WITHOUT WAX (Part One of Two)
WITHOUT WAX
Author: lady_michaelis , Artist: cassandra_ml , Beta: eirana_regan
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen, Cale Mills/Tommy Joe Ratliff
Rating: R
Genre: AU - romantic comedy, chick flick-ish
Word Count: 18,950
Warnings: Sexual content, language
Summary: For this artist, there is only one muse.
Disclaimers: Oh, you know what I’m supposed to write for this segment.
Note: For the Kradam Big Bang. The story is slightly inspired by Elizabeth Kostova’s The Swan Thieves, but mostly inspired by my love for art.
THE DREAM WEAVER
I’d like to think I became an artist because of da Vinci and the Mona Lisa.
When I was sixteen years old, my mother took me to the Musée du Louvre in hopes of tearing me away from ‘all the Chanel in the world’ and shelling out more euro than what we had originally planned. She had always believed that I had an eye for the beautiful and felt that I would enjoy the Louvre as much as I did the flagship stores of Jean Paul Gaultier and Christian Lacroix. In a sense, she was right; I was enraptured by nearly every work that I saw, knowing that they were created by the hands of masters who will continue to be remembered even long after my own death. The Venus de Milo, Nike of Samothrace, Borghese Vase, Caravaggio’s The Fortuneteller, da Vinci’s Madonna on the Rocks-I fell maddeningly in love with each and every one of them. In fact, I remember being so enamored of Leonardo da Vinci’s works that I allowed myself the liberty of saving his obra maestra for last. I’ve heard many things about La Joconde, and I have seen it far too many times in photographs to not know how it looks.
At first glance, the painting-which is quite small given its twenty-one by thirty inches, might I add-is nothing spectacular. One cannot even examine in closely because it is so heavily guarded due to attempts at theft and destruction in the past. The Mona Lisa, hanging on its own wall at the Salle de Etats, rests in a climate-controlled environment behind a panel of bulletproof glass that can be quite easy to miss if you are one of those-forgive me my words-uncultured, disinterested folks. I was barely out of my teens then, and my only reason for looking at it was backed by the logic that people were allegedly claiming it to be the most famous painting in the world. I remember standing in front of it and staring at it for hours, asking myself questions that art connoisseurs do not really ask themselves. If La Joconde is the most famous face in the realm of the great da Vinci, than could we rightfully refer to her as his muse? And if she is not Lisa del Giocondo as they claim her to be, is it a possibility that he could have just imagined her into existence?
The Master and La Joconde bothered me for days and days to come. Upon our return to the United States, I took to my own sketching and painting, discovering for my own the sheer joy that only an artist experiences and understands. I spent many days, weeks and months seeing Los Angeles with new eyes, learning how to translate her ill-fated beauty into intricately-woven tales on my sketchpad and canvasses. My mother, who had taken such a delight in my newly discovered passion, managed to secure an excellent reproduction of the Mona Lisa as a present for my eighteenth birthday. That very same night, I filled out an application form for the Academy of Fine Arts in Verona under Madame Lisa’s watchful gaze.
That, in a nutshell, is the story of how I became Adam Lambert, the dream weaver of Milan.
Spring of 2011
Lambert Manor
Milan, Italy
There were probably a hundred eyes in this room, and they all seemed to be watching him. Adam could almost feel them on his skin, as if he were wrapped in the warm embrace of a living person. Smiling, he paused in front of the largest of his fifteen canvasses and raised a palm in greeting.
“Good morning, my love.”
Adam’s muse gazed down at him from his place of honor above the fireplace, full pink lips jutting out in a delicious pout. Among all the paintings he had done of his beloved, this one had quickly become his favorite. It was a lovely oil painting of a remarkably beautiful naked young man sprawled sensuously across a gilded white divan in a botanical garden; his golden skin gleamed under the painted rays of sun, making him appear like a reincarnation of the divine Phoebus Apollo. What made him cherish it above all the rest was that he had relied heavily on his imagination and deep feelings of desire to create the image. After all, he had only ever seen the man once, and he had most certainly been clothed back then.
His student chose that inopportune moment to poke her head into the gallery, interrupting his internal monologue. “Adam? The journalist you’ve been expecting has just arrived.”
Adam nodded, pushing his long dark hair away from his face. “Good, good. Escort him into my sitting room, if you would be so kind. Grazie, Allison.”
As much as he loved his young protégé, he could not help but feel glad at the idea of having a few more precious seconds alone with the heart of his artwork. With the exception of young Miss Iraheta, no one had ever laid eyes on his private collection before-which was the very reason why he had been so keen on accepting an invitation from a journalist regarding an exclusive interview.
About a week ago, he had received a phone call from a Tommy Joe Ratliff from Affari Italiani expressing his interest in Adam’s obsession (that was exactly how he had worded his statement) with painting the golden boy. The call in itself had shocked Adam; he had never given consent for any of his work from this collection to be exhibited before. He had made quite a lot of demands regarding the subject matter, but Ratliff had outright refused to answer his questions unless he gave full consent to an in-depth interview about his art. Adam was extremely miffed about having to share some of his secrets to the Milanese populace, but getting Ratliff’s answers was far more important than keeping his age-old secrets. Having finally collected his bearing-or what he had left of it-he turned on his heel and walked into his sitting room.
“I see you are enamored by the Mona Lisa as well.”
The taller of the two men stepped away from the aforementioned portrait and extended a hand to Adam, his smile pleasant and unguarded. Adam liked him immediately. He was handsome in the classic American way and probably spent as much time in front of the camera as much as he did behind it. “I don’t know much about paintings, but I take pride in being cultured enough to appreciate fine art. Cale Mills, sir-I’m a photographer.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Mills.” Adam gripped his hand in a cordial handshake. “Which means your companion must be none other than Mister Ratliff himself. I’m quite familiar with your work, the both of you; just because one prefers to stay cooped up in his studio does not mean he ignores the papers.”
Tommy Joe Ratliff was a slight young man with a noble face and sharp brown eyes. His pale blond hair-bleached, as far as Adam could tell-was slicked back from his face, giving off the air of a young Slavic monarch despite being undoubtedly American. Following his colleague’s example, he rose to his feet and shook Adam’s outstretched hand.
“I’m glad you agreed to see us, signor,” he said politely. “People don’t usually show favorable responses in reaction to my unorthodox methods.”
“I agreed to have you come here because you hold the answers I need,” Adam replied. “But let’s not be strangers to each other, shall we? Please, sit. Allison will return with the tea any minute now.”
“Do you mind being photographed, Mister Lambert?” Mills asked him, pausing in the act of unzipping his camera bag. “Based on what I’ve seen and heard, you’re a very private person.”
“As long as you do not photograph the most sacred of my collections, then please feel free to take pictures of whatever it is that pleases you,” Adam replied. “And, please, call me Adam. I feel quite old when referred to so formally-I think of my father when I hear ‘Mister Lambert’.”
Ratliff gave him a small smile. “Adam it is, then. As I mentioned earlier, I recently found out that you stopped painting your usual landscapes around five or six years ago. I’m sorry if I sound like I’m jumping to a conclusion here, but I have this running theory that you’ve stopped painting scenic landscapes because you found a muse in a certain golden, god-like man.”
Adam drew in a sharp breath; Ratliff certainly knew how to steer an interview in the direction he clearly wanted it to go. “How did you find out about this?”
“Sketches and serendipity,” Ratliff replied simply, pulling a manila envelope out of his briefcase. “I was assigned to do a feature on you by my editor, and I thought I would be able to locate a goldmine of information at the university you graduated from and briefly taught at, so I flew to Verona last week. Imagine my surprise when your college dean asked if I wanted to see some sketches you left behind.”
Adam squeezed his eyes shut, knowing full well what the sketches Ratliff had obtained were of. His hands remained in his lap, unwilling to cut open old wounds he had worked so hard to staunch.
“Tea time, bruthas!” Allison chirped, breaking the uncomfortable silence with her contagious cheer. “Chamomile for Adam, jasmine for Signor Mills and black for Signor Ratliff-did I get everything right, or am I somehow missing something again? I threw in some scones for good measure.”
Adam smiled at her. “You’re wonderful, Alli. Thank you for bringing us refreshments. Now, run on back into the yard so you can do some more brushwork before the sun sets.”
“Aye-aye, captain. Don’t get too serious now, okay? It’s not good for your health.” she replied impishly, dashing back out as quickly as she came.
“Your black tea is most excellent, by the way,” Ratliff remarked. “I’m a bit of a purist when it comes to taking my tea, so it’s rare that I come across a brew that satisfies me immensely.”
“Allison is a blessing,” Adam said fondly. “She makes sure I leave my canvasses once in awhile for some food and decent human interaction. I don’t know where I would be without her.”
Ratliff shifted focus once more. “She told me she’s seen your private gallery numerous times, but she does not know the story behind it. Would you care to tell us the story of how such a deep affection for a stranger developed? In exchange, I have some information that will surely be of interest to you.”
“And what do you think could possibly interest me, kind sir?” Adam ventured.
“Information on the object of your affections, of course,” Ratliff answered. “If you would be so kind to start from the very beginning, we can easily connect the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together.”
Adam paused to consider for a moment. There was a possibility that Ratliff was playing his bluff, and Adam could very well end up with nothing if he let Ratliff control the game. He had to play his cards right and protect himself at the same time.
“I need to see proof that you can help me with my own cause first.”
“Well played, Signor Lambert.” Tommy reached into his briefcase for a thicker, older manila envelope. “I will give you something to hold on to for a few precious hours.”
Adam watched as he slid a glossy colored photo out of the envelope and placed it wordlessly on the table, brown eyes regarding him calmly as he reached out to take it in trembling hands. He knew those soft brown eyes all too well; he had painted them hundreds of times over from memory and imagination. Reverently, he traced the full, flesh-bitten lips with his fingers, realizing that he had failed to recreate the ridges his teeth had left on his bottom lip. It was both electrifying and heartbreaking to be finally faced with the real image of someone he had spent all those years recreating on canvass.
“…where did you get this?” he asked hoarsely.
“It’s from his graduation ceremony a few years back,” Ratliff explained. “Do you know that he made it into the Ivy League? Nobody ever thought he would get into Cornell, but he did, and graduated cum laude with a degree in music. That year you saw him here in Milan? He was on holiday.”
“That was in the summer of 2007,” Adam said faintly. “I was painting at the Piazza del Duomo when I saw him pass by. He was-he was at the fountain, making a wish. He took my breath away, for some reason. I watched him the whole time he was there, and by the time he left, I memorized what I needed to know. Since then, he’s been all that I could paint. Sometimes, when I feel like I’m forgetting something, I substitute by imagining things. I don’t believe my later works are as accurate as the earlier ones, but they all retain his essence.”
He shifted his attention to the photo again, soaking in the details he had not been able to see nor remember from five years ago. There was a wide smile on his love’s face, apparently joy at finally being able to leave the halls of his university-the joy of achieving something important to him.
He turned back to Ratliff. “Could you at least tell me his name?”
“It’s Kris,” Ratliff replied. “Kris Allen. He’s my cousin, you see.”
Adam drew in a breath. He had not been expecting to hear such a thing.
“I now understand why you were so insistent on meeting me,” he said shakily. “You must have wanted to meet the pervert who was so fond of drawing your cousin. I apologize.”
“You should never apologize for your art, signor,” Mills cut in. “Being a photographer, I understand your obsession with what inspires you-if it gets us drawing, if it gets us painting, if it gets us taking pictures, we willingly fall victim to whatever it is. Art can kill you, but you’d rather die doing it than spend your lifetime not knowing how it feels to be inspired like a madman.”
“My thoughts exactly, Mister Mills,” Adam agreed. “If it was simply a one-time thing, then it would have stayed a one-time thing. Otherwise, it’s inspiration in the flesh. He’s stayed with me for all these years; I was beginning to think I’ve become mentally ill.”
“Would it be alright to ask if we can see the gallery?” Ratliff asked. “I promise I won’t be writing about it. Cale has already sworn to you that he will not photograph any of your paintings.”
“Well, you do have a right granted that you are related to him,” Adam consented, rising to his feet. “Come, follow me. Since you are fellow artists in your own right, I’m sure you will understand.”
He motioned for them to follow him through the double doors he had emerged from earlier-the veil between reality and fantasy. This room was unlike any other in his stately mansion; he had converted the dome-shaped room on the ground floor from a chapel to a special gallery for his private collection. It was certainly the most spectacular room in his home. He had all the canvasses encased in custom-made gilded frames and had mounted them onto the walls himself. If one were to glance up at the domed ceiling, he would immediately notice Adam’s spectacular mural of Kris on the day he had laid eyes upon him, bent over the fountain in the Piazza, waiting on a wish that would hopefully come true someday.
“…this is spectacular, man,” he heard Mills say. “That mural up there? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in ages-man, you could be famous if you wanted to.”
“I painted that as soon as I arrived home from our brief non-encounter,” Adam admitted. “I could not fight the urge, as is evidenced by the paintings that surround you now.”
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Ratliff paused in front of the nude. “It shows in your vision and in your technique-a mix of Michelangelo’s Renaissance spirit and the flair of the Rococo era. Brilliant.”
Adam was impressed. “You know your terms; I am impressed-and I thank you for your praise.”
“The sight of this spectacle would be more than enough to make Kris flush,” Ratliff commented. “The boy is unaware of his own beauty-perhaps this would awaken him from that unconsciousness.”
Adam frowned. “What are you saying? I thought we agreed on complete secrecy.”
“Would you keep this secret from the man who inspired it all?” Ratliff queried. “I’m not asking you to send him one of these paintings; I’m asking if you would so kindly consider writing him a letter you could enclose with your old sketches. He’s been quite bored and lonely as of late, and I feel he could use some cheering up. Think of your love, signor. Would you like to think of him as unhappy?”
“…no,” Adam admitted. “No, I would not. Are you offering me a chance to correspond with him?”
Cale laughed. “Tommy’s not that terrible a person, sir. He may look and act in ways that would make one think otherwise, but he’s a closet sweetheart. He loves his little cousin; he’d do anything to make Kris smile the way he used to.”
“Thanks for giving me away, you bastard,” Ratliff said without spite. “But yes, he is right; I worry about Kris. I personally think you would also be doing yourself a favor if you allow yourself to open communication with him. He’s the one you’ve been searching for all this time, so why not take a risk?”
“Am I not missing anything here?” Adam asked, skeptical. “You do not seek anything in exchange?”
Ratliff shook his head. “Seeing Kris happy and alive again would be more than enough.”
“You’re certain he won’t think I’m a stalker?” Adam asked sharply. “I don’t want to scare him by making such bold moves. The affections of an artist can be quite overwhelming.”
Ratliff smirked. “I think you’re capable enough to handle that, Mister Lambert. Just say the word, and I will have his home address scribbled down on a sticky note before you can even say ‘Kris Allen’.”
Adam took a minute to weigh his options; a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’. Agreeing to this would mean crawling out of the fantasy world he had built for himself and his golden boy, and disagreeing would mean losing the one chance he had of ever meeting the boy he had loved for years. He gazed up at the fresco, feeling a pang in his heart as he thought of Kris-god, finally, a name after so long-without the sparkle in his eyes and the breathtaking smile on his face.
What was it that you wished for back then?
“Fuck, who am I kidding?” he muttered. “Tell me what I need to know before I change my mind.”
Ratliff cocked his head. “I knew you’d see things my way, signor.”
“I can’t believe it!” Allison squealed. “You’re actually going to write to someone that isn’t me-and the man you’ve been painting all these years, no less! I feel like I’m an extra in a movie.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, little one,” Adam warned her, dipping his quill into the ink bottle. “He may think I’m a creeper and tear up the letter as soon as it arrives.”
Allison rolled her eyes. “For someone who paints such bright pictures, you sure are pessimistic. Personally, I think you should just go for it. Not all artists are given the chance to meet their muses. Heck, most of the time, one of the two are already dead! You two are alive in the same century for some convoluted reason, so this must be a sign that you should do something about it.”
“You’re such a romantic, Alli,” Adam said fondly. “You should have a pair of lovers pose for you and see what you can make of it; I think you’ll do quite well.”
“I’ll wait.” Allison winked at him. “If I were to paint a pair of lovers, I’d want it to be you and Kris. That way, I’d have a lovely story to go with the painting. For now, I’ll stick to my water lilies.”
Adam grinned. “My little signorina Monet. I’m glad you demanded I take you in as a student. Now that you’re here, I can’t quite imagine my life without you.”
“Well, you’d probably be living off paint thinner and your incessant brooding!” Allison laughed. “We wouldn’t want that to happen, would we? In fact, I think you should take on one or two more aside from me. You have the means and the time, and it would bring in extra money. Art schools here in Milan are expensive; parents would save a lot more if they have their kids study under the tutelage of an expert in an informal setting. Of course, this is just me speaking-it’s your decision to make.”
“You really think I should?” Adam asked her. “I’m terrible at socializing with others. Heck, it took you weeks to finally get me to talk to you outside our lessons.”
“That’s because I’m charming and you’re a closet softie!” Allison stuck her tongue out at him. “And I really think it would help. Teaching more people would require you to leave your studio more often for a bit of fresh air outside the mansion grounds. You’re only twenty-nine, maestro; you’re not going to shrivel up and die anytime soon unless you magically fall onto a bed of spikes.”
Adam chuckled. “This is exactly why I keep you around. You keep me laughing, Allison. No one has been able to do that since my brother.”
“How is Neil, anyway?” Allison asked. “Last time I asked, you told me he was applying for an internship at the White House. How did that ever come along?”
“Well, because he is who he is, he got in,” Adam grinned. “He sent me an email yesterday venting about wanting to cut in during the congress sessions because his ideas are much more reasonable than theirs. Also, there was a bit-okay, a sentence-about having coffee thrice a week with one of his fellow interns. I asked him about it, but he chose not to answer. In short, my annoying little snot of a brother is dating.”
“Which is something you should be doing,” Allison shot back. “Whatever happened to the guy from Swaziland or Ireland, anyway? You stopped going out with him about a month ago.”
“Same reason why Drake left me two years back,” Adam said lightly. “They all say I’m emotionally unavailable, which, in every sense of the word, is a highly accurate judgment. They’ve never seen the gallery, but they have seen me working on the paintings. Drake was smart enough to leave while I was painting the nude. Sauli-he’s from Finland, by the way-hung on desperately through three paintings before finally realizing that my heart was never going to be his.”
“I think Drake understood better because he paints, too,” Allison theorized. “I’m not exactly fond of his colorful canvasses of breast-like blobs, but yeah, artists always understand a bit of each other.”
“I love how you’re just as much of a traditionalist as I am,” Adam beamed at her. “I’ve never been one for modern art, either. But yes, when I look back on things, I guess I was a little unfair to both of them. But once an artist is in love, he will never fall out of it. Kris had my heart in the palm of his hand even before I met either of them, and that was what they had to compete with all this time.”
“You sound like you regret nothing,” Allison observed.
“I do regret nothing,” Adam agreed. “But if I had not taken Tommy Ratliff’s offer, I think I would live the rest of my life regretting everything.”
“True love,” Allison sighed happily. “It’s always going to be there to stay. Gosh, I really hope he writes back! You’d let me read his response if he does, wouldn’t you?”
“You’d have my head on a silver platter if I didn’t,” Adam laughed. “I’m actually thinking of doing another painting of him; it’s been awhile since the last one.”
Allison looked intrigued. “Ooh, how are you going to portray him this time?”
“As he is,” Adam said softly, thinking of the photographs now scattered across his desk.
THE MUSE
May 5, 2011
Dear Mister Lambert,
Happy Cinco de Mayo! You do celebrate this holiday, right? Anyway, I just received your letter yesterday. It’s basically the highlight of my week; nothing much goes on in the life of a glee club moderator. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I should answer your letter, but it fell out of my folder when I was cleaning up my desk. I thought it would be rude not to answer, so here I am.
Your memory amazes me. Even I don’t remember what I was doing in front of that fountain; Milan seems like forever ago to me. I can’t even begin to digest the idea of knowing that my face has stayed with you for all these years. I mean, it’s flattering, but really…little old me? I’m a very ordinary person, Mister Lambert. I wake up at seven, have breakfast, walk to campus (the high school I teach at is not too far from my apartment), then teach my assigned music classes for the day. At three PM every Friday, I meet with my glee club kids, and we basically go through our assigned set lists or song assignments I give them the week before. Weekends? I don’t do much-walk my dog, jam with my college friends and hit the books. I don’t have much of a life, you see, so I don’t really get why you find me interesting. I’ve never come across as someone of interest here in the United States; I’m too ordinary for people to actually notice.
Your work is amazing. I’m totally ignoring the fact that I’m the subject of these sketches because I can be painfully awkward when I’m put under the spotlight, but all that aside, I think you’re really talented. I know next to nothing about art and its technicalities, but my eyes like what they see. Your works really are worth exhibiting, Mister Lambert; I don’t understand why you refuse to share all those paintings you did of me. I mean, I’m grateful that you’re sweet enough to not draw attention to me, but I think you should do something for yourself. If, in this way, I could mean something to you and the rest of the world, then, by all means, release ‘em into the wild. I wouldn’t mind.
I called Tommy as soon as I received your note, and he admitted he had been planning this all along. He worries an awful lot about me, and he thought this would be a good way to lift my spirits. Also, he’s very insistent on having me fly over to Milan for a holiday. I have suspicions that he’s trying to set us up, but don’t tell him I told you! I’m rarely able to guess what he has planned, so let me have the glory just this once. I’m actually considering it, you know? I haven’t seen him since he last visited me, and I have enough time to spare right now. Shall we meet at the Piazza?
Sincerely (‘without wax’),
Kris Allen
Spring of 2011
Cornell University
Los Angeles, California
“I hate you!” Kris Allen whined into the receiver. “Why did you have to go on ahead and give him my address? I just had to answer it because I thought it would be rude if I didn’t, so I did, and I think I sounded like a slut. The worst part is that I can’t take it back because I already mailed it!”
“But, honey, you are a slut,” Tommy said plaintively. “And, mind you, I’m doing you a favor by selling your soul to the one person who has spent a quarter of his life dedicated to you. I can no longer deal with hearing your sad voice on the phone telling me the story of how so-and-so dumped you for another guy, another girl or his pet octopus.”
“What makes this any different?” Kris asked glumly. “For all you know, he’ll change his mind as soon as he meets a much cuter guy at the fountain-they’re all like that, anyway.”
Tommy sighed. “Kris Allen-ye of little faith. Have I ever pushed you into doing something that would hurt you? Never. You just have to trust me on this. I met the man last week; he’s not bad at all.”
“Are you certain he’s not the kind of artist who rarely bathes and smokes pot all day instead?”
“Would I have gone into his house if that was all he did?”
“…no.”
“There you go.”
“You could have at least sent me a photograph,” Kris argued. “Cale was with you, right? Why didn’t you have him take a photo of le artiste?”
“Because I know what kind of men you’re into, and he fits the bill perfectly,” Tommy replied tartly. “Think tall, pale and handsome. Knowing you, you’re going to want to rake your hands through his hair and count his freckles until you’re sure you’ve memorized that number in your head.”
“He’d better be worth it,” Kris warned. “I’m booking the earliest flight out; make sure you’re at the airport waiting for me when I arrive.”
“I promise,” Tommy said solemnly. “Because you, my little peanut, will be lost without me. Email me your flight information, alright? Don’t forget.”
“Kay,” Kris said with a smile. “See you soon, man. Say hi to the boyfriend for me.”
He placed the receiver back on its cradle and breathed in deeply in an attempt to soothe his frazzled nerves. Kris was no stranger to attention from men; there would always be one or two that would shoot him an appreciative glance on the street, and he had his fair share of ex-almost-boyfriends to provide him a few years’ worth of headaches. Kris had never fallen short of admirers (and unlucky relationships), but he had never quite encountered someone who had remembered him enough to paint him again and again.
Short of saying, he had never dealt with an artist before.
Adam Lambert’s letter had been the most interesting from the pile the neighborhood mailman had left on his doorstep. Nestled among the bills and discount coupons was a strange-looking ecru envelope covered in the sender’s loopy handwriting. Kris had thought it was intended for someone else when he first picked it up; Tommy and Cale were the only people he knew from Milan, and they certainly preferred phone calls and emails as opposed to slow correspondence by traditional letter writing. Heck, Kris didn’t even get actual letters in the mail anymore; those had stopped when his third-grade pen pal stopped writing to him. After much consideration, he had finally decided to read the letter, and had been both shocked and touched by its content. Though his expertise lay in lines and colors, Lambert certainly had a way with words. He had ever so ardently spoken of his affections for Kris and had even included what he said were his first sketches of him. It was rather unnerving to see his likeness etched out on paper, but the letter had stirred emotions inside of him that he had not felt in quite awhile.
To desire and to be desired. Kris had never experienced such in his life.
“This is why I have so many exes-but-not-really-exes in my life,” he moaned pathetically. “A few sweet words and I am a total goner! Tommy’s right; I’m gullible.”
“Are you talking to yourself again, poppet?”
Brad Bell, the gym teacher (he liked staring at the kids in their sporting team uniforms) and Kris’ self-proclaimed best friend, perched expectantly on his desk, his eyes giving Kris the infamous you-owe-me-a-story look. And knowing Brad, it was much safer to tell him stories than to hide them for him.
“I got a love letter,” Kris said bluntly. “From an artist in Milan.”
“Sweet pea, that is so romantic!” Brad cooed. “Was he someone you met when you were on holiday? Why didn’t you tell me you had a wild, passionate love affair with a Milanese artist?”
“Brad, he’s not even a native,” Kris chuckled. “He’s from the United States, too; he just moved there for formal art lessons. Also, we’ve never met-he just saw me at the Piazza, and somehow thought that I was, uhm, attractive. Consequently, he’s…well, he’s been painting me for years.”
Brad’s eyes widened. “That is insane! This doesn’t happen outside movies and books!”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Kris sighed. “Tommy actually set me up with him; he was at Mister Lambert’s house for an interview last week because he found sketches of me at the university he taught at. Now, he’s inviting me to fly over for a visit and to actually meet the guy. You think I should?”
“You’re fucking with me,” Brad accused. “Knowing your level of gullibility and yearning to be romanced, I’m sure you’ve already said yes. Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to take a chance. You’ve been so unhappy because of your terrible luck in love; I think you need to get out of this toxic space and live a little. If this guy has been painting you for as long as you said he is, then he must be ridiculously in love with you. Since there’s nothing waiting for you here, I suggest you follow your heart and go; the kids in glee club will be fine without you for a few weeks.”
“You don’t think I’m insane for putting my life on hold for this?”
Brad beamed at him. “Baby, I think you’re motherfucking crazy! But that’s what love is all about, right? It would be so boring if we stayed on the safe side of the road all the time. I’d much rather get hit by a ten-wheeler truck while running down a busy street.”
“Be warned; this may not end the way you expect it to,” Kris reminded him. “Real life isn’t a movie, Brad. The hero doesn’t always end up with the lonely, pathetic schoolteacher.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “Who isn’t actually lonely and pathetic to begin with. Honestly, sweet pea; we think you are amazing-stop saying you’re not. Without you, the kids of glee club would be lost. Heck, I wouldn’t have such a great friend who willingly deals with all my eccentricities if I didn’t have you. This mysterious artist person thingy obviously thinks you’re interesting; people would never spend years painting subjects they didn’t find interesting. You so need to go.”
“Fine,” Kris grumbled. “I will-just don’t expect a phone call from me containing the details of what you presume to be the romance of the century or something.”
“I expect nightly phone calls nonetheless,” Brad said crisply. “Unless you’re busy having sex. That’s the only acceptable excuse for not calling me.”
“Of course you’d be interested in me having sex,” Kris groaned. “I think half of the teachers in this school are interested in me having sex-which is totally creepy, might I add.”
Brad snorted. “You look like the world’s prettiest munchkin; of course they would be interested. Do you know that the new social studies teacher has been eyeing you for weeks now?”
“You mean Trent Richton?” Kris wrinkled his nose. “Not my type, man.”
“Because your artist admirer fits your type,” Brad snickered. “Once Kris Allen has found his Prince Charming, no one else will ever be able to compare.”
“One more word about my lack of sex and you can forget your free lunch,” Kris said threateningly. “I’m actually serious about this.”
“Like you’d actually let me starve!” Brad declared, looping his arm through Kris’. “Come on; there’s a chicken Caesar salad in that cafeteria with my name on it.”
“What about having a piece of my big, fat juicy burger instead?” Kris teased him.
“Sweet pea, some of us actually care about the toxins that travel through our bloodstream,” Brad glared at him. “Ever since I started dating Cassidy, we’ve had nothing but salads and tea during mealtime; it’s all very refreshing. You should try his organic herb shakes.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Kris chuckled. “Your sweet pea would much rather feast on his hamburgers and vanilla milkshakes; his taste buds are not as cultured as yours.”
“Someday, I am going to get you to see things my way,” Brad said, determined. “We are going to go on sabbatical together, and we will live on nothing but herbs and spring water.”
Kris rolled his eyes and punched Brad playfully in the shoulder, giggling as Brad tried to land a punch of his own on Kris. As comfortable as he was with his dull but decent lifestyle here, he found that he was willing to take a leap of faith for a stranger in Milan. After all, painting was a means of keeping a diary, and it was quite difficult to resist a man who had spent all these years telling stories about Kris in a world of lines, shapes and colors.
THE DREAM WEAVER
He asked me to meet him at the Piazza.
I sent that letter out with barely any hopes for a response, but here I am, clutching his letter to my chest with trembling hands-ah, the felony of a man in love, indeed. I find myself reading it over and over again, hardly able to contain my joy and my fear at the prospect of finally meeting my muse.
In the meantime, I shall paint.
My latest creation will not be as fancy as the rest of the pieces in my Kris collection; I will resist the pull of my imagination this time. I have the photos to rely on, and I will use this chance to paint what I have failed to capture the first fifteen times. I shall go into detail and recreate the quiet majesty of his blinding beauty to the best of my abilities, for this will mark the very first occasion of me borrowing images from photographs. You cannot recreate perfection, after all. You can only borrow it and imitate it, and somehow end up creating something that isn’t quite what you were aiming for, but somehow ends up becoming much more meaningful to you.
Tommy Ratliff telephoned me at tea time this afternoon. He said that Kris’ plane would be arriving in two days, and that Kris would call me as soon as he was ready to meet. I also received an earful of warnings, as Signor Ratliff is rather protective of his cousin-that is, in my opinion, only fair since I am but a stranger. I would never do anything that might harm him, though. My love for the man is certainly irrational, but it is nonetheless an honest one with no ill intentions. I have starved for him for years, so even a glimpse of his face would already be a reward in itself. The common man’s first instinct is to ravage, but an artist’s first instinct is to look.
To be granted the permission to touch is something else entirely.
I shall not abuse my good fortune.
Spring of 2011
Lambert Manor/Piazza del Duomo
Milan, Italy
Eleven-thirty at the Piazza del Duomo.
That was what Kris had said in the message he had left with Allison the other afternoon. As promised, he had called, but Adam had been out painting, so Allison ended up taking the message for him. According to her, Kris probably chose to leave a message over the idea of calling back as so not to appear too desperate to hear from Adam. She said it was a tactic women liked to use, and it was not uncommon for some men to resort to it as well.
Because he knew next to nothing about romance (Drake and Sauli did not count; he had never courted either of them), Adam decided to take her word for it and freshen up as best as he could. Since Adam rarely left his home for purposes other than attending gallery shows, he had seen little use for his dressier clothes and often ignored them in favor of vintage tees and faded jeans. Earlier that day, Allison had pulled out one of his leather jackets and button-down shirts from the closet he rarely touched, refusing to budge until he put on her chosen ensemble. When she was finally satisfied with how he looked, she sent him out the door with a warning not to overwhelm Kris with his arduous affections.
“I also drove your Mustang to the carwash yesterday!” she yelled from her bedroom window. “We don’t want him thinking you’re a madman just because your car looks like it took a hike and never came back. Promise me you won’t drive through the mud puddles looking for shortcuts again!”
“Alli, I know where the piazza is,” Adam said patiently, perching his aviators on the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been driving out there for years now, so I can promise you that I won’t be using any of my back alley shortcuts this time around. I will be perfectly fine, and you won’t have to worry about me.”
“Should I prepare dinner for three?” Allison asked with an impish grin.
“Don’t get your hopes up, young lady,” Adam admonished her. “If I don’t tell you otherwise, dinner will go on as usual. Now, be a good girl and try not to drown the plants when you water them.”
Heaving a sigh, he got into his car and turned the key in its ignition, hoping that he wouldn’t run into any interruptions along the way. It was one thing to run late to meet with a friend, but it was another thing to show up late for a meeting with a stranger he was madly in love with. As an afterthought, he had decided to leave early to buy some flowers for gifting purposes. He had no idea if Kris was a flowers kind of man, but he felt terribly unprepared leaving empty-handed and figured they would make a nice gesture nonetheless. He knew it was silly to feel nervous about the whole ordeal, but he had been brought up in a society of grand gestures, and the romanticist in him was far more stubborn than the rest of the elements that made up the totality of Adam Lambert.
“Adam Lambert! It’s a surprise to see you out of the Batcave this early!”
Adam smiled and raised his hand in greeting, following through with a shrug that was a clear indication of what-can-you-do. On occasion, he enjoyed going out to buy some flowers to brighten up the mansion, and Stori’s had always been his favorite shop. The owner, Danielle Stori, knew him quite well and enjoyed teasing him about his lack of a love life, among other things.
“Good day to you, Miss Stori.” Adam paused to kiss her hand. “I haven’t seen you in awhile.”
“And we know whose fault that is,” Danielle said teasingly. “It appears Alisan wasn’t kidding when she told me she passed the infamous Mustang on her way to the galleria.”
“Should I be driving a less conspicuous car, then?” Adam queried.
“Then you wouldn’t be our resident Italian-but-not-Italian artist,” Danielle laughed. “Anyway, which part of your stately home needs some brightening up today?”
“Oh, I’m actually making a purchase for a human being today,” Adam grinned. “And it’s not Allison.”
Danielle looked intrigued. “Are you saying you’re out on a date this time? Because that, good sir, is the only suitable explanation for the nice clothes and the newly-washed car.”
“Let’s just say I’m meeting a long-lost friend at the piazza,” Adam explained, not wishing to give too much away lest misfortune claim his soul. “I don’t wish to show up empty-handed, so I figured some blooms from your shop would be a nice present.”
Danielle beamed at him. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I have just the thing; follow me.”
Adam stepped underneath the striped awning and busied himself in the main room while Danielle went out back to look for whatever it was she was looking for. He was just about to fill out an order for an extra bouquet of sunflowers when Danielle emerged from the back with a sprig of assorted white, purple and fuchsia blooms.
“Baby’s breath, gladiolus, calla lilies and lisianthus,” she informed him. “All yours, one-hundred percent free. I was working on new arrangements this morning, and this is one of the few that I actually liked. I was going to give it to my fiancé’s mother at dinner tonight, but I figured you would need it more.”
“Are you certain?” Adam asked hesitantly. “It’s perfect, and I’m sure your fiancé’s mother would love it. I don’t want you to have to go out of your way on my account.”
“Your mystery friend would love it even more,” Danielle goaded him gently. “I can treat my future mother-in-law to a nice bouquet of flowers anytime, but from the looks of things, this meeting is very important to you and you want to put your best foot forward. Go on, Adam. Take them.”
Adam bowed low. “You have my eternal gratitude. Do set aside some arrangements for my home later; I’ll have Allison run over and pick them up later.”
“Done and done.” Danielle winked at him. “Best of luck to you!”
Heart hammering in his chest, Adam headed back to his car and drove straight to the piazza, thinking (for some bizarre reason) of Cinderella and the pumpkin she had been left with after midnight. Somehow, he had managed to find a convenient parking spot by the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, so he had managed to cross the square to the fountain with two minutes to spare.
When it came to engagements of value, Adam Lambert was a very punctual sort of person.
Realizing that Kris Allen did not have a clue as to how he looked, he would have to be the one to do the approaching. It would be much easier if Kris would somehow just walk up to the fountain; a more dramatic entrance would steal the breath from Adam’s lungs and possibly kill him in the process.
“Goodness gracious, what have I gotten myself into?” he muttered aloud. “I know who I’m looking for, but I don’t know how to catch his attention without making a complete fool of myself. Perhaps I should have brought Allison along. Or I should have asked Signor Ratliff to escort him here.”
He felt a hesitant tap on his shoulder. “Mister Lambert?”
Adam whirled around to see his mortal Apollo standing behind him, looking every bit the American boy in a rumpled white Henley and a pair of faded jeans. He was smiling shyly up at Adam, shifting his weight from foot to foot in probable paranoia of getting things wrong. It was with great difficulty that Adam chose to hold out his hand in a gesture of politeness instead of lifting him off the ground and peppering his lovely face with kisses.
“You are Mister Adam Lambert, right? Tommy told me to go look for a tall, dark-haired man in ridiculously extravagant clothing. You, uhm, look fairly normal at the moment, so I wasn’t sure I had the right man. Still, no one else around here seems to fit the description he gave me.”
“He must have thought I wear outlandish clothing outside of the home,” Adam said with a chuckle. “I had one of my fur-lined jackets laid out in the sitting room where we had our little talk; that must have influenced his ideas. But yes, you have the right man, signor-I am, indeed, the wayward artist.”
He took a moment to drink in Kris’ natural beauty, pleased at how much brighter his eyes were in actuality. Indeed, the photographs had failed to do him justice.
“Do pardon me for drinking my fill,” he apologized. “As you know from my letter, it has been years since I last saw you in the flesh. The chance to meet their muse is a gift that very few artists receive, and I am really quite more shaken than I appear to be. I’m just glad that I did not scare you off.”
“Don’t worry about it, sir,” Kris replied with a self-conscious grin. “I wasn’t lying when I said I found it very flattering. It’s nice to have someone say really sweet things about you when your life isn’t the most exciting thing in the world; my best friend wouldn’t stop swooning when I told him the story.”
“Please feel free to call me by my first name,” Adam requested. “I don’t want to be a stranger to you.”
“I wouldn’t want that, either,” Kris said warmly. “So you’ll be Adam, and I’ll be Kris.”
“I’m really quite delighted to make your acquaintance, Kris,” Adam confessed, stooping down to press a kiss to his knuckles. “And welcome to my beautiful city of Milan.”
“I don’t blame you for wanting to stay here,” Kris sighed, helping himself to a large spoonful of decadent chocolate pudding. “The food in this place is amazing! I could stuff myself all day.”
Adam chuckled softly and helped himself to another glass of wine, pleased at how much Kris seemed to be enjoying the city. As soon as they had smoothed over the pleasantries, Adam invited him to dine at the Primafila, a restaurant not far from Duomo. Kris had taken one look at the menu, laughed, and asked Adam to order in his stead, confessing that his Italian was very poor and he only knew one word-scarpe, which was Italian for ‘shoe’. He had laughed quite a bit when Adam told him about scarpe being an integral part of his basic Italian vocabulary because he loved shoes so much.
In turn, Kris had told him a bit more about his life as a teacher in LA. Adam learned that he had parents named Neil and Kim, a younger brother named Daniel, a best friend named Brad, and a French bulldog named Zorro. He had also told Adam a bit about the glee club he coached after school and how they were qualified for regionals that year. Kris’ favorite of the bunch was his female soloist, Pia Toscano, a young woman with a voice so amazing she could make atheists cry while singing mass songs. Adam had found himself so caught up in Kris’ stories that he felt like he had somehow been a part of them.
“I must have bored you out of your skin!” Kris exclaimed. “I’m so, so sorry! I don’t usually talk so much, but you kinda made it so easy for me to go on and on and on.”
Adam placed a hand on his arm. “No, no-I find this all very charming, in fact. It’s rare that I find someone who would readily open up to me, so don’t even allow yourself to think that you bored me. I was very entertained, and I felt like I was very much a part of your life.”
“That’s…wow.” Kris’ face was flushed. “Tommy was right; you do have a way with words.”
“You fascinate me,” Adam confessed. “You’re not just a beauty on the outside, but on the inside as well. Your stories do nothing but fuel my creative spirit and add so much more depth to the picture that I carry of you. Kris Allen, would you give me the honor of allowing me to paint you as you are? I’m not asking for forever, just a bit of your time while you’re here in Milan.”
“Are you sure?” Kris asked uncertainly. “I’ve never modeled before. I might be terrible at it.”
“Darling, I’ve been painting no one and nothing but you for the past several years,” Adam declared emphatically. “You cannot be terrible if you are the only person that inspires me. You are my muse, Kris Allen-perfect and irreplaceable to this artist’s heart.”
“Oh god!” Kris exclaimed. “You’re going to end up getting down on one knee in front of all these people if I continue to protest, aren’t you?”
Adam arched an eyebrow. “You watch far too many movies for your own good, my dear. I value my pride dearly, so you won’t have to worry about me getting down on my knees in front of all these strangers. I will, however, find a way to get you to agree to me. A dash of superfluous, romantic words, perhaps? I hear those can go a long, long way.”
“Like Shakespearean sonnets?” Kris asked. “I don’t know, man; I doubt they work on people outside literature courses. A guy tried to court Brad using a passage from one of old Will’s plays, and it did not go well at all.”
Adam blanched. “Please tell me the bloke was at least smart enough to quote Romeo and Juliet or A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”
“Not even close,” Kris said with a shake of his head. “Tell me, how much do you know about a play called King Lear?”
“Enough to want to throw a vase at that idiot,” Adam replied sagely. “King Lear is one of William Shakespeare’s most famous tragedies. I don’t recommend it for courtship purposes unless your friend gets turned on by listening to eulogies.”
“It sounded very, very sad and also very, very boring,” Kris admitted. “Brad fell asleep after a few lines.”
“I don’t blame him at all,” Adam declared. “Love is many a splendored thing; it lifts us up where we belong. All we need is love! And I freely admit to stealing that line.”
“It works, though,” Kris chuckled. “So, what’s your idea of romance?”
“I have high respects for tradition, my darling,” Adam replied. “Just in case you have failed to notice, I have already executed steps one and two of my carefully-crafted plan to romance you: the flowers and the romantic lunch at an authentic Italian restaurant.”
“You European-bred gentlemen sure do everything differently,” Kris said with a grin. “The last time someone took me on a romantic date, our sailboat capsized in the lake. It turned out that he wasn’t a very skilled swimmer, so I had to drag him to shore with the help of an inner tube.”
Adam was aghast. “That’s not romance; that’s a travesty! We need to make up for all those bad dates you had to go through. Come, we’re going to Serravalle to get you some authentic Milanese designer clothing! You look like you’re going to freeze to death in that Henley.”
“But I don’t have that much money!” Kris protested. “I don’t want to be indebted to you, either.”
“Oh, we’re not going to those ritzy, expensive designer boutiques,” Adam said dismissively, tossing a few Euros on the tabletop. “We’re going to outlet stores which means we’re after vintage pieces at half the price or maybe even less. You should at least let me get you a nice coat; I’ve dragged you halfway around the world, so I need to give you something to remember Milan by in return.”
“It’s not like I’m going to forget anything,” Kris assured him. “Also, don’t talk about me leaving yet; I just got here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Ah, so we have a bit of the attention-seeking spirit in you, eh?” Adam asked teasingly.
“Not all the time, man,” Kris rolled his eyes. “I just don’t like the feeling of being ignored. Personally, I think everyone wants to feel that they mean something to someone from time to time. I wouldn’t want to carry the weight of the world’s attention on my shoulders like those ultra famous celebrities, but it’s nice to feel needed by someone, don’t you think?”
Adam heaved in a breath and gripped both of Kris’ hands in his. “Well, Mister Allen, you’re looking at the man that needs you most.”
(PART TWO)
Author: lady_michaelis , Artist: cassandra_ml , Beta: eirana_regan
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen, Cale Mills/Tommy Joe Ratliff
Rating: R
Genre: AU - romantic comedy, chick flick-ish
Word Count: 18,950
Warnings: Sexual content, language
Summary: For this artist, there is only one muse.
Disclaimers: Oh, you know what I’m supposed to write for this segment.
Note: For the Kradam Big Bang. The story is slightly inspired by Elizabeth Kostova’s The Swan Thieves, but mostly inspired by my love for art.
THE DREAM WEAVER
I’d like to think I became an artist because of da Vinci and the Mona Lisa.
When I was sixteen years old, my mother took me to the Musée du Louvre in hopes of tearing me away from ‘all the Chanel in the world’ and shelling out more euro than what we had originally planned. She had always believed that I had an eye for the beautiful and felt that I would enjoy the Louvre as much as I did the flagship stores of Jean Paul Gaultier and Christian Lacroix. In a sense, she was right; I was enraptured by nearly every work that I saw, knowing that they were created by the hands of masters who will continue to be remembered even long after my own death. The Venus de Milo, Nike of Samothrace, Borghese Vase, Caravaggio’s The Fortuneteller, da Vinci’s Madonna on the Rocks-I fell maddeningly in love with each and every one of them. In fact, I remember being so enamored of Leonardo da Vinci’s works that I allowed myself the liberty of saving his obra maestra for last. I’ve heard many things about La Joconde, and I have seen it far too many times in photographs to not know how it looks.
At first glance, the painting-which is quite small given its twenty-one by thirty inches, might I add-is nothing spectacular. One cannot even examine in closely because it is so heavily guarded due to attempts at theft and destruction in the past. The Mona Lisa, hanging on its own wall at the Salle de Etats, rests in a climate-controlled environment behind a panel of bulletproof glass that can be quite easy to miss if you are one of those-forgive me my words-uncultured, disinterested folks. I was barely out of my teens then, and my only reason for looking at it was backed by the logic that people were allegedly claiming it to be the most famous painting in the world. I remember standing in front of it and staring at it for hours, asking myself questions that art connoisseurs do not really ask themselves. If La Joconde is the most famous face in the realm of the great da Vinci, than could we rightfully refer to her as his muse? And if she is not Lisa del Giocondo as they claim her to be, is it a possibility that he could have just imagined her into existence?
The Master and La Joconde bothered me for days and days to come. Upon our return to the United States, I took to my own sketching and painting, discovering for my own the sheer joy that only an artist experiences and understands. I spent many days, weeks and months seeing Los Angeles with new eyes, learning how to translate her ill-fated beauty into intricately-woven tales on my sketchpad and canvasses. My mother, who had taken such a delight in my newly discovered passion, managed to secure an excellent reproduction of the Mona Lisa as a present for my eighteenth birthday. That very same night, I filled out an application form for the Academy of Fine Arts in Verona under Madame Lisa’s watchful gaze.
That, in a nutshell, is the story of how I became Adam Lambert, the dream weaver of Milan.
Spring of 2011
Lambert Manor
Milan, Italy
There were probably a hundred eyes in this room, and they all seemed to be watching him. Adam could almost feel them on his skin, as if he were wrapped in the warm embrace of a living person. Smiling, he paused in front of the largest of his fifteen canvasses and raised a palm in greeting.
“Good morning, my love.”
Adam’s muse gazed down at him from his place of honor above the fireplace, full pink lips jutting out in a delicious pout. Among all the paintings he had done of his beloved, this one had quickly become his favorite. It was a lovely oil painting of a remarkably beautiful naked young man sprawled sensuously across a gilded white divan in a botanical garden; his golden skin gleamed under the painted rays of sun, making him appear like a reincarnation of the divine Phoebus Apollo. What made him cherish it above all the rest was that he had relied heavily on his imagination and deep feelings of desire to create the image. After all, he had only ever seen the man once, and he had most certainly been clothed back then.
His student chose that inopportune moment to poke her head into the gallery, interrupting his internal monologue. “Adam? The journalist you’ve been expecting has just arrived.”
Adam nodded, pushing his long dark hair away from his face. “Good, good. Escort him into my sitting room, if you would be so kind. Grazie, Allison.”
As much as he loved his young protégé, he could not help but feel glad at the idea of having a few more precious seconds alone with the heart of his artwork. With the exception of young Miss Iraheta, no one had ever laid eyes on his private collection before-which was the very reason why he had been so keen on accepting an invitation from a journalist regarding an exclusive interview.
About a week ago, he had received a phone call from a Tommy Joe Ratliff from Affari Italiani expressing his interest in Adam’s obsession (that was exactly how he had worded his statement) with painting the golden boy. The call in itself had shocked Adam; he had never given consent for any of his work from this collection to be exhibited before. He had made quite a lot of demands regarding the subject matter, but Ratliff had outright refused to answer his questions unless he gave full consent to an in-depth interview about his art. Adam was extremely miffed about having to share some of his secrets to the Milanese populace, but getting Ratliff’s answers was far more important than keeping his age-old secrets. Having finally collected his bearing-or what he had left of it-he turned on his heel and walked into his sitting room.
“I see you are enamored by the Mona Lisa as well.”
The taller of the two men stepped away from the aforementioned portrait and extended a hand to Adam, his smile pleasant and unguarded. Adam liked him immediately. He was handsome in the classic American way and probably spent as much time in front of the camera as much as he did behind it. “I don’t know much about paintings, but I take pride in being cultured enough to appreciate fine art. Cale Mills, sir-I’m a photographer.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Mills.” Adam gripped his hand in a cordial handshake. “Which means your companion must be none other than Mister Ratliff himself. I’m quite familiar with your work, the both of you; just because one prefers to stay cooped up in his studio does not mean he ignores the papers.”
Tommy Joe Ratliff was a slight young man with a noble face and sharp brown eyes. His pale blond hair-bleached, as far as Adam could tell-was slicked back from his face, giving off the air of a young Slavic monarch despite being undoubtedly American. Following his colleague’s example, he rose to his feet and shook Adam’s outstretched hand.
“I’m glad you agreed to see us, signor,” he said politely. “People don’t usually show favorable responses in reaction to my unorthodox methods.”
“I agreed to have you come here because you hold the answers I need,” Adam replied. “But let’s not be strangers to each other, shall we? Please, sit. Allison will return with the tea any minute now.”
“Do you mind being photographed, Mister Lambert?” Mills asked him, pausing in the act of unzipping his camera bag. “Based on what I’ve seen and heard, you’re a very private person.”
“As long as you do not photograph the most sacred of my collections, then please feel free to take pictures of whatever it is that pleases you,” Adam replied. “And, please, call me Adam. I feel quite old when referred to so formally-I think of my father when I hear ‘Mister Lambert’.”
Ratliff gave him a small smile. “Adam it is, then. As I mentioned earlier, I recently found out that you stopped painting your usual landscapes around five or six years ago. I’m sorry if I sound like I’m jumping to a conclusion here, but I have this running theory that you’ve stopped painting scenic landscapes because you found a muse in a certain golden, god-like man.”
Adam drew in a sharp breath; Ratliff certainly knew how to steer an interview in the direction he clearly wanted it to go. “How did you find out about this?”
“Sketches and serendipity,” Ratliff replied simply, pulling a manila envelope out of his briefcase. “I was assigned to do a feature on you by my editor, and I thought I would be able to locate a goldmine of information at the university you graduated from and briefly taught at, so I flew to Verona last week. Imagine my surprise when your college dean asked if I wanted to see some sketches you left behind.”
Adam squeezed his eyes shut, knowing full well what the sketches Ratliff had obtained were of. His hands remained in his lap, unwilling to cut open old wounds he had worked so hard to staunch.
“Tea time, bruthas!” Allison chirped, breaking the uncomfortable silence with her contagious cheer. “Chamomile for Adam, jasmine for Signor Mills and black for Signor Ratliff-did I get everything right, or am I somehow missing something again? I threw in some scones for good measure.”
Adam smiled at her. “You’re wonderful, Alli. Thank you for bringing us refreshments. Now, run on back into the yard so you can do some more brushwork before the sun sets.”
“Aye-aye, captain. Don’t get too serious now, okay? It’s not good for your health.” she replied impishly, dashing back out as quickly as she came.
“Your black tea is most excellent, by the way,” Ratliff remarked. “I’m a bit of a purist when it comes to taking my tea, so it’s rare that I come across a brew that satisfies me immensely.”
“Allison is a blessing,” Adam said fondly. “She makes sure I leave my canvasses once in awhile for some food and decent human interaction. I don’t know where I would be without her.”
Ratliff shifted focus once more. “She told me she’s seen your private gallery numerous times, but she does not know the story behind it. Would you care to tell us the story of how such a deep affection for a stranger developed? In exchange, I have some information that will surely be of interest to you.”
“And what do you think could possibly interest me, kind sir?” Adam ventured.
“Information on the object of your affections, of course,” Ratliff answered. “If you would be so kind to start from the very beginning, we can easily connect the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together.”
Adam paused to consider for a moment. There was a possibility that Ratliff was playing his bluff, and Adam could very well end up with nothing if he let Ratliff control the game. He had to play his cards right and protect himself at the same time.
“I need to see proof that you can help me with my own cause first.”
“Well played, Signor Lambert.” Tommy reached into his briefcase for a thicker, older manila envelope. “I will give you something to hold on to for a few precious hours.”
Adam watched as he slid a glossy colored photo out of the envelope and placed it wordlessly on the table, brown eyes regarding him calmly as he reached out to take it in trembling hands. He knew those soft brown eyes all too well; he had painted them hundreds of times over from memory and imagination. Reverently, he traced the full, flesh-bitten lips with his fingers, realizing that he had failed to recreate the ridges his teeth had left on his bottom lip. It was both electrifying and heartbreaking to be finally faced with the real image of someone he had spent all those years recreating on canvass.
“…where did you get this?” he asked hoarsely.
“It’s from his graduation ceremony a few years back,” Ratliff explained. “Do you know that he made it into the Ivy League? Nobody ever thought he would get into Cornell, but he did, and graduated cum laude with a degree in music. That year you saw him here in Milan? He was on holiday.”
“That was in the summer of 2007,” Adam said faintly. “I was painting at the Piazza del Duomo when I saw him pass by. He was-he was at the fountain, making a wish. He took my breath away, for some reason. I watched him the whole time he was there, and by the time he left, I memorized what I needed to know. Since then, he’s been all that I could paint. Sometimes, when I feel like I’m forgetting something, I substitute by imagining things. I don’t believe my later works are as accurate as the earlier ones, but they all retain his essence.”
He shifted his attention to the photo again, soaking in the details he had not been able to see nor remember from five years ago. There was a wide smile on his love’s face, apparently joy at finally being able to leave the halls of his university-the joy of achieving something important to him.
He turned back to Ratliff. “Could you at least tell me his name?”
“It’s Kris,” Ratliff replied. “Kris Allen. He’s my cousin, you see.”
Adam drew in a breath. He had not been expecting to hear such a thing.
“I now understand why you were so insistent on meeting me,” he said shakily. “You must have wanted to meet the pervert who was so fond of drawing your cousin. I apologize.”
“You should never apologize for your art, signor,” Mills cut in. “Being a photographer, I understand your obsession with what inspires you-if it gets us drawing, if it gets us painting, if it gets us taking pictures, we willingly fall victim to whatever it is. Art can kill you, but you’d rather die doing it than spend your lifetime not knowing how it feels to be inspired like a madman.”
“My thoughts exactly, Mister Mills,” Adam agreed. “If it was simply a one-time thing, then it would have stayed a one-time thing. Otherwise, it’s inspiration in the flesh. He’s stayed with me for all these years; I was beginning to think I’ve become mentally ill.”
“Would it be alright to ask if we can see the gallery?” Ratliff asked. “I promise I won’t be writing about it. Cale has already sworn to you that he will not photograph any of your paintings.”
“Well, you do have a right granted that you are related to him,” Adam consented, rising to his feet. “Come, follow me. Since you are fellow artists in your own right, I’m sure you will understand.”
He motioned for them to follow him through the double doors he had emerged from earlier-the veil between reality and fantasy. This room was unlike any other in his stately mansion; he had converted the dome-shaped room on the ground floor from a chapel to a special gallery for his private collection. It was certainly the most spectacular room in his home. He had all the canvasses encased in custom-made gilded frames and had mounted them onto the walls himself. If one were to glance up at the domed ceiling, he would immediately notice Adam’s spectacular mural of Kris on the day he had laid eyes upon him, bent over the fountain in the Piazza, waiting on a wish that would hopefully come true someday.
“…this is spectacular, man,” he heard Mills say. “That mural up there? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in ages-man, you could be famous if you wanted to.”
“I painted that as soon as I arrived home from our brief non-encounter,” Adam admitted. “I could not fight the urge, as is evidenced by the paintings that surround you now.”
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Ratliff paused in front of the nude. “It shows in your vision and in your technique-a mix of Michelangelo’s Renaissance spirit and the flair of the Rococo era. Brilliant.”
Adam was impressed. “You know your terms; I am impressed-and I thank you for your praise.”
“The sight of this spectacle would be more than enough to make Kris flush,” Ratliff commented. “The boy is unaware of his own beauty-perhaps this would awaken him from that unconsciousness.”
Adam frowned. “What are you saying? I thought we agreed on complete secrecy.”
“Would you keep this secret from the man who inspired it all?” Ratliff queried. “I’m not asking you to send him one of these paintings; I’m asking if you would so kindly consider writing him a letter you could enclose with your old sketches. He’s been quite bored and lonely as of late, and I feel he could use some cheering up. Think of your love, signor. Would you like to think of him as unhappy?”
“…no,” Adam admitted. “No, I would not. Are you offering me a chance to correspond with him?”
Cale laughed. “Tommy’s not that terrible a person, sir. He may look and act in ways that would make one think otherwise, but he’s a closet sweetheart. He loves his little cousin; he’d do anything to make Kris smile the way he used to.”
“Thanks for giving me away, you bastard,” Ratliff said without spite. “But yes, he is right; I worry about Kris. I personally think you would also be doing yourself a favor if you allow yourself to open communication with him. He’s the one you’ve been searching for all this time, so why not take a risk?”
“Am I not missing anything here?” Adam asked, skeptical. “You do not seek anything in exchange?”
Ratliff shook his head. “Seeing Kris happy and alive again would be more than enough.”
“You’re certain he won’t think I’m a stalker?” Adam asked sharply. “I don’t want to scare him by making such bold moves. The affections of an artist can be quite overwhelming.”
Ratliff smirked. “I think you’re capable enough to handle that, Mister Lambert. Just say the word, and I will have his home address scribbled down on a sticky note before you can even say ‘Kris Allen’.”
Adam took a minute to weigh his options; a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’. Agreeing to this would mean crawling out of the fantasy world he had built for himself and his golden boy, and disagreeing would mean losing the one chance he had of ever meeting the boy he had loved for years. He gazed up at the fresco, feeling a pang in his heart as he thought of Kris-god, finally, a name after so long-without the sparkle in his eyes and the breathtaking smile on his face.
What was it that you wished for back then?
“Fuck, who am I kidding?” he muttered. “Tell me what I need to know before I change my mind.”
Ratliff cocked his head. “I knew you’d see things my way, signor.”
“I can’t believe it!” Allison squealed. “You’re actually going to write to someone that isn’t me-and the man you’ve been painting all these years, no less! I feel like I’m an extra in a movie.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, little one,” Adam warned her, dipping his quill into the ink bottle. “He may think I’m a creeper and tear up the letter as soon as it arrives.”
Allison rolled her eyes. “For someone who paints such bright pictures, you sure are pessimistic. Personally, I think you should just go for it. Not all artists are given the chance to meet their muses. Heck, most of the time, one of the two are already dead! You two are alive in the same century for some convoluted reason, so this must be a sign that you should do something about it.”
“You’re such a romantic, Alli,” Adam said fondly. “You should have a pair of lovers pose for you and see what you can make of it; I think you’ll do quite well.”
“I’ll wait.” Allison winked at him. “If I were to paint a pair of lovers, I’d want it to be you and Kris. That way, I’d have a lovely story to go with the painting. For now, I’ll stick to my water lilies.”
Adam grinned. “My little signorina Monet. I’m glad you demanded I take you in as a student. Now that you’re here, I can’t quite imagine my life without you.”
“Well, you’d probably be living off paint thinner and your incessant brooding!” Allison laughed. “We wouldn’t want that to happen, would we? In fact, I think you should take on one or two more aside from me. You have the means and the time, and it would bring in extra money. Art schools here in Milan are expensive; parents would save a lot more if they have their kids study under the tutelage of an expert in an informal setting. Of course, this is just me speaking-it’s your decision to make.”
“You really think I should?” Adam asked her. “I’m terrible at socializing with others. Heck, it took you weeks to finally get me to talk to you outside our lessons.”
“That’s because I’m charming and you’re a closet softie!” Allison stuck her tongue out at him. “And I really think it would help. Teaching more people would require you to leave your studio more often for a bit of fresh air outside the mansion grounds. You’re only twenty-nine, maestro; you’re not going to shrivel up and die anytime soon unless you magically fall onto a bed of spikes.”
Adam chuckled. “This is exactly why I keep you around. You keep me laughing, Allison. No one has been able to do that since my brother.”
“How is Neil, anyway?” Allison asked. “Last time I asked, you told me he was applying for an internship at the White House. How did that ever come along?”
“Well, because he is who he is, he got in,” Adam grinned. “He sent me an email yesterday venting about wanting to cut in during the congress sessions because his ideas are much more reasonable than theirs. Also, there was a bit-okay, a sentence-about having coffee thrice a week with one of his fellow interns. I asked him about it, but he chose not to answer. In short, my annoying little snot of a brother is dating.”
“Which is something you should be doing,” Allison shot back. “Whatever happened to the guy from Swaziland or Ireland, anyway? You stopped going out with him about a month ago.”
“Same reason why Drake left me two years back,” Adam said lightly. “They all say I’m emotionally unavailable, which, in every sense of the word, is a highly accurate judgment. They’ve never seen the gallery, but they have seen me working on the paintings. Drake was smart enough to leave while I was painting the nude. Sauli-he’s from Finland, by the way-hung on desperately through three paintings before finally realizing that my heart was never going to be his.”
“I think Drake understood better because he paints, too,” Allison theorized. “I’m not exactly fond of his colorful canvasses of breast-like blobs, but yeah, artists always understand a bit of each other.”
“I love how you’re just as much of a traditionalist as I am,” Adam beamed at her. “I’ve never been one for modern art, either. But yes, when I look back on things, I guess I was a little unfair to both of them. But once an artist is in love, he will never fall out of it. Kris had my heart in the palm of his hand even before I met either of them, and that was what they had to compete with all this time.”
“You sound like you regret nothing,” Allison observed.
“I do regret nothing,” Adam agreed. “But if I had not taken Tommy Ratliff’s offer, I think I would live the rest of my life regretting everything.”
“True love,” Allison sighed happily. “It’s always going to be there to stay. Gosh, I really hope he writes back! You’d let me read his response if he does, wouldn’t you?”
“You’d have my head on a silver platter if I didn’t,” Adam laughed. “I’m actually thinking of doing another painting of him; it’s been awhile since the last one.”
Allison looked intrigued. “Ooh, how are you going to portray him this time?”
“As he is,” Adam said softly, thinking of the photographs now scattered across his desk.
THE MUSE
May 5, 2011
Dear Mister Lambert,
Happy Cinco de Mayo! You do celebrate this holiday, right? Anyway, I just received your letter yesterday. It’s basically the highlight of my week; nothing much goes on in the life of a glee club moderator. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I should answer your letter, but it fell out of my folder when I was cleaning up my desk. I thought it would be rude not to answer, so here I am.
Your memory amazes me. Even I don’t remember what I was doing in front of that fountain; Milan seems like forever ago to me. I can’t even begin to digest the idea of knowing that my face has stayed with you for all these years. I mean, it’s flattering, but really…little old me? I’m a very ordinary person, Mister Lambert. I wake up at seven, have breakfast, walk to campus (the high school I teach at is not too far from my apartment), then teach my assigned music classes for the day. At three PM every Friday, I meet with my glee club kids, and we basically go through our assigned set lists or song assignments I give them the week before. Weekends? I don’t do much-walk my dog, jam with my college friends and hit the books. I don’t have much of a life, you see, so I don’t really get why you find me interesting. I’ve never come across as someone of interest here in the United States; I’m too ordinary for people to actually notice.
Your work is amazing. I’m totally ignoring the fact that I’m the subject of these sketches because I can be painfully awkward when I’m put under the spotlight, but all that aside, I think you’re really talented. I know next to nothing about art and its technicalities, but my eyes like what they see. Your works really are worth exhibiting, Mister Lambert; I don’t understand why you refuse to share all those paintings you did of me. I mean, I’m grateful that you’re sweet enough to not draw attention to me, but I think you should do something for yourself. If, in this way, I could mean something to you and the rest of the world, then, by all means, release ‘em into the wild. I wouldn’t mind.
I called Tommy as soon as I received your note, and he admitted he had been planning this all along. He worries an awful lot about me, and he thought this would be a good way to lift my spirits. Also, he’s very insistent on having me fly over to Milan for a holiday. I have suspicions that he’s trying to set us up, but don’t tell him I told you! I’m rarely able to guess what he has planned, so let me have the glory just this once. I’m actually considering it, you know? I haven’t seen him since he last visited me, and I have enough time to spare right now. Shall we meet at the Piazza?
Sincerely (‘without wax’),
Kris Allen
Spring of 2011
Cornell University
Los Angeles, California
“I hate you!” Kris Allen whined into the receiver. “Why did you have to go on ahead and give him my address? I just had to answer it because I thought it would be rude if I didn’t, so I did, and I think I sounded like a slut. The worst part is that I can’t take it back because I already mailed it!”
“But, honey, you are a slut,” Tommy said plaintively. “And, mind you, I’m doing you a favor by selling your soul to the one person who has spent a quarter of his life dedicated to you. I can no longer deal with hearing your sad voice on the phone telling me the story of how so-and-so dumped you for another guy, another girl or his pet octopus.”
“What makes this any different?” Kris asked glumly. “For all you know, he’ll change his mind as soon as he meets a much cuter guy at the fountain-they’re all like that, anyway.”
Tommy sighed. “Kris Allen-ye of little faith. Have I ever pushed you into doing something that would hurt you? Never. You just have to trust me on this. I met the man last week; he’s not bad at all.”
“Are you certain he’s not the kind of artist who rarely bathes and smokes pot all day instead?”
“Would I have gone into his house if that was all he did?”
“…no.”
“There you go.”
“You could have at least sent me a photograph,” Kris argued. “Cale was with you, right? Why didn’t you have him take a photo of le artiste?”
“Because I know what kind of men you’re into, and he fits the bill perfectly,” Tommy replied tartly. “Think tall, pale and handsome. Knowing you, you’re going to want to rake your hands through his hair and count his freckles until you’re sure you’ve memorized that number in your head.”
“He’d better be worth it,” Kris warned. “I’m booking the earliest flight out; make sure you’re at the airport waiting for me when I arrive.”
“I promise,” Tommy said solemnly. “Because you, my little peanut, will be lost without me. Email me your flight information, alright? Don’t forget.”
“Kay,” Kris said with a smile. “See you soon, man. Say hi to the boyfriend for me.”
He placed the receiver back on its cradle and breathed in deeply in an attempt to soothe his frazzled nerves. Kris was no stranger to attention from men; there would always be one or two that would shoot him an appreciative glance on the street, and he had his fair share of ex-almost-boyfriends to provide him a few years’ worth of headaches. Kris had never fallen short of admirers (and unlucky relationships), but he had never quite encountered someone who had remembered him enough to paint him again and again.
Short of saying, he had never dealt with an artist before.
Adam Lambert’s letter had been the most interesting from the pile the neighborhood mailman had left on his doorstep. Nestled among the bills and discount coupons was a strange-looking ecru envelope covered in the sender’s loopy handwriting. Kris had thought it was intended for someone else when he first picked it up; Tommy and Cale were the only people he knew from Milan, and they certainly preferred phone calls and emails as opposed to slow correspondence by traditional letter writing. Heck, Kris didn’t even get actual letters in the mail anymore; those had stopped when his third-grade pen pal stopped writing to him. After much consideration, he had finally decided to read the letter, and had been both shocked and touched by its content. Though his expertise lay in lines and colors, Lambert certainly had a way with words. He had ever so ardently spoken of his affections for Kris and had even included what he said were his first sketches of him. It was rather unnerving to see his likeness etched out on paper, but the letter had stirred emotions inside of him that he had not felt in quite awhile.
To desire and to be desired. Kris had never experienced such in his life.
“This is why I have so many exes-but-not-really-exes in my life,” he moaned pathetically. “A few sweet words and I am a total goner! Tommy’s right; I’m gullible.”
“Are you talking to yourself again, poppet?”
Brad Bell, the gym teacher (he liked staring at the kids in their sporting team uniforms) and Kris’ self-proclaimed best friend, perched expectantly on his desk, his eyes giving Kris the infamous you-owe-me-a-story look. And knowing Brad, it was much safer to tell him stories than to hide them for him.
“I got a love letter,” Kris said bluntly. “From an artist in Milan.”
“Sweet pea, that is so romantic!” Brad cooed. “Was he someone you met when you were on holiday? Why didn’t you tell me you had a wild, passionate love affair with a Milanese artist?”
“Brad, he’s not even a native,” Kris chuckled. “He’s from the United States, too; he just moved there for formal art lessons. Also, we’ve never met-he just saw me at the Piazza, and somehow thought that I was, uhm, attractive. Consequently, he’s…well, he’s been painting me for years.”
Brad’s eyes widened. “That is insane! This doesn’t happen outside movies and books!”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Kris sighed. “Tommy actually set me up with him; he was at Mister Lambert’s house for an interview last week because he found sketches of me at the university he taught at. Now, he’s inviting me to fly over for a visit and to actually meet the guy. You think I should?”
“You’re fucking with me,” Brad accused. “Knowing your level of gullibility and yearning to be romanced, I’m sure you’ve already said yes. Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to take a chance. You’ve been so unhappy because of your terrible luck in love; I think you need to get out of this toxic space and live a little. If this guy has been painting you for as long as you said he is, then he must be ridiculously in love with you. Since there’s nothing waiting for you here, I suggest you follow your heart and go; the kids in glee club will be fine without you for a few weeks.”
“You don’t think I’m insane for putting my life on hold for this?”
Brad beamed at him. “Baby, I think you’re motherfucking crazy! But that’s what love is all about, right? It would be so boring if we stayed on the safe side of the road all the time. I’d much rather get hit by a ten-wheeler truck while running down a busy street.”
“Be warned; this may not end the way you expect it to,” Kris reminded him. “Real life isn’t a movie, Brad. The hero doesn’t always end up with the lonely, pathetic schoolteacher.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “Who isn’t actually lonely and pathetic to begin with. Honestly, sweet pea; we think you are amazing-stop saying you’re not. Without you, the kids of glee club would be lost. Heck, I wouldn’t have such a great friend who willingly deals with all my eccentricities if I didn’t have you. This mysterious artist person thingy obviously thinks you’re interesting; people would never spend years painting subjects they didn’t find interesting. You so need to go.”
“Fine,” Kris grumbled. “I will-just don’t expect a phone call from me containing the details of what you presume to be the romance of the century or something.”
“I expect nightly phone calls nonetheless,” Brad said crisply. “Unless you’re busy having sex. That’s the only acceptable excuse for not calling me.”
“Of course you’d be interested in me having sex,” Kris groaned. “I think half of the teachers in this school are interested in me having sex-which is totally creepy, might I add.”
Brad snorted. “You look like the world’s prettiest munchkin; of course they would be interested. Do you know that the new social studies teacher has been eyeing you for weeks now?”
“You mean Trent Richton?” Kris wrinkled his nose. “Not my type, man.”
“Because your artist admirer fits your type,” Brad snickered. “Once Kris Allen has found his Prince Charming, no one else will ever be able to compare.”
“One more word about my lack of sex and you can forget your free lunch,” Kris said threateningly. “I’m actually serious about this.”
“Like you’d actually let me starve!” Brad declared, looping his arm through Kris’. “Come on; there’s a chicken Caesar salad in that cafeteria with my name on it.”
“What about having a piece of my big, fat juicy burger instead?” Kris teased him.
“Sweet pea, some of us actually care about the toxins that travel through our bloodstream,” Brad glared at him. “Ever since I started dating Cassidy, we’ve had nothing but salads and tea during mealtime; it’s all very refreshing. You should try his organic herb shakes.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Kris chuckled. “Your sweet pea would much rather feast on his hamburgers and vanilla milkshakes; his taste buds are not as cultured as yours.”
“Someday, I am going to get you to see things my way,” Brad said, determined. “We are going to go on sabbatical together, and we will live on nothing but herbs and spring water.”
Kris rolled his eyes and punched Brad playfully in the shoulder, giggling as Brad tried to land a punch of his own on Kris. As comfortable as he was with his dull but decent lifestyle here, he found that he was willing to take a leap of faith for a stranger in Milan. After all, painting was a means of keeping a diary, and it was quite difficult to resist a man who had spent all these years telling stories about Kris in a world of lines, shapes and colors.
THE DREAM WEAVER
He asked me to meet him at the Piazza.
I sent that letter out with barely any hopes for a response, but here I am, clutching his letter to my chest with trembling hands-ah, the felony of a man in love, indeed. I find myself reading it over and over again, hardly able to contain my joy and my fear at the prospect of finally meeting my muse.
In the meantime, I shall paint.
My latest creation will not be as fancy as the rest of the pieces in my Kris collection; I will resist the pull of my imagination this time. I have the photos to rely on, and I will use this chance to paint what I have failed to capture the first fifteen times. I shall go into detail and recreate the quiet majesty of his blinding beauty to the best of my abilities, for this will mark the very first occasion of me borrowing images from photographs. You cannot recreate perfection, after all. You can only borrow it and imitate it, and somehow end up creating something that isn’t quite what you were aiming for, but somehow ends up becoming much more meaningful to you.
Tommy Ratliff telephoned me at tea time this afternoon. He said that Kris’ plane would be arriving in two days, and that Kris would call me as soon as he was ready to meet. I also received an earful of warnings, as Signor Ratliff is rather protective of his cousin-that is, in my opinion, only fair since I am but a stranger. I would never do anything that might harm him, though. My love for the man is certainly irrational, but it is nonetheless an honest one with no ill intentions. I have starved for him for years, so even a glimpse of his face would already be a reward in itself. The common man’s first instinct is to ravage, but an artist’s first instinct is to look.
To be granted the permission to touch is something else entirely.
I shall not abuse my good fortune.
Spring of 2011
Lambert Manor/Piazza del Duomo
Milan, Italy
Eleven-thirty at the Piazza del Duomo.
That was what Kris had said in the message he had left with Allison the other afternoon. As promised, he had called, but Adam had been out painting, so Allison ended up taking the message for him. According to her, Kris probably chose to leave a message over the idea of calling back as so not to appear too desperate to hear from Adam. She said it was a tactic women liked to use, and it was not uncommon for some men to resort to it as well.
Because he knew next to nothing about romance (Drake and Sauli did not count; he had never courted either of them), Adam decided to take her word for it and freshen up as best as he could. Since Adam rarely left his home for purposes other than attending gallery shows, he had seen little use for his dressier clothes and often ignored them in favor of vintage tees and faded jeans. Earlier that day, Allison had pulled out one of his leather jackets and button-down shirts from the closet he rarely touched, refusing to budge until he put on her chosen ensemble. When she was finally satisfied with how he looked, she sent him out the door with a warning not to overwhelm Kris with his arduous affections.
“I also drove your Mustang to the carwash yesterday!” she yelled from her bedroom window. “We don’t want him thinking you’re a madman just because your car looks like it took a hike and never came back. Promise me you won’t drive through the mud puddles looking for shortcuts again!”
“Alli, I know where the piazza is,” Adam said patiently, perching his aviators on the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been driving out there for years now, so I can promise you that I won’t be using any of my back alley shortcuts this time around. I will be perfectly fine, and you won’t have to worry about me.”
“Should I prepare dinner for three?” Allison asked with an impish grin.
“Don’t get your hopes up, young lady,” Adam admonished her. “If I don’t tell you otherwise, dinner will go on as usual. Now, be a good girl and try not to drown the plants when you water them.”
Heaving a sigh, he got into his car and turned the key in its ignition, hoping that he wouldn’t run into any interruptions along the way. It was one thing to run late to meet with a friend, but it was another thing to show up late for a meeting with a stranger he was madly in love with. As an afterthought, he had decided to leave early to buy some flowers for gifting purposes. He had no idea if Kris was a flowers kind of man, but he felt terribly unprepared leaving empty-handed and figured they would make a nice gesture nonetheless. He knew it was silly to feel nervous about the whole ordeal, but he had been brought up in a society of grand gestures, and the romanticist in him was far more stubborn than the rest of the elements that made up the totality of Adam Lambert.
“Adam Lambert! It’s a surprise to see you out of the Batcave this early!”
Adam smiled and raised his hand in greeting, following through with a shrug that was a clear indication of what-can-you-do. On occasion, he enjoyed going out to buy some flowers to brighten up the mansion, and Stori’s had always been his favorite shop. The owner, Danielle Stori, knew him quite well and enjoyed teasing him about his lack of a love life, among other things.
“Good day to you, Miss Stori.” Adam paused to kiss her hand. “I haven’t seen you in awhile.”
“And we know whose fault that is,” Danielle said teasingly. “It appears Alisan wasn’t kidding when she told me she passed the infamous Mustang on her way to the galleria.”
“Should I be driving a less conspicuous car, then?” Adam queried.
“Then you wouldn’t be our resident Italian-but-not-Italian artist,” Danielle laughed. “Anyway, which part of your stately home needs some brightening up today?”
“Oh, I’m actually making a purchase for a human being today,” Adam grinned. “And it’s not Allison.”
Danielle looked intrigued. “Are you saying you’re out on a date this time? Because that, good sir, is the only suitable explanation for the nice clothes and the newly-washed car.”
“Let’s just say I’m meeting a long-lost friend at the piazza,” Adam explained, not wishing to give too much away lest misfortune claim his soul. “I don’t wish to show up empty-handed, so I figured some blooms from your shop would be a nice present.”
Danielle beamed at him. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I have just the thing; follow me.”
Adam stepped underneath the striped awning and busied himself in the main room while Danielle went out back to look for whatever it was she was looking for. He was just about to fill out an order for an extra bouquet of sunflowers when Danielle emerged from the back with a sprig of assorted white, purple and fuchsia blooms.
“Baby’s breath, gladiolus, calla lilies and lisianthus,” she informed him. “All yours, one-hundred percent free. I was working on new arrangements this morning, and this is one of the few that I actually liked. I was going to give it to my fiancé’s mother at dinner tonight, but I figured you would need it more.”
“Are you certain?” Adam asked hesitantly. “It’s perfect, and I’m sure your fiancé’s mother would love it. I don’t want you to have to go out of your way on my account.”
“Your mystery friend would love it even more,” Danielle goaded him gently. “I can treat my future mother-in-law to a nice bouquet of flowers anytime, but from the looks of things, this meeting is very important to you and you want to put your best foot forward. Go on, Adam. Take them.”
Adam bowed low. “You have my eternal gratitude. Do set aside some arrangements for my home later; I’ll have Allison run over and pick them up later.”
“Done and done.” Danielle winked at him. “Best of luck to you!”
Heart hammering in his chest, Adam headed back to his car and drove straight to the piazza, thinking (for some bizarre reason) of Cinderella and the pumpkin she had been left with after midnight. Somehow, he had managed to find a convenient parking spot by the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, so he had managed to cross the square to the fountain with two minutes to spare.
When it came to engagements of value, Adam Lambert was a very punctual sort of person.
Realizing that Kris Allen did not have a clue as to how he looked, he would have to be the one to do the approaching. It would be much easier if Kris would somehow just walk up to the fountain; a more dramatic entrance would steal the breath from Adam’s lungs and possibly kill him in the process.
“Goodness gracious, what have I gotten myself into?” he muttered aloud. “I know who I’m looking for, but I don’t know how to catch his attention without making a complete fool of myself. Perhaps I should have brought Allison along. Or I should have asked Signor Ratliff to escort him here.”
He felt a hesitant tap on his shoulder. “Mister Lambert?”
Adam whirled around to see his mortal Apollo standing behind him, looking every bit the American boy in a rumpled white Henley and a pair of faded jeans. He was smiling shyly up at Adam, shifting his weight from foot to foot in probable paranoia of getting things wrong. It was with great difficulty that Adam chose to hold out his hand in a gesture of politeness instead of lifting him off the ground and peppering his lovely face with kisses.
“You are Mister Adam Lambert, right? Tommy told me to go look for a tall, dark-haired man in ridiculously extravagant clothing. You, uhm, look fairly normal at the moment, so I wasn’t sure I had the right man. Still, no one else around here seems to fit the description he gave me.”
“He must have thought I wear outlandish clothing outside of the home,” Adam said with a chuckle. “I had one of my fur-lined jackets laid out in the sitting room where we had our little talk; that must have influenced his ideas. But yes, you have the right man, signor-I am, indeed, the wayward artist.”
He took a moment to drink in Kris’ natural beauty, pleased at how much brighter his eyes were in actuality. Indeed, the photographs had failed to do him justice.
“Do pardon me for drinking my fill,” he apologized. “As you know from my letter, it has been years since I last saw you in the flesh. The chance to meet their muse is a gift that very few artists receive, and I am really quite more shaken than I appear to be. I’m just glad that I did not scare you off.”
“Don’t worry about it, sir,” Kris replied with a self-conscious grin. “I wasn’t lying when I said I found it very flattering. It’s nice to have someone say really sweet things about you when your life isn’t the most exciting thing in the world; my best friend wouldn’t stop swooning when I told him the story.”
“Please feel free to call me by my first name,” Adam requested. “I don’t want to be a stranger to you.”
“I wouldn’t want that, either,” Kris said warmly. “So you’ll be Adam, and I’ll be Kris.”
“I’m really quite delighted to make your acquaintance, Kris,” Adam confessed, stooping down to press a kiss to his knuckles. “And welcome to my beautiful city of Milan.”
“I don’t blame you for wanting to stay here,” Kris sighed, helping himself to a large spoonful of decadent chocolate pudding. “The food in this place is amazing! I could stuff myself all day.”
Adam chuckled softly and helped himself to another glass of wine, pleased at how much Kris seemed to be enjoying the city. As soon as they had smoothed over the pleasantries, Adam invited him to dine at the Primafila, a restaurant not far from Duomo. Kris had taken one look at the menu, laughed, and asked Adam to order in his stead, confessing that his Italian was very poor and he only knew one word-scarpe, which was Italian for ‘shoe’. He had laughed quite a bit when Adam told him about scarpe being an integral part of his basic Italian vocabulary because he loved shoes so much.
In turn, Kris had told him a bit more about his life as a teacher in LA. Adam learned that he had parents named Neil and Kim, a younger brother named Daniel, a best friend named Brad, and a French bulldog named Zorro. He had also told Adam a bit about the glee club he coached after school and how they were qualified for regionals that year. Kris’ favorite of the bunch was his female soloist, Pia Toscano, a young woman with a voice so amazing she could make atheists cry while singing mass songs. Adam had found himself so caught up in Kris’ stories that he felt like he had somehow been a part of them.
“I must have bored you out of your skin!” Kris exclaimed. “I’m so, so sorry! I don’t usually talk so much, but you kinda made it so easy for me to go on and on and on.”
Adam placed a hand on his arm. “No, no-I find this all very charming, in fact. It’s rare that I find someone who would readily open up to me, so don’t even allow yourself to think that you bored me. I was very entertained, and I felt like I was very much a part of your life.”
“That’s…wow.” Kris’ face was flushed. “Tommy was right; you do have a way with words.”
“You fascinate me,” Adam confessed. “You’re not just a beauty on the outside, but on the inside as well. Your stories do nothing but fuel my creative spirit and add so much more depth to the picture that I carry of you. Kris Allen, would you give me the honor of allowing me to paint you as you are? I’m not asking for forever, just a bit of your time while you’re here in Milan.”
“Are you sure?” Kris asked uncertainly. “I’ve never modeled before. I might be terrible at it.”
“Darling, I’ve been painting no one and nothing but you for the past several years,” Adam declared emphatically. “You cannot be terrible if you are the only person that inspires me. You are my muse, Kris Allen-perfect and irreplaceable to this artist’s heart.”
“Oh god!” Kris exclaimed. “You’re going to end up getting down on one knee in front of all these people if I continue to protest, aren’t you?”
Adam arched an eyebrow. “You watch far too many movies for your own good, my dear. I value my pride dearly, so you won’t have to worry about me getting down on my knees in front of all these strangers. I will, however, find a way to get you to agree to me. A dash of superfluous, romantic words, perhaps? I hear those can go a long, long way.”
“Like Shakespearean sonnets?” Kris asked. “I don’t know, man; I doubt they work on people outside literature courses. A guy tried to court Brad using a passage from one of old Will’s plays, and it did not go well at all.”
Adam blanched. “Please tell me the bloke was at least smart enough to quote Romeo and Juliet or A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”
“Not even close,” Kris said with a shake of his head. “Tell me, how much do you know about a play called King Lear?”
“Enough to want to throw a vase at that idiot,” Adam replied sagely. “King Lear is one of William Shakespeare’s most famous tragedies. I don’t recommend it for courtship purposes unless your friend gets turned on by listening to eulogies.”
“It sounded very, very sad and also very, very boring,” Kris admitted. “Brad fell asleep after a few lines.”
“I don’t blame him at all,” Adam declared. “Love is many a splendored thing; it lifts us up where we belong. All we need is love! And I freely admit to stealing that line.”
“It works, though,” Kris chuckled. “So, what’s your idea of romance?”
“I have high respects for tradition, my darling,” Adam replied. “Just in case you have failed to notice, I have already executed steps one and two of my carefully-crafted plan to romance you: the flowers and the romantic lunch at an authentic Italian restaurant.”
“You European-bred gentlemen sure do everything differently,” Kris said with a grin. “The last time someone took me on a romantic date, our sailboat capsized in the lake. It turned out that he wasn’t a very skilled swimmer, so I had to drag him to shore with the help of an inner tube.”
Adam was aghast. “That’s not romance; that’s a travesty! We need to make up for all those bad dates you had to go through. Come, we’re going to Serravalle to get you some authentic Milanese designer clothing! You look like you’re going to freeze to death in that Henley.”
“But I don’t have that much money!” Kris protested. “I don’t want to be indebted to you, either.”
“Oh, we’re not going to those ritzy, expensive designer boutiques,” Adam said dismissively, tossing a few Euros on the tabletop. “We’re going to outlet stores which means we’re after vintage pieces at half the price or maybe even less. You should at least let me get you a nice coat; I’ve dragged you halfway around the world, so I need to give you something to remember Milan by in return.”
“It’s not like I’m going to forget anything,” Kris assured him. “Also, don’t talk about me leaving yet; I just got here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Ah, so we have a bit of the attention-seeking spirit in you, eh?” Adam asked teasingly.
“Not all the time, man,” Kris rolled his eyes. “I just don’t like the feeling of being ignored. Personally, I think everyone wants to feel that they mean something to someone from time to time. I wouldn’t want to carry the weight of the world’s attention on my shoulders like those ultra famous celebrities, but it’s nice to feel needed by someone, don’t you think?”
Adam heaved in a breath and gripped both of Kris’ hands in his. “Well, Mister Allen, you’re looking at the man that needs you most.”
(PART TWO)