AI8 fic: Colliding with Reality, Part 4a: The First Time Ever I...
Series Title: Colliding with Reality
Title: The First Time Ever I...
Author: dark_orion
Pairing: Kradam
Rating: G, for this part, but as a heads up, the 4b part? Gonna be NC-17 all the way
Summary: That they’d met and connected on their own, so quickly, so deeply, is more proof of a benevolent God than any sermon of fire and brimstone, any hymn of blind acceptance, any Bible verse, no matter how emphatically highlighted.
Author's Notes: Hi, guys! Sorry this part took a little longer to arrive, but taking parts A and B combined, it's at least half again as long as any previous part, and yeah, do y'all remember what I said for "Idol Hands," that it takes me forever to write sex? Well, there ya go. Yay sexytimes--although not till the next part. Or semi-part, or whatever. It's written, of course, but it still needs to be typed up and proofread, which I hope to have done after work late tonight, or by tomorrow morning. Till then, onward Part 4a!
Previous Parts:
Colliding with Reality, Part 1
Colliding with Reality, Part 2: How Could You Be So...
Colliding with Reality, Part 3: Swimming with a Raincoat
Colliding with Reality, Part 4a:
The First Time Ever I…
dark_orion
The first thing Kris notes upon entering the beginning stages of consciousness is that he is warm-completely, utterly, head-to-toe warm. The warmth is an unusual enough condition that it forces Kris towards full consciousness more quickly than he could normally get on his own, because it simply never happens in the Idol mansion, because even as modern and well designed as it is, a building this size can’t help having drafts that can’t completely be chased away by high tech insulation and thermostats, and Kris, being cold-natured already, always feels the chill more keenly than the other Idol contestants, which begs the question of why he had chosen to relocate to a basement room after seven became five. He generally lays the blame for it on one thing-rather, on one person-so it seems no less than appropriate that the source of his glorious warmth is the human furnace sharing his bed.
True to his warning, Adam is still dead to the world and is completely all over Kris-although rather than being sprawled out on top of Kris, suffocating him like a 180-pound human blanket, Adam is wrapped around him like some kind of affectionate octopus, left arm thrown over Kris’ chest and tucking between ribcage and mattress to pull Kris in tightly to him, right arm displacing Kris’ pillow to support his head, Adam’s face buried in the hair at Kris’ temple, his breath ruffling the strands with every exhalation, right leg pressed against Kris from hip to shin, all of which Kris finds pleasant in the extreme, and he would have been content to lie in the quiet of the early morning and simply enjoy the experience, save for one thing: Adam’s left knee is thrown over Kris’ body, neatly tucked between his thighs and pressed in rather intimate contact with certain parts of Kris’ anatomy that are waking faster than his brain.
Caught between longing and embarrassment, wanting to turn in to Adam and lay there for an eon or so, but thinking maybe he should extricate himself as quickly as possible and hide in the bathroom, Kris is saved from making a decision by the chirruping buzz of the alarm clock.
When Kris and Adam had first become roommates, Kris had been intrigued to learn that Adam didn’t own an alarm clock, but had an uncannily accurate internal time sense, that he could wake himself up in the morning, without fail, at any given time, even after the few hours of sleep a night that Idol allowed them. It was reliable enough that, while they shared quarters, when there were enough contestants still around that their schedules were practically identical instead of all being pulled in different directions, Kris had forgone his alarm clock, which he’d always hated anyway-because what genius decided that a heart attack is the best way to start the day?-in favor of the infinitely preferable option of having Adam wake him each morning, even when Adam decided to become creative with his wakeup calls, because a little ice water or a pillow to the stomach was still far, far preferable to the heart palpitations brought on by sudden, incessant screeching, so it had been with understandable reluctance that Kris went back to using his alarm clock after he and Adam moved into separate rooms.
The alarm clock does have one redeeming feature. Before Kris had gone with the Adam Lambert Wakeup, he’d kept using his alarm clock, and if he’d thought he reacted badly to its sudden wailing, it was nothing compared to Adam, who would levitate a good foot off the bed before sitting bolt upright, sleep-blurred eyes wide with shock casting about as if for a threat before the realized the source of the noise, glared at Kris for what would always be by then helpless laughter, and marched in high dudgeon to their bathroom, almost catlike with offended dignity, which Kris thinks may have been the motivation for some of Adam’s more imaginative wakeup calls later.
When the alarm goes off with its customary abrupt shriek this morning, Adam doesn’t disappoint, surprise sending him jerking clear off the mattress, and Kris is fairly convinced that if not for the sheets wrapped around him, Adam might have made it all the way to the ceiling. It’s as reliably funny as ever, and Kris would be laughing now, except that he hadn’t considered that, as pressed tightly together as they had been previously, when Adam’s anti-gravity motors switch off and he plummets back to Earth, this turns Kris into little more than a landing pad.
Kris is still trying to recover enough breath for a laugh seconds later, though it’s a difficult feat with Adam still on top of him, struggling to reach the alarm clock. Adam finally stretches far enough to reach it and flicks the alarm switch with enough violence that it’s clear he would rather have thrown it out the window. He huffs in satisfaction and relaxes from his stretch, turning back bed-wards as if to settle back in for a few lazy minutes before he finally realizes that there’s a Kris-shaped impediment between him and the mattress.
The sleep haze abruptly leaves Adam’s eyes as he looks down at Kris. “Oh! Uh…hi?”
And that’s all Kris can take. Breath finally back, the laughter erupts from him. Adam attempts indignance for a moment before joining him.
Adam’s laughter dies down before Kris’, leaving Adam smiling down at him, and before Kris can process it, Adam’s leaning down and kissing him.
They keep it light and playful, because it’s way too early and they’ve got way too much to do to make it deeper, more meaningful, just the caress of lip to lip, the flick of a tongue at random intervals, and Kris’ not quite finished laughter breaking through every once in a while, quickly lost to Adam’s smiling kisses.
Parting slowly, reluctantly, Adam rolls off Kris, settling on his back beside him and smacking at his hip lightly with the back of his hand. “Go get a shower before I lose what little self-control I have left and ravage you here and now.”
It takes delving into Kris’ own dwindling reserves of self-control for him to be able to joke back, “You’re sure you don’t want to share?”
Adam’s eyes shift from amused to aroused in the space of a blink, and he runs them in an almost tangible perusal down the length of Kris’ body and back up, tongue darting out-unconscious or calculated, Kris isn’t sure-to moisten his lips in an almost feral hunger. “Actually,” he says, voice dropping to a low rumble, “I’m pretty sure I do want to…” The amusement filters back into his gaze, but doesn't dampen the arousal, augments it if anything. “…but do you think we’d actually be getting clean? Because all I’d want to do is dirty you up even more.”
Kris swallows hard, and he can feel the heat of a blush staining his face and neck. He glances away from Adam’s intense gaze, trying to retain a hold on his composure. “Yeah, probably not the best idea right now.”
The disappointment in Adam’s expression is quickly hidden, but Kris catches it nonetheless as Adam shifts back into the bed, looking like he’s planning to burrow there in the warmth of the covers while he waits his turn in the bathroom. “Right. So little to do and so much time to do it in,” he paraphrases, sounding less like Gene Wilder and more like Woody Woodpecker with a head cold, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Adam thinks that he moved too fast, maybe came on a little too strong, mistaking Kris’ reaction for reluctance or trepidation.
Quickly moving to straighten out the misunderstanding, Kris leans in to Adam, kissing him hard before pulling back to look into surprised blue eyes. “Maybe later, though.”
When Kris leaves for the bathroom, Adam is indeed buried back in the sheets, but he’s smiling.
~~~~
It figures, the one week Kris would kill for a group number, the show’s performance schedule is too packed to slip one in-either that or no one knew how to put Adam, Danny, and him alone together on stage without it looking like some sort of ridiculous mid-nineties boy band. Without last minute run-throughs to fill the day, by and large, Kris is on his own to fill the time. With nothing to keep himself distracted and with Adam in deep conference with Art Miles and the other stylists, Kris can already feel the itch in the back of his brain that means if he’s not careful, he’s going to start obsessing about last night’s performances and tonight’s results, can already feel the nervous energy skittering through his body that will only lead to pacing and second guessing, so he closes his eyes for a second, breathes, then makes like a bandit towards the contestants’ red room, gaining an odd look from a crewmember here and there as he speeds past, but uncaring because his stomach is coiling into a ball of nerves, and with so many options stripped from him in this moment, there’s only one thing left that can possibly untangle it.
When he reaches the red room, his eyes dart towards his luggage, in its usual place against the far wall, ready to go should he be eliminated tonight, and with it, standing on end and propped in a corner, his guitar.
Just the sight of it is soothing in ways he can’t describe, and pulling the case down flat to the floor, his hands are steady flipping the clasps open, nervous tremor already dissipated. Lifting the case top, he smiles down at his guitar, running gentle fingertips over the scratched and worn finish, lingering on grooves made by fervent strumming that the pick guard could not completely avert, lines etched equally with pick and emotion and each representing different moments in his life through which this instrument had, by his side, provided easy and unfettered companionship and comfort.
Picking the guitar up, he steps over to one of the couches, out of the way of any passersby but in view of anyone offering further diversion. He settles with the instrument across his knees, and as he ponders what to play, his fingers, running absently over the neck of the guitar, skip across one of the deeper grooves left in its wooden body, smiling almost ruefully because that particular imperfection marks the first time he’d met Adam.
<<====
It was only the second day of the Hollywood trials-first full day, really, after arrival and roommate assignments-but people were already starting to break up into groups, and for Kris, who while not an introvert, but who’d always preferred to play social events close to the vest, it felt rather uncomfortably like the first day at a new school, which had never been a terribly enjoyable experience, which meant that Kris was sitting in the lobby, waiting for roll call, guitar in his lap, trying to look like he wasn’t actively seeking out company but was still open to it.
Fortunately-or unfortunately, depending on who was brought over-Kris had been assigned a roommate who was the very definition of “extrovert.” In a few short hours last night and this morning, it seemed that Matt had met, talked to, and become close, personal friends with at least half of the hopefuls gathered in the hotel, and to Kris’ alternating pleasure and dismay, Matt had been bringing them over to meet Kris.
Kris was slightly confounded by the sheer variety of people tossed his way, and it wasn’t until Kris caught Matt casting a critical eye over one of his conversations that he realized his roommate was trying to get a handle on him, find out about Kris through his interactions with other people, toward what end Kris wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the test subject in an experiment of amateur psychology.
Roommate with delusions of psychiatric grandeur aside, Kris found the experience to be, overall at least, beneficial, because it gave him some kind of measure of the people with whom he was sharing this circus. There was India and Allison, both similar in being so unique, friendly and so young that it brought out the paternal side of Kris, all twenty-three years of him. There was Anoop, Ricky, Kai, talented all and each with something to prove, but still more interested in the experience than anything else-because even with only about 150 of them, down from thousands, no one saw a sure road to the end, and right now, it was all about avoiding the potholes in the here and now. There was also Tatiana and Nancy, out for themselves and not afraid to say so, and Anthony and Cheryl, two-faced and hurtful and everything a stereotypical bully always was.
There were people that Matt sent over, probably because he’d seen the pristine, white Bible that Katy had tucked into his luggage: Michael and Brent, good guys, if a little close-minded, but giving indication of being open to new ideas; Tonya, from whom Kris had to excuse himself minutes into the conversation because, whoa, whackjob; Danny, around whom Kris knew he’d have to walk carefully because he seemed like a nice guy, up until certain topics were introduced and he turned rigid as a dogwood.
As much as Kris-grudgingly at least-appreciated Matt’s efforts, it wasn’t long before his sociability quota had been met for the day. “Hey, Matt, thanks for…” He gestured at the retreating back of the last in a long line of new acquaintances, at the sea of people in the lobby that ebbed and flowed around them. “But I’m kind of wiped, and since I’m apparently not scheduled for the stage till tomorrow…” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder back towards the elevators that would take him to their blissfully empty hotel room, but he had only just gained his feet when Matt pushed him back onto the sofa he’d been occupying for what felt like the last week.
“Hey, wait, man. C’mon, it’s not even noon. You haven’t even met some of the finest ladies yet. I swear, dude, some of these women make Halle Barry look like Hal Sparks. I bet between the two of us, we could get-”
“Married,” Kris interjected before Matt could get too involved in his hypothetical scenario.
Matt’s eyes widened slightly in surprise for a second before the dots connected. Then he batted his eyelashes at Kris, hand to his chest like a Victorian debutante, voice going high and feminine. “Why, Kris Allen, but it’s so sudden! Our parents will never approve.”
Kris shoved him good-naturedly, and Matt fell back into the sofa cushions, laughing. Kris waved his left hand in front of Matt’s face, wedding ring glinting. “I’m married, moron.”
Matt raised his hand, pressing the back of his wrist to his forehead and leaning farther back into the couch, the perfect imitation of a swoon. “Oh, how ever shall I recover? All my hopes are dashed!”
Before Kris could mount a comeback, Matt sprung back up. “No, seriously, just one more guy, c’mon. I’ve been trying to find him all morning, but-”
Kris sighed, suddenly weary. If California was going to tire him out this quickly, he’d have to pace himself. “Matt, really, I’m pretty worn down. I’m just gonna-”
For the second time, Kris found himself shoved back into the couch.
“No, no, no.” Matt stood, hand out towards Kris like he was trying to make Kris either stop in the name of love or sit like Kris was a dog Matt was trying to get to heel. “You, don’t move. I’m going to go look for him.” Matt turned away, only to turn back, finger stabbing towards Kris-“Stay!”-and well, that answered that question.
Resigned to his fate, Kris settled the guitar back in his lap, letting his fingers move as they wished, falling into a familiar melody. Just as he had managed to block out the hum of activity surrounding him, head ducked as he stared at nothing, hearing only the music emanating from his guitar, the tips of two snakeskin boots entered his field of vision.
His first thought was that Matt had sent over yet another cowboy wannabe with a small-town mentality and right wing morality, and really, Kris did not have enough patience left to deal with that, so when he raised his head, poised to deliver a polite brush-off, he was surprised by what he found: jet-black hair in an asymmetrically modern cut that Kris wouldn’t have believed anyone outside of a cartoon could pull off but somehow looked good-fantastic, really-framing an unreasonably handsome, friendly face, wide smile crinkling the corners of eyes ringed with dark eyeliner, making the blue of said eyes that much more vivid and alive. The relatively simple yet stylish clothing-jeans, t-shirt, jacket-Kris took in as a side note, not able really to pay attention because he was way too busy trying to deal with the fact that he had what had to be one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen standing right in front of him.
Before Kris found the voice that he’d somehow lost in the last few seconds, the man held out his hand to Kris. “Hi. Adam Lambert.”
Kris stared at the hand for a moment before dropping his pick clumsily and reaching out his own hand to clasp Adam’s-black fingernail polish, ornate ankh ring-in a firm handshake. “Uh, hi. I’m Kris. Kris Allen.”
“Nice to meet you.” As their hands fell apart, Adam settled onto the couch next to Kris, gesturing to his guitar. “Sorry to interrupt, but I had to ask, was that ‘Thriller’ you were playing a second ago?”
Kris looked down to where his left hand was wrapped in a stranglehold around the neck of his guitar, ring biting into the wood, and as he loosened his hand as unobtrusively as possible, he took note of the chord he was still pressing into the fretboard, because had it been? He hadn’t been paying too much attention to what he was playing as he was to the fact that he was simply playing. “Yeah, I think so.” He took in Adam’s raised eyebrow, the amusement touching his features, and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I kind of zone out when I’m playing.”
Adam nodded in understanding. “I know what you mean. Any time I perform, it’s like I’m in a completely different place. The transition back’s always a little tricky.”
Kris’ face split in a wide grin because, yes, that was precisely it, and he could only name a handful of people who understood that. “Exactly.”
Adam smiled back, a hint of mischief in it. “Well, in case you were too far away to hear, that arrangement you were playing sounding amazing.”
Kris felt redness burst high in his cheeks and on the back of his neck. “You think so?”
“Definitely,” Adam returned quickly, and his enthusiasm surprised Kris. “I’ve never heard it played on an acoustic before-it gives the song a completely different vibe, more…more modern, which, honestly, as much a Michael Jackson fan as I am, I didn’t think was possible. So, it’s yours?”
It took Kris a moment before he understood the question. “The arrangement? Yeah. It’s just something I’ve been fooling around with.”
“You’ve never performed it?” Adam looked incredulous, maybe a little disappointed.
“Nah.” Kris ducked his head a little because he wasn’t used to this kind of effusiveness over his music, not from anyone who wasn’t family. “Just…you can only listen to the epicness of that album for so long before it makes you want to join in, put yourself into it.”
“Yeah!” and Adam’s smile was so bright and genuine that Kris had to match it. “I mean, I don’t play an instrument, but when I was a kid, I just had to figure out the choreography to the ‘Beat It’ video. I think I just, you know, wanted to be that for a while.” Adam’s grin turned rueful, and he shook his head at himself. “I must have driven my mother crazy, because, I mean, I turned the entire house into my own personal music video.”
By now Kris was laughing because, God, he wasn’t the only one. He bumped his knee against Adam’s in acknowledgment. “Me, too, man.”
The laughter that erupted transformed quickly into a further sharing of youthful faits accomplis and their bearing on current opinions (and if Kris had taken a moment to think about it, he would have wondered at how much he was opening up to this man, how quickly Adam was segueing from stranger to friend), and by the time Matt made his way back around to them, Adam had coaxed Kris into fumbling his way through what he could remember of Eddie Van Halen’s guitar work in “Beat It,” Adam gamely singing along in what had to be the worst Michael Jackson impression ever.
Struggling not to let his bubbling laughter at Adam’s hideous-knowingly hideous, if the sly slant of Adam’s eyes was any indication-impression break his strumming, Kris kept half an ear out for what he felt sure would be a smug “I told you so” from Matt, because Kris couldn’t deny that staying around to meet Adam was probably the best thing he could've hoped to happen during his time in California.
However, Matt just frowned down at their goofing around, melodramatic pout firmly affixed, eyes narrowed at Adam, and said, “Well, if you’d told me you guys knew each other already, I wouldn’t have busted my ass looking for you,” before dropping down on the couch on the other side of Kris, adding his own Michael-Jackson-by-way-of-Justin-Timberlake impression to the cacophonous mix.
====>>
It still makes Kris’ chest feel a little tight, makes his heart pound a little harder, that he and Adam hadn’t needed Matt’s well-meaning interference to find one another. That they’d met and connected on their own, so quickly, so deeply, is more proof of a benevolent God than any sermon of fire and brimstone, any hymn of blind acceptance, any Bible verse, no matter how emphatically highlighted. It might be walking the edge of sacredness and sacrilege, a holy blasphemy, but running his fingers over the deep, rounded groove in the neck of his guitar, feeling the unreasoning comfort wash over him, through him, carrying away the doubts and uncertainty that have been plaguing him all day, he finds he doesn’t really care either way.
~~~~
His playing is quiet, concession to Danny, who’s trying to catch up on badly needed sleep the next couch over, so Kris has no trouble hearing when Adam finally makes his way down to the red room, striding in surrounded by an aura of victory, wearing an outfit that is clearly not what the stylists had been pulling out when Kris had abandoned Adam to their clutches.
Adam eases himself onto the couch next to Kris, careful not to disrupt his guitar playing. “Can you-?” He cuts himself off as Kris nods towards Danny’s sleeping form, before starting again more quietly, “Can you believe they tried to tell me this jacket doesn’t work with my boots?”
Quickly appraising the situation, noting this is “smug and teasing” Adam and not “wounded fashion-sense and pride” Adam, Kris quips, “The nerve of some people.”
Looking satisfied by Kris’ response, Adam nods. “I know.” He props a foot up on the small table in front of the couch, casting a loving eye over his footwear. “These…are great boots.”
He snaps his head back to Kris at Kris’ snort of amusement, opening his mouth for a comeback before his gaze drops down to Kris’ guitar, and he cocks his head to the side for a second before his mouth turns up in a familiar smile.
“Hey, is that ‘Thriller’?”
Next Part
~
Title: The First Time Ever I...
Author: dark_orion
Pairing: Kradam
Rating: G, for this part, but as a heads up, the 4b part? Gonna be NC-17 all the way
Summary: That they’d met and connected on their own, so quickly, so deeply, is more proof of a benevolent God than any sermon of fire and brimstone, any hymn of blind acceptance, any Bible verse, no matter how emphatically highlighted.
Author's Notes: Hi, guys! Sorry this part took a little longer to arrive, but taking parts A and B combined, it's at least half again as long as any previous part, and yeah, do y'all remember what I said for "Idol Hands," that it takes me forever to write sex? Well, there ya go. Yay sexytimes--although not till the next part. Or semi-part, or whatever. It's written, of course, but it still needs to be typed up and proofread, which I hope to have done after work late tonight, or by tomorrow morning. Till then, onward Part 4a!
Previous Parts:
Colliding with Reality, Part 1
Colliding with Reality, Part 2: How Could You Be So...
Colliding with Reality, Part 3: Swimming with a Raincoat
Colliding with Reality, Part 4a:
The First Time Ever I…
dark_orion
The first thing Kris notes upon entering the beginning stages of consciousness is that he is warm-completely, utterly, head-to-toe warm. The warmth is an unusual enough condition that it forces Kris towards full consciousness more quickly than he could normally get on his own, because it simply never happens in the Idol mansion, because even as modern and well designed as it is, a building this size can’t help having drafts that can’t completely be chased away by high tech insulation and thermostats, and Kris, being cold-natured already, always feels the chill more keenly than the other Idol contestants, which begs the question of why he had chosen to relocate to a basement room after seven became five. He generally lays the blame for it on one thing-rather, on one person-so it seems no less than appropriate that the source of his glorious warmth is the human furnace sharing his bed.
True to his warning, Adam is still dead to the world and is completely all over Kris-although rather than being sprawled out on top of Kris, suffocating him like a 180-pound human blanket, Adam is wrapped around him like some kind of affectionate octopus, left arm thrown over Kris’ chest and tucking between ribcage and mattress to pull Kris in tightly to him, right arm displacing Kris’ pillow to support his head, Adam’s face buried in the hair at Kris’ temple, his breath ruffling the strands with every exhalation, right leg pressed against Kris from hip to shin, all of which Kris finds pleasant in the extreme, and he would have been content to lie in the quiet of the early morning and simply enjoy the experience, save for one thing: Adam’s left knee is thrown over Kris’ body, neatly tucked between his thighs and pressed in rather intimate contact with certain parts of Kris’ anatomy that are waking faster than his brain.
Caught between longing and embarrassment, wanting to turn in to Adam and lay there for an eon or so, but thinking maybe he should extricate himself as quickly as possible and hide in the bathroom, Kris is saved from making a decision by the chirruping buzz of the alarm clock.
When Kris and Adam had first become roommates, Kris had been intrigued to learn that Adam didn’t own an alarm clock, but had an uncannily accurate internal time sense, that he could wake himself up in the morning, without fail, at any given time, even after the few hours of sleep a night that Idol allowed them. It was reliable enough that, while they shared quarters, when there were enough contestants still around that their schedules were practically identical instead of all being pulled in different directions, Kris had forgone his alarm clock, which he’d always hated anyway-because what genius decided that a heart attack is the best way to start the day?-in favor of the infinitely preferable option of having Adam wake him each morning, even when Adam decided to become creative with his wakeup calls, because a little ice water or a pillow to the stomach was still far, far preferable to the heart palpitations brought on by sudden, incessant screeching, so it had been with understandable reluctance that Kris went back to using his alarm clock after he and Adam moved into separate rooms.
The alarm clock does have one redeeming feature. Before Kris had gone with the Adam Lambert Wakeup, he’d kept using his alarm clock, and if he’d thought he reacted badly to its sudden wailing, it was nothing compared to Adam, who would levitate a good foot off the bed before sitting bolt upright, sleep-blurred eyes wide with shock casting about as if for a threat before the realized the source of the noise, glared at Kris for what would always be by then helpless laughter, and marched in high dudgeon to their bathroom, almost catlike with offended dignity, which Kris thinks may have been the motivation for some of Adam’s more imaginative wakeup calls later.
When the alarm goes off with its customary abrupt shriek this morning, Adam doesn’t disappoint, surprise sending him jerking clear off the mattress, and Kris is fairly convinced that if not for the sheets wrapped around him, Adam might have made it all the way to the ceiling. It’s as reliably funny as ever, and Kris would be laughing now, except that he hadn’t considered that, as pressed tightly together as they had been previously, when Adam’s anti-gravity motors switch off and he plummets back to Earth, this turns Kris into little more than a landing pad.
Kris is still trying to recover enough breath for a laugh seconds later, though it’s a difficult feat with Adam still on top of him, struggling to reach the alarm clock. Adam finally stretches far enough to reach it and flicks the alarm switch with enough violence that it’s clear he would rather have thrown it out the window. He huffs in satisfaction and relaxes from his stretch, turning back bed-wards as if to settle back in for a few lazy minutes before he finally realizes that there’s a Kris-shaped impediment between him and the mattress.
The sleep haze abruptly leaves Adam’s eyes as he looks down at Kris. “Oh! Uh…hi?”
And that’s all Kris can take. Breath finally back, the laughter erupts from him. Adam attempts indignance for a moment before joining him.
Adam’s laughter dies down before Kris’, leaving Adam smiling down at him, and before Kris can process it, Adam’s leaning down and kissing him.
They keep it light and playful, because it’s way too early and they’ve got way too much to do to make it deeper, more meaningful, just the caress of lip to lip, the flick of a tongue at random intervals, and Kris’ not quite finished laughter breaking through every once in a while, quickly lost to Adam’s smiling kisses.
Parting slowly, reluctantly, Adam rolls off Kris, settling on his back beside him and smacking at his hip lightly with the back of his hand. “Go get a shower before I lose what little self-control I have left and ravage you here and now.”
It takes delving into Kris’ own dwindling reserves of self-control for him to be able to joke back, “You’re sure you don’t want to share?”
Adam’s eyes shift from amused to aroused in the space of a blink, and he runs them in an almost tangible perusal down the length of Kris’ body and back up, tongue darting out-unconscious or calculated, Kris isn’t sure-to moisten his lips in an almost feral hunger. “Actually,” he says, voice dropping to a low rumble, “I’m pretty sure I do want to…” The amusement filters back into his gaze, but doesn't dampen the arousal, augments it if anything. “…but do you think we’d actually be getting clean? Because all I’d want to do is dirty you up even more.”
Kris swallows hard, and he can feel the heat of a blush staining his face and neck. He glances away from Adam’s intense gaze, trying to retain a hold on his composure. “Yeah, probably not the best idea right now.”
The disappointment in Adam’s expression is quickly hidden, but Kris catches it nonetheless as Adam shifts back into the bed, looking like he’s planning to burrow there in the warmth of the covers while he waits his turn in the bathroom. “Right. So little to do and so much time to do it in,” he paraphrases, sounding less like Gene Wilder and more like Woody Woodpecker with a head cold, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Adam thinks that he moved too fast, maybe came on a little too strong, mistaking Kris’ reaction for reluctance or trepidation.
Quickly moving to straighten out the misunderstanding, Kris leans in to Adam, kissing him hard before pulling back to look into surprised blue eyes. “Maybe later, though.”
When Kris leaves for the bathroom, Adam is indeed buried back in the sheets, but he’s smiling.
~~~~
It figures, the one week Kris would kill for a group number, the show’s performance schedule is too packed to slip one in-either that or no one knew how to put Adam, Danny, and him alone together on stage without it looking like some sort of ridiculous mid-nineties boy band. Without last minute run-throughs to fill the day, by and large, Kris is on his own to fill the time. With nothing to keep himself distracted and with Adam in deep conference with Art Miles and the other stylists, Kris can already feel the itch in the back of his brain that means if he’s not careful, he’s going to start obsessing about last night’s performances and tonight’s results, can already feel the nervous energy skittering through his body that will only lead to pacing and second guessing, so he closes his eyes for a second, breathes, then makes like a bandit towards the contestants’ red room, gaining an odd look from a crewmember here and there as he speeds past, but uncaring because his stomach is coiling into a ball of nerves, and with so many options stripped from him in this moment, there’s only one thing left that can possibly untangle it.
When he reaches the red room, his eyes dart towards his luggage, in its usual place against the far wall, ready to go should he be eliminated tonight, and with it, standing on end and propped in a corner, his guitar.
Just the sight of it is soothing in ways he can’t describe, and pulling the case down flat to the floor, his hands are steady flipping the clasps open, nervous tremor already dissipated. Lifting the case top, he smiles down at his guitar, running gentle fingertips over the scratched and worn finish, lingering on grooves made by fervent strumming that the pick guard could not completely avert, lines etched equally with pick and emotion and each representing different moments in his life through which this instrument had, by his side, provided easy and unfettered companionship and comfort.
Picking the guitar up, he steps over to one of the couches, out of the way of any passersby but in view of anyone offering further diversion. He settles with the instrument across his knees, and as he ponders what to play, his fingers, running absently over the neck of the guitar, skip across one of the deeper grooves left in its wooden body, smiling almost ruefully because that particular imperfection marks the first time he’d met Adam.
<<====
It was only the second day of the Hollywood trials-first full day, really, after arrival and roommate assignments-but people were already starting to break up into groups, and for Kris, who while not an introvert, but who’d always preferred to play social events close to the vest, it felt rather uncomfortably like the first day at a new school, which had never been a terribly enjoyable experience, which meant that Kris was sitting in the lobby, waiting for roll call, guitar in his lap, trying to look like he wasn’t actively seeking out company but was still open to it.
Fortunately-or unfortunately, depending on who was brought over-Kris had been assigned a roommate who was the very definition of “extrovert.” In a few short hours last night and this morning, it seemed that Matt had met, talked to, and become close, personal friends with at least half of the hopefuls gathered in the hotel, and to Kris’ alternating pleasure and dismay, Matt had been bringing them over to meet Kris.
Kris was slightly confounded by the sheer variety of people tossed his way, and it wasn’t until Kris caught Matt casting a critical eye over one of his conversations that he realized his roommate was trying to get a handle on him, find out about Kris through his interactions with other people, toward what end Kris wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the test subject in an experiment of amateur psychology.
Roommate with delusions of psychiatric grandeur aside, Kris found the experience to be, overall at least, beneficial, because it gave him some kind of measure of the people with whom he was sharing this circus. There was India and Allison, both similar in being so unique, friendly and so young that it brought out the paternal side of Kris, all twenty-three years of him. There was Anoop, Ricky, Kai, talented all and each with something to prove, but still more interested in the experience than anything else-because even with only about 150 of them, down from thousands, no one saw a sure road to the end, and right now, it was all about avoiding the potholes in the here and now. There was also Tatiana and Nancy, out for themselves and not afraid to say so, and Anthony and Cheryl, two-faced and hurtful and everything a stereotypical bully always was.
There were people that Matt sent over, probably because he’d seen the pristine, white Bible that Katy had tucked into his luggage: Michael and Brent, good guys, if a little close-minded, but giving indication of being open to new ideas; Tonya, from whom Kris had to excuse himself minutes into the conversation because, whoa, whackjob; Danny, around whom Kris knew he’d have to walk carefully because he seemed like a nice guy, up until certain topics were introduced and he turned rigid as a dogwood.
As much as Kris-grudgingly at least-appreciated Matt’s efforts, it wasn’t long before his sociability quota had been met for the day. “Hey, Matt, thanks for…” He gestured at the retreating back of the last in a long line of new acquaintances, at the sea of people in the lobby that ebbed and flowed around them. “But I’m kind of wiped, and since I’m apparently not scheduled for the stage till tomorrow…” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder back towards the elevators that would take him to their blissfully empty hotel room, but he had only just gained his feet when Matt pushed him back onto the sofa he’d been occupying for what felt like the last week.
“Hey, wait, man. C’mon, it’s not even noon. You haven’t even met some of the finest ladies yet. I swear, dude, some of these women make Halle Barry look like Hal Sparks. I bet between the two of us, we could get-”
“Married,” Kris interjected before Matt could get too involved in his hypothetical scenario.
Matt’s eyes widened slightly in surprise for a second before the dots connected. Then he batted his eyelashes at Kris, hand to his chest like a Victorian debutante, voice going high and feminine. “Why, Kris Allen, but it’s so sudden! Our parents will never approve.”
Kris shoved him good-naturedly, and Matt fell back into the sofa cushions, laughing. Kris waved his left hand in front of Matt’s face, wedding ring glinting. “I’m married, moron.”
Matt raised his hand, pressing the back of his wrist to his forehead and leaning farther back into the couch, the perfect imitation of a swoon. “Oh, how ever shall I recover? All my hopes are dashed!”
Before Kris could mount a comeback, Matt sprung back up. “No, seriously, just one more guy, c’mon. I’ve been trying to find him all morning, but-”
Kris sighed, suddenly weary. If California was going to tire him out this quickly, he’d have to pace himself. “Matt, really, I’m pretty worn down. I’m just gonna-”
For the second time, Kris found himself shoved back into the couch.
“No, no, no.” Matt stood, hand out towards Kris like he was trying to make Kris either stop in the name of love or sit like Kris was a dog Matt was trying to get to heel. “You, don’t move. I’m going to go look for him.” Matt turned away, only to turn back, finger stabbing towards Kris-“Stay!”-and well, that answered that question.
Resigned to his fate, Kris settled the guitar back in his lap, letting his fingers move as they wished, falling into a familiar melody. Just as he had managed to block out the hum of activity surrounding him, head ducked as he stared at nothing, hearing only the music emanating from his guitar, the tips of two snakeskin boots entered his field of vision.
His first thought was that Matt had sent over yet another cowboy wannabe with a small-town mentality and right wing morality, and really, Kris did not have enough patience left to deal with that, so when he raised his head, poised to deliver a polite brush-off, he was surprised by what he found: jet-black hair in an asymmetrically modern cut that Kris wouldn’t have believed anyone outside of a cartoon could pull off but somehow looked good-fantastic, really-framing an unreasonably handsome, friendly face, wide smile crinkling the corners of eyes ringed with dark eyeliner, making the blue of said eyes that much more vivid and alive. The relatively simple yet stylish clothing-jeans, t-shirt, jacket-Kris took in as a side note, not able really to pay attention because he was way too busy trying to deal with the fact that he had what had to be one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen standing right in front of him.
Before Kris found the voice that he’d somehow lost in the last few seconds, the man held out his hand to Kris. “Hi. Adam Lambert.”
Kris stared at the hand for a moment before dropping his pick clumsily and reaching out his own hand to clasp Adam’s-black fingernail polish, ornate ankh ring-in a firm handshake. “Uh, hi. I’m Kris. Kris Allen.”
“Nice to meet you.” As their hands fell apart, Adam settled onto the couch next to Kris, gesturing to his guitar. “Sorry to interrupt, but I had to ask, was that ‘Thriller’ you were playing a second ago?”
Kris looked down to where his left hand was wrapped in a stranglehold around the neck of his guitar, ring biting into the wood, and as he loosened his hand as unobtrusively as possible, he took note of the chord he was still pressing into the fretboard, because had it been? He hadn’t been paying too much attention to what he was playing as he was to the fact that he was simply playing. “Yeah, I think so.” He took in Adam’s raised eyebrow, the amusement touching his features, and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I kind of zone out when I’m playing.”
Adam nodded in understanding. “I know what you mean. Any time I perform, it’s like I’m in a completely different place. The transition back’s always a little tricky.”
Kris’ face split in a wide grin because, yes, that was precisely it, and he could only name a handful of people who understood that. “Exactly.”
Adam smiled back, a hint of mischief in it. “Well, in case you were too far away to hear, that arrangement you were playing sounding amazing.”
Kris felt redness burst high in his cheeks and on the back of his neck. “You think so?”
“Definitely,” Adam returned quickly, and his enthusiasm surprised Kris. “I’ve never heard it played on an acoustic before-it gives the song a completely different vibe, more…more modern, which, honestly, as much a Michael Jackson fan as I am, I didn’t think was possible. So, it’s yours?”
It took Kris a moment before he understood the question. “The arrangement? Yeah. It’s just something I’ve been fooling around with.”
“You’ve never performed it?” Adam looked incredulous, maybe a little disappointed.
“Nah.” Kris ducked his head a little because he wasn’t used to this kind of effusiveness over his music, not from anyone who wasn’t family. “Just…you can only listen to the epicness of that album for so long before it makes you want to join in, put yourself into it.”
“Yeah!” and Adam’s smile was so bright and genuine that Kris had to match it. “I mean, I don’t play an instrument, but when I was a kid, I just had to figure out the choreography to the ‘Beat It’ video. I think I just, you know, wanted to be that for a while.” Adam’s grin turned rueful, and he shook his head at himself. “I must have driven my mother crazy, because, I mean, I turned the entire house into my own personal music video.”
By now Kris was laughing because, God, he wasn’t the only one. He bumped his knee against Adam’s in acknowledgment. “Me, too, man.”
The laughter that erupted transformed quickly into a further sharing of youthful faits accomplis and their bearing on current opinions (and if Kris had taken a moment to think about it, he would have wondered at how much he was opening up to this man, how quickly Adam was segueing from stranger to friend), and by the time Matt made his way back around to them, Adam had coaxed Kris into fumbling his way through what he could remember of Eddie Van Halen’s guitar work in “Beat It,” Adam gamely singing along in what had to be the worst Michael Jackson impression ever.
Struggling not to let his bubbling laughter at Adam’s hideous-knowingly hideous, if the sly slant of Adam’s eyes was any indication-impression break his strumming, Kris kept half an ear out for what he felt sure would be a smug “I told you so” from Matt, because Kris couldn’t deny that staying around to meet Adam was probably the best thing he could've hoped to happen during his time in California.
However, Matt just frowned down at their goofing around, melodramatic pout firmly affixed, eyes narrowed at Adam, and said, “Well, if you’d told me you guys knew each other already, I wouldn’t have busted my ass looking for you,” before dropping down on the couch on the other side of Kris, adding his own Michael-Jackson-by-way-of-Justin-Timberlake impression to the cacophonous mix.
====>>
It still makes Kris’ chest feel a little tight, makes his heart pound a little harder, that he and Adam hadn’t needed Matt’s well-meaning interference to find one another. That they’d met and connected on their own, so quickly, so deeply, is more proof of a benevolent God than any sermon of fire and brimstone, any hymn of blind acceptance, any Bible verse, no matter how emphatically highlighted. It might be walking the edge of sacredness and sacrilege, a holy blasphemy, but running his fingers over the deep, rounded groove in the neck of his guitar, feeling the unreasoning comfort wash over him, through him, carrying away the doubts and uncertainty that have been plaguing him all day, he finds he doesn’t really care either way.
~~~~
His playing is quiet, concession to Danny, who’s trying to catch up on badly needed sleep the next couch over, so Kris has no trouble hearing when Adam finally makes his way down to the red room, striding in surrounded by an aura of victory, wearing an outfit that is clearly not what the stylists had been pulling out when Kris had abandoned Adam to their clutches.
Adam eases himself onto the couch next to Kris, careful not to disrupt his guitar playing. “Can you-?” He cuts himself off as Kris nods towards Danny’s sleeping form, before starting again more quietly, “Can you believe they tried to tell me this jacket doesn’t work with my boots?”
Quickly appraising the situation, noting this is “smug and teasing” Adam and not “wounded fashion-sense and pride” Adam, Kris quips, “The nerve of some people.”
Looking satisfied by Kris’ response, Adam nods. “I know.” He props a foot up on the small table in front of the couch, casting a loving eye over his footwear. “These…are great boots.”
He snaps his head back to Kris at Kris’ snort of amusement, opening his mouth for a comeback before his gaze drops down to Kris’ guitar, and he cocks his head to the side for a second before his mouth turns up in a familiar smile.
“Hey, is that ‘Thriller’?”
Next Part
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