporating like it never existed at all. He says it out loud, and Kris throws himself at Adam, arms going tight around his waist and face buried in the fabric of Adam's t-shirt.
"Aw, man. You look..." Kris glances up, grins mischievously at Adam's now green-tinged shag cut, flopping in his eyes and grazing his shoulders. "Exactly the same."
"You look like someone else dressed you this morning," he teases back.
Kris huffs, pulling away to glance down at himself. "Freaking stylist. She packed for me, seriously. 'No, Kris, no more plaid.'" He wrinkles his nose and Adam is struck by the how badly he wants to touch. Kris is adorable, this way, unselfconscious and perfect. "C'mon, I'm not that bad."
"You are, in fact, that bad." Adam nods, somberly, then moves to grab Kris's duffel off the pavement, slings it across his shoulder and into the backseat of the car. "I wish you'd let me put you up, seriously, I feel like an awful host."
Kris laughs. "Jive's footing the bill. Besides, I know you -- no way you're getting up early enough to put up with my schedule."
It's not untrue, and Adam grins, slinging his arm over Kris's shoulders in a squeeze. Between tour rehearsals and radio promotion, Kris probably won't be spending much time in one place, anyway. The whole rock deal, Kris had told him, on the phone; it's lead up to his first real arena tour, opening for OneRepublic over the next month. The venues are a far cry from the college junket, and Adam can't help but think, it's about fucking time.
"Okay, okay, point. Still, if you change your mind: mi casa es su casa." It's second nature to open the car door for Kris, but Kris has never been the type to get weirded out by the gesture: he climbs into the car, hopping up to get to the elevated chassis, and just smiles when Adam touches his lower back gently to guide him inside. "That's all the Spanish Alli can get in me," Adam clarifies, shutting the door and walking around to the driver's side. "She tries, but all the words have genders! Oh, please, that's the end of that."
Kris tips his head back against the seat. "So this is what I've been missing."
"That and so much more." Adam glances over at Kris. He looks tired, lines under his eyes the same ones Adam remembers from his own hectic album promotions. It's the same look they both had, once upon a time, in the days and weeks following American Idol, and Adam's hit with the same wave of irrational protectiveness he always is, like Kris has ever needed someone to look out for him. "So, food, first? I need to feed you, for real."
Kris laughs. "Oh jeez, yes."
*
There are photographers around Nobu. Not many, but a few, enough that lights flash as soon as Adam climbs out of his car. "Hang on," he says to Kris, and slides around to open the door for him -- another habit from an entirely other situation, but Kris just goes with it, lets Adam grab his hand and tug him out onto the sidewalk. "Oopsie-daisy," says Adam with a sheepish smile. "Gotta watch out for those cameras."
Kris laughs, but he's wide eyed, and Adam doesn't really blame him. It's easy for Adam now, he's gotten used to it: the cameras aren't as bad as they were right after Idol but he still shows up in magazines at least every couple of weeks, usually when he's on a date or getting his nails done or doing other things that fall under the heading of what Neil calls Hollywood's Adopt-a-Fag program. Like he isn't quite gay enough when he's just going into the studio alone. Following them to the door of the restaurant, one of the paps calls out Adam's name, tries to flag down Kris by yelling Idol guy! Adam rolls his eyes and waves, calling, "After dinner, okay?!" and hoping they'll just go away.
"That was weird," Kris says, finally, inside and seated. He runs his hand through his hair, spiking it further. It makes him look impossibly young and absurdly innocent, and Adam is reminded all over again just how cute Kris is.
"It's Hollywood, darling," says Adam in his best Tallulah Bankhead. "They're usually nice, I guess. I don't feel unsafe or anything like that." He makes a face. "I think they're hoping they'll catch me in high heels, waving a boa."
"Not your style?"
"I'm only a cliché when it suits me," says Adam, taking a sip of his drink. It's a fairly accurate description: Brad's, actually, said not long after Adam's first interview with Rolling Stone. You're lucky that's true, or I'd hate you for that, Adam had told him at the time, mildly, over sugary drinks at a club in West Hollywood, and Brad had laughed and pulled the Twizzler straw from his cocktail.
"As if. If it hasn't happened yet it ain't going to. First loves." And Adam had leaned back, thoughtful, because God but it was true.
Right now Kris looks the way Brad did that night, the way he always does. The same combination of fragile and impossible, boneless against the slick black booth, shoulder warm where it brushes Adam's because Kris has never had the straight-boy aversion to touching. He's using the thin straw that came with his drink to trap ice cubes against the bottom of the glass, watching the dark forms of patrons absently, guileless, like there's some part of him that never left the heartland. It's all bigger in Texas, Brad still camps, eyes weighted with the memories he doesn't admit to keeping. Yellow roses, Adam thinks -- there's something that always stays with you.
He's got a thousand questions in his head: are you happy? Are you okay? Why are you here? Why now? Instead Adam knocks their shoulders together, whispers with mock conspiracy behind it. "So, craziest thing you've done lately."
Kris ducks his head. His face still scrunches up when he's really giggly, Adam notes, and it's like that re-centers him, assures him that he's still Kris. "No way," Kris gets out, looking up at Adam. "You go first."
Adam always wins Truth or Dare. He puts his elbows on the table, using the excuse to lean closer. "I had sex with a girl."
Kris's laugh is so loud it makes one of the hostesses turn to look at them; Adam waves at her apologetically, finds himself laughing, too. "I did! With Alisan after one of her shows. We were a little stoned." More than a little, actually -- but Adam had spent the two weeks leading up to that talking about how he thought he could have made an 'excellent straight man,' and Alisan had flopped down across the couch, pushed his shoulder with her foot, told him to put up or shut up, pretty boy. It was pretty weird, Adam sure as hell won't be doing that again, but he loves that he did it, loves that he can say he had the experience.
Loves the wide-eyed reaction from interviewers when he says it. They're so afraid of his sexuality.
Leaning back against the booth again, Kris closes his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. "That rock star life'll get you." His smile is gentle, warm and familiar on his face.
"Mmm. So," Adam pokes his thigh. "Your turn."
Kris cracks an eye open. "Really?"
"Rules are rules."
"Okay. Huh." Kris grabs his glass. "In Chicago a few months ago, I was at some after-party thing. It was right in the middle of everything, and I kinda... no, really, got just totally wasted." He ducks his head, huffing at his remembered behavior, and Adam reaches across the small space between them to rub the nape of his neck. Kris glances over at him, some combination of embarrassed and mischievous. "Made out with some dude."
If Adam had been drinking, just then, he would have choked. "You're kidding."
"I feel really weird about it, too, 'cause I don't think I got his name. But man." He shakes his head, like he's clearing a memory. "It was probably so bad."
"Doubt it," Adam says before he can think better of it, and hides his own matching flush behind his hand. Because he can see it: Kris, giggly and clingy and friendly the way he gets when he's been drinking, sliding into a booth or maybe into someone's lap, making those little sounds Adam used to hear sometimes on the tour bus, when Kris thought everyone else was asleep and the curtains were more soundproof than they were.
He needs details.
"So, Kristopher. What's your type? What did he look like?" Adam is completely aware he's being an ass, but Kris has never been all that self-conscious and he wouldn't have shared if he wasn't okay talking. Adam scoots closer, leaning in conspiratorially. It takes him away from his drink, but some things are too good to pass up. "Let me guess - total jock, right?" Adam pictures blonde hair and muscles, someone who hulks over Kris and looks like they stepped out of an episode of Friday Night Lights.
Kris smirks. "Not even close."
"Ooh, really?" Playful Kris is Adam's favorite Kris, and he always forgets what a tease Kris can be. "Dish."
Kris rolls his eyes, but the blush is back, and he's looking at the ceiling instead of Adam when he says, "Ah, I don't know. He had black hair, I think he works for a label. Really tall, kinda..." Kris makes a gesture that could either mean 'lithe' or 'well hung'; Adam's assuming the former, for his own sanity. "Totally not a jock." Kris pauses, laughs self consciously. "Looked like you, sorta." Adam's eyes go wide despite himself, and Kris shakes his head. "Forget it."
Adam has no idea how he's supposed to do that. Still, he hums his agreement, reaches over to squeeze the back of Kris's neck in a gesture he hopes Kris will take at face value. The menus are both still at the center of the table and Adam slides one in front of Kris with an insistent, you eat something; Kris laughs, says, "Yeah, yeah," but he picks it up and lets Adam tell him what's good, wrinkles his nose when Adam suggests things he thinks are particularly "weird."
"Hollywood's a freaky place," Kris says when Adam describes the Bluefin Toro. He sounds genuinely overwhelmed and Adam grins, because Kris is sitting in a West Hollywood hot spot being photographed by nine cameras, having dinner with a big faggy Jew who wore bondage straps to the Grammys last year -- and it's the idea of eating fish eggs that has him freaked out.
"You would think that was the crazy part," Adam says fondly, and Kris shrugs and lets himself list sideways, head heavy and familiar against Adam's side.
It's close to eleven when they leave the restaurant -- prime-time for paparazzi, at least in Hollywood, and Adam slides his sunglasses on against a sudden flash of cameras.
"All these boys, just for me?" Adam wiggles his fingers at the cameras.
Flash-bulbs go off; he's pretty sure he hears someone say something about Kris's presence but it's drowned out by other questions, about Adam's post-tour plans and if he's got a new boyfriend and stupid things, things Adam's pretty sure no one answers, but there's a car waiting for them at valet and Adam tries to stay polite, stares straight ahead with his arm around Kris's waist.
"Okay guys, come on, it's a late night for everybody."
It doesn't always work, but tonight, it seems to. Adam helps Kris into the passenger side of the car, turns and gives the cameras a tired wave. Slides into the drivers' seat, finally, and lets the last of the flashes slick down off the dark tinted windows when the door shuts, firm click and catch of a lock behind him.
"Jeez." Kris cranes his neck when the car starts up, watching the photogs recede into the car's exhaust fumes as Adam pulls into traffic.
"That's Hollywood, baby." Adam wraps an arm around him, merging into the fast lane. "Best reason ever to take a party home."
"Home," for the next week at least, is the Beverly Hills Hotel. "It's pink!" Adam announces when he hands his keys off to a valet, perhaps a little too loudly, then covers his mouth with an 'oops' that he doesn't actually mean. There's no sense in everyone expecting you to be flamboyant if you don't get to be that way, every now and then. "You sure they meant to send you here?"
"Nope, there's a Motel 6 down the street." Kris deadpans, then rolls his eyes. "Jive's not that cheap."
"And you're their new golden boy, that helps." They follow an attendant up to Kris's suite, a sprawling, expansive thing that goes out of its way to look as expensive as possible. It's huge, more room than someone Kris's size could ever need, and it manages to give Adam one of those moments, where with his sunglasses on inside and lavish lifestyle around him he actually feels like he's living the 'rock star' life.
Kris whistles. "I think I'm outta my league here."
"Oh, please." Adam flops down on the bed with an exaggerated oof, waving his hand until Kris comes over to join him. He sits down far more tentatively, but then that probably makes sense; he's had more to drink than Adam, and there's a good chance if he goes down, he might just stay there. "They'd better love you. Everybody loves you."
It's true: Kris is a hot topic, and it's about damn time. Post-Idol, it was Adam that exploded, Adam who got all the attention and limelight. Kris had been happy, glad to be left alone, but it had always frustrated Adam, how no one seemed willing to work any harder, see all that talent being glossed over. Kris's first album went gold, did fine by Jive's standards, but "Girls in Movies" is set to release at number one, and "Years From Now" will go platinum by the end of this quarter. Kris is in town on PR, to finish working out a tour for which he got three separate offers.
Everybody wants him now, and every so often Adam thinks, with a touch of pride, I saw him first.
There's a minibar hiding under a marble counter divider, and Adam grabs out the Grey Goose and two crystal tumblers, because there's no sense in wasting Jive's goodwill. "Here," he says, filling one glass and handing it to Kris, still sunken into the bed like it's eaten him for good. "To you. It's about damn time they started treating you right."
Kris scoffs, says something about it's never been that bad, but he tilts his head back and takes down half the glass in one shot. Adam makes an impressed sound and reaches over to top him off. "Niiiiice."
Kris snorts. "Been practicing."
It's as good a time to bring it up as any, Adam supposes. He sits back down on the bed next to Kris, reaches out to trace the veins in Kris's hand.
"So. How are you," whispers Adam. "Really."
Kris snorts and takes another drink.
"You gotta stop mom-ing me." he says, watching Adam's finger run over his knuckles. "M'cool. Totally awesome, even."
"I haven't seen you in a long time," says Adam, more quietly. "Not since you and Katy..."
That makes Kris close his eyes, shoulders slumping. "Oh."
Oh. For everything they talk about, they've never talked about this. Adam had tried, of course, called the day they'd made the separation public; Kris had answered on the fourth ring, said I just...need some time, his voice dry and tight over the phone, and Adam had gotten that, understood the need to process. They've talked a dozen times since then, but never about anything that actually mattered -- Adam had told him about his own dates and hook-ups, about video treatments and songs for a third album, and Kris had talked about homecoming games, about recording in Nashville and Chicago in the fall. Lies, and little details, like everything was normal. Like Kris wasn't splitting his life up into memories and paperwork and cardboard boxes of 'before' and 'after.'
"Yeah, 'oh.' And then you write that stupid song and you made me cry, bitch. So yes, I'm worried about you. Talk."
"There's nothing to talk about, really. Touring was hard, she was lonely and I was..." Kris shakes his head, like he's clearing a thought. "I'm doing okay. And besides, you'd know if I wasn't, right? Thought I was easy to read."
"You are an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in oh my God, that's a lot of plaid." He smiles. "I feel like I've missed so much. You're out there writing hit songs and getting all kinds of crazy songwriter things and kissing boys, what the hell?" It's the last one that Adam can't seem to shake. Kris said it like it was casual, like it wasn't contrary to everything Adam had always known about him. He's 100% straight. Adam doesn't believe that -- doesn't believe it about anyone, really, because Kinsey was a smart man and even Adam is only a five -- but he always thought Kris did, and it's that change that makes the difference.
Kris just shrugs, leaning heavy against Adam's side. "I'm full of surprises."
Adam isn't sure how to respond to that, and he doesn't, just takes a thoughtful sip of his drink and lets the quiet sit.
"She's the one that asked for it," says Kris, softly, after a while. "I wasn't surprised. It felt sort of... it was kind of a relief, jeez, I felt like a jerk. But I wasn't any good for her and it wasn't fair, I mean, she was holding down the fort and putting everything on hold and I wasn't, I loved her, man I still love her, but..." Kris makes an expansive wave that ends in rubbing a hand down his face.
Adam squeezes his shoulders. "You weren't in love anymore?"
Kris nods. He looks tired, suddenly, and Adam leans over to kiss the side of his head. "It happens. We change, and it doesn't mean anyone's a bad person." Which is easy enough to say, Adam knows, but it's nearly impossible to learn: Adam's stayed friends with almost all of his exes, but it kills him, at first, every single time.
"It's not that," says Kris. "The fame thing. I'm just a long way from home, I guess." He shrugs. "I'm hoping we can do the friends thing, eventually."
Adam shakes his head, unable to help himself from reaching over, running an affectionate hand over Kris's cheek. "I'm so sorry," he says quietly, because it's true and he's never really said it, before. Kris shakes his head a little, still leaning into the touch.
"You didn't do anything."
He sounds so serious, the words nuzzled into Adam's palm, and Adam's back straightens, a twinge of odd, misplaced guilt making him intensely aware of Kris's physical closeness. He pulls his hand away.
"Okay, rock star. Bedtime for you."
"You're leaving?" Kris looks up at him, surprised.
"Busy morning -- and you too." Adam stands up and shuts off the television, grabs his keys off of the bar table. When he turns back around, Kris looks lost, mussed and too-small on the big hotel bed. "You're probably exhausted," he says, softer. "Give me a call tomorrow, okay? Let me know how it's going?"
There's a pause, like it takes Kris a minute to get the words through. Adam wants to touch, and it's not even sexual, really -- Kris's bangs are flopped over in his face and his eyelids are swollen and puffy with sleeplessness, and Adam wants to brush his hair back, run his thumbs over his cheekbones. His fingers twitch with it, and it's an old feeling, really: Adam's not used to not getting what he wants, and he's never gotten over just how perfect Kris is.
Not his though. Might as well have DO NOT TOUCH written on his forehead. Adam steps forward and pulls him into a hug. "I'm not kidding. Call me."
Kris nods into Adam's stomach, pulls back far enough to mumble something into Adam's skin. It's indistinct, and Adam replies with a hmm, and Kris presses his forehead into Adam's ribcage and repeats himself.
"You shouldn't call when a boy wants you to. Cosmo says it makes you look easy."
Adam laughs in disbelief. "Kristopher! You read Cosmo?"
"It's a brave new world out there." Kris exhales, still leaning heavily against Adam. "Good thing I'm easy. I'll call. I promise."
*
Outside the hotel, Adam spins his key ring on his index finger, considering before he changes his mind and calls a driver. He's not drunk, but he feels light-headed, foggy and nostalgic and years back from where he is. There are things you can't have, and that's okay -- Adam's a big kid, and he doesn't do a lot of pining. It never works out, and there's a world of difference between wanting someone for who they are, and wanting someone for who you want them to be.
Kris has only been single for four months. Experience teaches that, and Kris doesn't have any.
The car that pulls up is sleek and black, the inside slick leather and rock star style. Adam lies back, closes his eyes. It feels like being on tour, with the wheels rolling beneath him, and it's homey, familiar. He knows it well enough that he falls asleep on the drive, wakes up disoriented, thrown off by his own driveway. Over a year and it still feels weird, sometimes, looking up at the rich shadows of the Hollywood Hills and thinking home, rather than someday. It's a surreal thought because he still feels like himself, still thinks like the same boy that came at this from the other side.
Inside his house, Adam texts his mom and grabs a Smart Water from the kitchen, leaves a trail of clothes strewn like breadcrumbs to his room. The cleaning service only comes on Mondays and Thursdays, and he's got laundry scattered across his bedroom in gender-fucked piles, stretchy Lycra and sparkling fabrics along leather and rivets, a pair of black patent combat boots with winking golden detailing. The covers are still turned down from the night before, and Adam flops down onto the mattress with a gusty sigh, starfishing his body until there's no space on the bed that he hasn't claimed. "Oh, fuck me," he says to the silent bedroom, and then huffs at himself for talking out loud. "God, this is silly."
He falls asleep just like that, still unsure what this is.
*
Adam doesn't have downtime very often. It's rare enough that he finds he's not sure what to do with it: boredom sets in fast, along with the antsy feeling that he's missing something somewhere. Fortunately for him, alcohol solves at least one of those problems, and after a meeting with 19 and a much-needed manicure he meets up with Alisan at a gay bar in WeHo, a weird little place near his former apartment. It's got purple lacquered tables and a disco ball shaped like a circus tent, and Adam's been coming here through thirteen years and about a dozen different styles. If he thinks about it, he imagines the latter probably explains why no one ever even blinks when he walks through the door: once you've seen someone go from chubby redhead to purple lipstick and glitter, a Rolling Stone cover or two loses its shock value.
"Dave swears he saw Zach Quinto in here last week," says Alisan when they're seated, gesturing towards the boy who just brought them their drinks.
"Huh. He should have gotten a picture. Or a date." There's a guy at the bar: pretty, slim, exactly Adam's type. His hair is loosely spiked and he's got stubble over his jaw; from a distance, in the dim light, he looks almost familiar. It's eerie, even for Adam, and Adam takes a drink of his cocktail and stays where he is.
"I feel like I'm watching the Discovery Channel," says Alisan, looking between Adam and the bar. "You gonna pounce?"
Adam shakes his head. "Too tired."
"Too tired for ass? I don't buy it."
Adam shrugs. He doesn't hook up with strangers anymore. Not that he did that often, before, but he's done his best to keep his personal life out of the tabloids. It sucks, because so much of "famous" Hollywood is so scared and closeted -- but Adam has good friends, even more acquaintances, and he's never been lacking for a quick fuck, when he wants it. "I got home so late. I hadn't seen Kris in forever."
"Oh, the Idol kid?" Alisan's face lights up with recognition. "I hear his album's gonna sell over a hundred thousand."
Adam can't hide the proud smile that stretches his face. "Isn't it amazing? He keeps playing it down, but it's silly. He's incredible." The boy at the counter laughs at something the bartender said, showing teeth. The smile's too starched, Adam thinks. His nose doesn't scrunch, he doesn't really mean it. He rolls his eyes at himself.
"God, you're obvious. You're lucky it's cute." Alison laughs, shaking her head and sliding out of her side of the booth. "B-R-B," she spells out, and Adam watches her head down to the bar, waving for a drink. The bartender - a girl, Kacee, with blonde hair and a sleeve that makes him think, occasionally, of Megan - leans over the bar to get Alisan's order, and Adam gives up watching in favor of looking around. He doesn't get many opportunities to just be, in LA: he's a star, or a sleaze, or tabloid gossip, or remember-when. It's the danger, he guesses, of having dabbled in most of West Hollywood's scenes at one point of his life or another, and Adam sometimes finds himself wondering what it's like for people who don't live in the eye of it.
Kris, he knows, won't move to LA for just that reason. Even after the divorce, in the days and weeks that followed, Kris stubbornly stayed in Conway. It's still home, he told People, right before his album dropped -- and Adam gets that, he does, because he figures it's like his own feelings on LA. It hurts you, but you wouldn't leave it. Everyone knows every mistake you've made, but the place gets into you like you couldn't breathe without it. It's funny, Adam thinks, how after all of that difference he and Kris finally have that sense of place in common. Being famous makes everywhere you go into a small town.
And then there's a familiar guitar coming down over the speakers, and Adam doesn't have time to think about it anymore. His eyes go wide, and he whips his head up to look over at the flat screen on the wall next to the bar: his own dark-lit profile looks back at him, and his hands come up to his face, embarrassed.
"Oh my God," he calls over at the bar, where Kacee and Alisan, the traitors, are giggling amongst themselves. "No. Fuck you, you turn that off right now."
"You're no fun, Lambert!," shouts Kacee back at him. "I like this song! It's Sirius anyway, we only get like, six options that aren't country." She complies, though, and when she hits a button the screens switch over to basic cable, some Leno rerun on NBC. It's not exactly classy, but Adam wouldn't like the place if it wasn't kind of a dive.
"Oh, hey, speaking of." Alisan gestures back towards the television. "Isn't that your boy?"
Adam blinks, twisting to look. Sure enough, it's Kris, and this must be a rerun from just a couple of weeks ago, because he's performing "Years From Now." It's a stripped-down version, and the sound is barely audible in the growing second-wind crowd, but Adam's seen this performance before, remembers watching it in a hotel because Alli texted him to tell him to waatch our fuckin bro, dude!!!! Remembers watching, blown away, at how small and vulnerable and absolutely brilliant Kris had looked on that big stage, all guitar and white chucks and the piano and snare rounding out his soft strong voice, like he was playing to a quiet room and not a television studio for millions of home viewers.
Adam knows all the words, now, could sing the song by heart. He mouths along, it wasn't supposed to be this real, just tell me how you feel, watches the way Kris's face broadcasts every fucking emotion he's probably ever had. It makes it hard to watch, and Adam wonders if the audience feels it, if people sitting in their recliners also feel like the bottom of their chests dropped out when Kris's little world upended.
On the screen, the song ends, and a pre-recorded Kris rocks on the sides of his feet, staring down at Converse sneakers that glitter, just slightly. Adam has to grin at that, because he doesn't think he noticed it, last time.
Sitting back in the booth, now, Alisan's voice pulls him away from the screen. "I can see your boner for that kid from fucking space, Lambert."
Adam's stomach drops out, but he still manages to brush it off with a dismissive wave.
"Fuck you. I was promised booze, I believe."
"Depends -- are you buying, or am I shelling out for shots tonight?"
Adam pulls out his wallet. "Man up, bitch."
Alisan laughs, and doesn't mention Kris again -- not until they leave together, anyway, Adam walking her the few blocks to her apartment even though they could have driven. It's a good night for it, palm-tree winter making Adam grateful for his city, surreal as it is.
"You wanna crash here?" Alisan turns to look at him before she gets her door open, and Adam tucks his hands into the lizard-green pockets of Cassidy's newest creation, sees a flash of the jacket's oil-slick polish when he shrugs his arms out, smiles and says no. Alisan nods; it's still early (late) enough to justify a cab.
"Hey, I didn't mean to rag on you about Kris. It just threw me. I didn't think it was still like that."
Adam huffs. "It isn't! It's not! It was never 'like that,'" he says, making air quotes. "It's a crush. I'm allowed to get those, remember? I think everybody in America mentioned it once."
"You're a good actor and a shitty liar."
Adam sighs. "He's straight, Ali. I love him to death. But I'm not that guy, you know? Too damn old."
"Thirty -- you're ancient, babe," she says, reminding him with a familiar tease. "Just be careful, please? Sometimes I don't think you even know how easy you break."
There's no way to respond to that, really -- because Adam wants to argue, wants to tell her she's making too big of a deal out absolutely nothing, but he just can't seem to find the words to do it. Instead he steps forward, pulls her into a hug that smells like night and leather and glitter. "Thank you," he says into the top of her head, and she squeezes him harder.
It's after three AM when Adam gets home; he notes the time only because it feels too late for a phone call, and he's startled when his phone buzzes in his pocket. This late at night, Adam's come to expect drunk dials or panic; instead Kris's name flashes on his iPhone, and Adam hits receive.
"Shouldn't you be in bed? You know it's tomorrow in Arkansas, right?"
"It's tomorrow here." Kris's voice floats through the speaker, thick and slurred with sleeplessness. "Can't sleep, and I figured, who else do I know that's up right now?"
"Mmm." Adam chuckles, flopping down onto the rich black sofa in the center of his living room. Rolls onto his side so he can tuck the phone between the leather and his ear. "It's so nice that you thought of me," he croons, sarcasm-sweet, before remembering: "hey! I saw you on Leno tonight! Again."
"Yeah, so did I." Kris sounds embarrassed, the way he always gets when Adam mentions he's watched him, listened to his music or taken the time to hear a show. "I can't believe that's already a rerun, jeez. You'd think they'd get sick of it."
"You're incredible," says Adam, simply, because it's true.
"I bet you say that to all the guys." Adam shivers, flips over onto his back. On the other end of the line Kris laughs, softly. "This is stupid, but I missed you like crazy."
"I see you again tomorrow, remember?"
Kris chuckles. "I know. Hippie food."
"LA experience!" Adam doesn't think of Urth as 'hippie food,' but he can imagine Kris anyway, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust.
"Yeah, yeah." There's a pause, and then Kris makes a frustrated noise. "That's not what I meant though. I'm just sorry, I guess. I didn't think it'd be a whole year."
"Things get crazy. It happens."
"You know that wasn't it. It's not like I wasn't in the neighborhood." Half of Kris's album was recorded at the Swing House, in Hollywood; 19's offices are all in Los Angeles. Their schedules have never quite matched, of course, but if Adam really considers it, the last year has been full of ignored and passed-by chances. "I just didn't want to get you involved."
Adam shifts on the sofa, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "Kris..."
"I didn't want you to get dragged into it and start thinking you'd done something. With me and Katy. When things got bad, I mean, before we were done, I think she kind of wondered--"
"--I never would have. Ever."
Kris laughs. "Yeah, she knew that. It wasn't you that made her wonder."
Adam closes his eyes. Nothing Kris is saying is a surprise: Adam's known about Kris's crush on him for longer than Kris has. Still, there's always been amusement, along with everything else, like some part of Kris was laughing at himself for getting hung up like that. Adam doesn't hear any trace of that, now.
He must stay quiet for too long. "I should probably try that sleep thing," Kris says, breaking the silence Adam hadn't even realized he'd let stretch. "They want me down at the studio tomorrow for some acoustic thing."
It's sort of a cheap change in the subject, but it's late enough that Adam is willing to take it. "Radio? I'll listen."
"You're gonna wake up for a morning show?"
"Um. Maybe online later."
He can hear Kris huff, amused. "I could just sing it now."
"Lullaby on demand?"
"Free, one-time offer."
Adam should decline: Kris is obviously tired, raw-sleepless, and it's sort of terrible of Adam to want to see just how far he'll push this. But Adam hasn't made it to this point in his life without taking advantage of opportunities, and besides, they can only cause so much damage with a phone-line in between them. He slides down against the soft leather and closes his eyes, letting the sound of Kris's breathing regulate his own. "Sing me a song, Pocket Idol."
"Years From Now" is softer, even prettier like this. Maybe just because Adam can picture Kris in a hotel somewhere, voice calm and quiet and just for him. Adam's eyes flutter closed again and he lets himself drift. His last thought before he falls asleep is, he's changed the song, a little. The version on the record, that one talks about girls.
Right now you're very young, the world is at your feet. Pretty things are calling you, and they all sound so sweet.
*
The song is in his head when Adam wakes up, forty minutes too early and with the beginnings of a headache in the back of his brain. It stays with him while he showers, and he finds himself singing the chorus to the mirror, heavy, like it's the words somehow building the pressure between his eyes.
"You look beat," offers Kris when Adam shows up at Urth, fiddling with his key-chain absently as Kris orders. He looks worried when Adam asks for water, brushes off the food menu with a weak smile.
"You say the nicest things." Adam shakes his head, wincing when he remembers why that's a terrible idea. "Just a headache." Adam used to get them on the Idol tour, goaded on by the noise and the screams from the barricades, and Kris has more than a passing familiarity with Adam's medicine cabinet. "I think maybe I was out too late."
Kris glances up from the menu. "Oh?"
"Oh?" Adam mimics, mouth turning up into a smile. "I went out with Ali. Mine, not ours," he adds, as an afterthought. "It was fun, but I think maybe I should have left earlier. I got home right before you called me."
Kris shrugs. "I kinda figured. I just didn't know if maybe it was a date or something." It sounds casual, but there's a weight behind it, and Adam raises an eyebrow. "I'm not seeing anybody, if that's what you mean," he says, carefully. Not seriously, not since Drake, and he knows Kris knows that. "There's no time," he adds, deliberately light. "You know that!"
Kris nods, looks at Adam thoughtfully. "Right, no. I'm sorry, that was weird." He glances back down at the menu. "Hey, if I order fries you'll eat those, right?"
Adam lets his eyes slip closed, wonders if Kris can see his relief. "I always do," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I'm going to get fat and it's going to be your fault."
"Fat and happy. It's how we do it at home."
"California, hon. We like our boys skinny and fucked."
"California has a type?" Adam opens one eye and stares at Kris, whose smirking at him over the edge of the menu.
"Mmm-hmm. So get me some fries, Small Town Boy."
Adam's headache doesn't go away, but it fades enough that he can hear himself think. It helps, Adam supposes, to have Kris here with him. When they saw each other more often, on Idol and in the months after the show had ended, Kris would tiptoe around Adam when he was sick, or stressed, did it until Adam caught him by the wrist, just outside of Atlanta, said distract me? and made room in his tiny bunk for Kris to hop up, too. Kris has all kinds of stories -- missionary work, or that fan in Glendale with a life-sized blow-up cactus -- and Adam could just listen, fade out, borrow someone else's spotlight, for once. In Missouri, the night there were protesters, Kris hadn't even said anything before he was scooting his way into the thin space of Adam's bunk, back pressed against the opposite wall from Adam and telling him about barbecue, and direct messaging, and how in elementary school, Kris thought the state was actually named 'misery.' Adam had fallen asleep with his toes tucked under Kris's thighs, and he still remembers it, now, because of how easy it was. How easy it is to fall back into that now, Kris telling him about fans, about radio shows and give-aways and going to Disneyworld with the Idol winners.
Adam pops a fry into his mouth and laughs at Kris's impression of Taylor, "it's an encore, you know, they do that on Broadway," hands sweeping in exaggeration over the table.
"Have I mentioned lately I am so glad you won? Because I am."
"Whatever, man, I hung out with Mickey."
"I pictured you more of a Tinkerbell person. Waving pixie dust? We could get you up on a string."
"Does that make you Peter Pan, or Wendy?"
Adam wrinkles his nose in disdain. "Never again, tights. I got famous so I could wear pants and pants only."
Kris leans back in his chair, glancing under the table at Adam's slick-leather pants with something that looks a whole lot like skepticism. He doesn't say anything, though, and Adam smiles around his glass of water. It's so easy like this, like the best date he's ever had, and Adam could forget, if he let himself, slip into the fantasy. He doesn't, of course, but when Kris kicks him under the table and looks wide-eyed, fake innocent, it would be so, so damn easy to do so. That's part of the problem, Adam supposes -- maybe he's just out of practice. He hasn't seen Kris in a long time, after all. When the waiter clears their dishes, Adam excuses himself to the bathroom long enough to splash water on his face, caring more about the reality check than the way it fades his makeup, letting bare skin show through. Forget it, he tells himself sternly, still trying to shake the remnants of Kris's song from his mind.
Adam's car is barely a block away from the restaurant; he means to say goodbye to Kris at the door, but it's easy, somehow, to wind up walking together, Adam's hands in his pockets against the not-too-cool air and the sudden desire to reach out and make contact.
"Thank you," Adam says softly, at the door of his car. Kris laughs.
"You make it sound like a hassle. I told you, I miss you."
Adam's fingers close around the keys in his pocket, sifting the weight between his fingers and concentrating on that when he says, "I'm still just right here."
It doesn't seem to be the answer Kris is looking for, because he leans heavily against the side of the car, frowning. "I know, man. I just wanted..." He snorts, rolls his eyes, probably at himself. "Okay, screw it. Can we talk about this?"
Adam tugs his keys out of his jacket. "What is 'this,' again?"
"What I said last night. Over the phone."
Oh, that. Adam purses his lips unhappily, hand freezing on the car door.
"I meant it -- all of it. About the whole thing. And you. I can't even tell you how much I wanted to... I don't know, anything, come see you or fly out here or show up on your tour bus and just hide from the whole thing. I thought about all the time. But I didn't want you to think--you know how I feel, and I didn't, I didn't want it to be about that. That's why I... But it's not, now, so I guess that's why I'm saying this."
"Kris."
"You know."
"I know that this isn't a good conversation to have right now."
"I think it is, actually. Before I crap out on it again." Kris catches his arm and Adam turns around, grateful for the relative anonymity of the garage. He pushes himself forward, leg sliding between Kris's thighs. It puts him at full height and Adam's not above using it to his advantage: he can be intimidating like this, and whatever Kris is getting at, there's no way he can get around the fact he's got a guy, another man, standing between his legs.
It should be enough to make whatever this is stop. Adam hopes it is, because he really is only so good of a person here. "This? Is over a line," Adam says.
"Finally."
Adam doesn't generally spend a lot of time speechless, but he's stumped, now. Even more when Kris pushes forward, wrapping his hand around the back of Adam's neck and tugging him down. The kiss is shallow and light, barely a brush of lips. It still makes Adam's whole body jerk like he's touched an electrical cord. He pulls back, reaching up to dig his fingers into Kris's hair. "What are you doing? Do you even know?"
Kris's mouth is open; his bottom lip looks wet, and oh God, the things Adam could do to him.
"Honestly? Not really. But I'm serious about this." Kris's fingers trail down Adam's neck and it makes him close his eyes, shiver. "Do I have to?"
Under any other circumstance, Adam would say no. Because Kris wouldn't be the first straight boy Adam's slept with. But Adam doubts Kris understands the idea of a friendly fuck, and he doubts even further that he would be able to keep it that way, in his head.
"This is a bad idea. You don't know what you're doing. You just--holy shit, Kris, I have been paying attention to you, all those songs you're writing? You're--you're lonely, and you're scared and you're just, you're remembering that I have a thing for you--"
"A crush is not a 'thing,'" says Kris, and Adam laughs because it's exactly what he's been saying. "Non-threatening, right?"
"This feels threatening." Adam punctuates the comment by gripping Kris's wrists, just tight enough to emphasize that he could keep Kris in place, if he wanted to.
Kris's eyelids flutter; he inhales sharply, but doesn't try to get his hands away. "Feels pretty safe to me."
Which, Adam supposes, is the point. His whole body tenses, mouth set in a hard line. "Yeah," he says, terse. And he leans in, close to Kris's ear, tightening his grip on Kris's wrists when he whispers, "I'm not a fucking safety net." Lets go and turns back around, jerking the car door open with more force than completely necessary. "I've got to go. I'll see you later, okay?"
He half-expects Kris to stop him, argue, not let the conversation end there of all places. He isn't sure if it's a relief or a disappointment when Kris just lets him go. Not that it matters. Adam manages to get home -- barely -- before he gives in, vision blurred in the constructed dark of his garage and fumbling for his iPhone to tap out a text message.
im sorry i freaked. bad idea shouldve stayed and talked.
He rests his head on the steering wheel; he feels shaky, off-balance. The ping of the incoming text startles him, almost makes the phone fall out of his lap.
i dont think youre fucking 'safe.'
Adam hits the steering wheel, once, sting of his palm grounding him, pulling him out of his own melodrama. didnt mean it like that. not mean. just... its 2 new.
The return text comes back fast, like Kris was just waiting to send it. what if its not? Adam tilts his head at the screen, puzzled, and then a second text appears, seconds after the first. i have a meeting. after that.
Easy for Kris to say; Adam would really love to have share-holders or businessmen distracting him, right now. He makes an exasperated noise and climbs out of the car, letting his front door slam hard enough to rattle the glass paneling in the windows.
"What the fuck," he asks the foyer, helplessly. His keys miss the dining room table and land on the tiled floor; when he kicks them, it's hard enough that they hit the wall on the other side of the room, a hard ringing crack that makes Adam wince, drains the rest of his anger. He fumbles through the kitchen cabinets for a glass of water and a codeine, rubbing at his eyes like it could make his head hurt less.
His phone's screen is really too bright. call.
He tosses the phone down onto the counter and lays down on the couch.
Adam isn't really sure how long he falls asleep for -- he wakes up to the vibrating synth of his ring-tone, buzzing away on the kitchen counter. Getting up off of the couch in time is something of a hat trick; Adam nearly trips on the cushions and catches it on the last ring.
"I was worried you weren't going to answer." Kris's voice is startling on the other end of the line, and Adam rubs away the remnants of his finally-faded headache.
"Oh, oh no. I was asleep, actually." He yawns, as if on cue. "I'm awake now though, I swear."
Kris chuckles. "Which is great, 'cause this would be pretty hard if you fell asleep on me."
"I would never." But. "Can we do this face to face, though?"
"That sounds pretty ominous." The volume on Kris's phone is up enough that Adam can hear the rustle of fabric, tap of tile and indoor echo. He's probably still at 19, called even before he'd gotten back to his driver. "Yeah, um, yeah--we can definitely do that."
"It's not bad." Adam glances down at his fingers, picks nervously at the polish on his thumbnail. "I promise."
Kris makes a soft noise, like agreement, and Adam imagines him nodding his head, weighing the potential of what Adam's just said. "Tonight?" he asks finally. "I've got a dinner with some people, but then we could..."
"Perfect. I'll meet you at your hotel?"
Another rustle, and Adam imagines Kris nodding, phone pressed to his ear against the reverberation of the 19 hallways.
"You know where to find me."
continued in part two
no subject
Date: 2009-10-07 11:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-09 05:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-07 11:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-07 01:22 pm (UTC)Psst, his name is Slezak.
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Date: 2009-10-07 03:11 pm (UTC)I'm crying, omg. This is so beautiful. Your Adam voice is so fucking perfect, I can't even.
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Date: 2009-10-07 11:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-09 05:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-08 03:45 am (UTC)"His whole body tenses, mouth set in a hard line. "Yeah," he says, terse. And he leans in, close to Kris's ear, tightening his grip on Kris's wrists when he whispers, "I'm not a fucking safety net." Lets go and turns back around, jerking the car door open with more force than completely necessary. "I've got to go. I'll see you later, okay?"
Onto part 2 now.
I am sooooo enjoying this story.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-08 12:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-08 06:52 pm (UTC)Unfortunately, I have to go. Ill read part two and three later this evening!
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Date: 2009-10-09 05:52 am (UTC)(I had to wait, like, an eternity to read this after I saw it on Delicious last night)
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Date: 2009-10-09 09:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-09 10:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-10 08:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-16 07:55 am (UTC)Back to reading!
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Date: 2010-02-28 03:35 am (UTC)thank u for that.