fic for acquiescence_: Safe as Houses

[moirariordan]

Title: Safe as Houses
Author: moirariordan
Characters/Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen, Kris/Brad Bell-ish
Prompts: Okay, um. The prompt called for future/arranged marriage fic, so I kind of took that and flipped it around and added hot sauce and this is what came out?
Word Count: ~10,750
Rating: nc-17
Warnings: infidelity, sort of/kind of?
Summary: "He's also my ex," Brad says with a peculiar sort of scowl. "So no, I don't particularly want to sit him down and tell him I had to pay someone to marry me."

So this is for acquiescence_ for kradam_holidays and I feel super bad for being so late with it, so I'm posting it now and probably confusing the poor mods. My apologies. It's late. I've been drinking wine. dansetheblues did beta work, cuz she's awesome.

Also, blame the balloons on pennilesspoet17.



He knew who Adam was before he met him-from pictures, the big photo albums that Brad keeps in the closet. And, well, Brad talks about him a lot anyway. Not that he ever comes right out and says who he's talking about, but well, Brad's not as subtle as he thinks he is.

It was intimidating, to meet him for the first time. Kris had a vision of the fierce man from the pictures, pissed off and jealous, all that energy and intensity focused on Kris, with less than benevolent intent, but all he gets is a rain-soaked dude with untied sneakers and runny eyeliner. You can't be intimidated by someone who spends fifteen minutes talking about glitter eye shadow. It's just not possible.

"So, you like him, right?" Brad demands, "because I don't think I can handle it if you disapprove of Adam. He's like, my Johnny. And I'm Penny. Just to clarify."

Kris pauses, oven door halfway open. "You're...this is a Dirty Dancing metaphor?" Brad nods impatiently, clicking his fingers. "Which one was Penny again?"

"The pregnant one! The dance partner? With the-Jesus, he's my best friend, okay? You're so boring."

Kris bites his lip viciously. There is no act of heaven or hell that will force him to reveal that he actually gets most of Brad's references. It's sort of the foundation of their relationship-Brad talks, Kris nods and smiles, Brad insults creatively. It's almost functional.

"So?"

"He's pretty cool," Kris comments.

"Pretty cool," Brad repeats, sounding unimpressed.

Kris shrugs, reaching in and pulling out the latest casserole attempt-there's something resembling celery, or maybe expired tater tots, he can't tell, and fried French onions. Lots and lots of fried French onions. And tomatoes.

"What," he says, "in the holy hell is this."

"I call it..." Brad pauses, dramatic effect, "Zombie Puke Casserole. Get it?"

"No. And I'm not eating it."

"It tastes pretty good. Adam and I used to make it all the time." Brad grins. "You know, back in our den of iniquity. Right before we'd fuck all night. While wearing women's clothing. And taking the Lord's name in vain."

Kris has to bite his lip viciously to keep the laugh, bubbling in his throat, from escaping. "Kinky."

Upstairs, the shower cuts off abruptly, and they both pause, glancing upwards simultaneously. When Kris's eyes fall back down to Earth, Brad's looking at him squarely, his serious face on. Which is still slightly mischievous, but on a scale of one to Brad, it's relatively somber, considering.

"You are okay with this, right? He can stay?"

"Of course he can," he says, right away, not having the heart to draw it out. "He doesn't have anywhere else to go."

"It'll just be for a little bit. Until he gets back on his feet."

"Brad," Kris says, and Brad's mouth quirks slightly, "I'm not the sort of guy who's gonna get all worked up about stuff like this. FYI."

"Well." Brad shakes his head slightly, sliding up next to Kris at the counter, picking a piece of unidentifiable something from the pan and blowing on it delicately. "FYI, I am."

"Noted." Kris watches in amusement as Brad employs a complicated maneuver to transfer the food from hand to mouth while simultaneously hissing in pain and blowing on it to cool the steam. "Do you need help?"

Brad smiles goofily, swallowing with what looks like a huge amount of effort. "With what, cowboy?"

Kris shakes his head, dodging a lazily wandering hand with a grin. "I'm ordering pizza."

"Don't you dare!" Kris makes a launch for the telescreen, only to be blocked by flailing arms and a well-placed kick to the shin. "I slave over a hot stove all day for you and this is the thanks I get-"

"Oh, fuck off, you went shopping."

"I had to make myself pretty for you, how else are you going to notice me?"

"I think I want Canadian bacon," Kris muses. "With extra grease."

Brad shudders. "Barbarian."

"Zombie Puke," Kris says pointedly.

"Adam's a vegetarian!" Brad says rather desperately. "Also if you never try anything new how are you going to expand your horizons?"

Kris hops over to the telescreen, pulling up the speed dial with a tap of the finger.

"Fine," Brad says, and crosses his arms sulkily. "Worst husband ever. I'm officially disappointed."

"I'm okay with that," Kris replies.

-

29 May 2147

Brad made me lunch. It kind of smells like whiskey. Wary of opening it. Will refrain from doing so until I acquire appropriate protective clothing.

Met the Ex, too. Wrote a song about black nail polish in my head on the way home from the aeroport-that one's probably not going to get written down.

-

Watching Adam and Brad shoot the shit for the first time is like watching a live comedy act. Kris can't keep up with them; they finish each other's sentences. He didn't think that happened in real life.

They eat dinner out on the balcony, Kris with his pizza and Adam and Brad with their disgusting glop puke casserole (Kris eventually does try a bite and it really does taste as bad as it looks), on the weird table and chair set that Brad dragged home one night at three in the morning, Kris isn't asking.

He's no less intimidating in person than in the photographs, though in a different way. The Adam in the photos had been flamboyant, always laughing or vamping for the camera, dressed in ridiculously colorful outfits that looked straight out of a glam rock music video. This Adam is put together, stylish but not over the top, with expensive-looking clothes and glinting silver jewelry on his wrists and fingers. He looks like someone that Kris would probably stare at in a bar or a club, wishing he had the confidence to walk up and introduce himself to. Like someone Kris would have a crush on, from afar. He's got a lip ring, too-Kris has a serious weakness for lip rings, it's really just unfair.

"So," Brad says decisively, during a lull in the conversation. "Kris is a musician. Adam, did I tell you that?"

Adam shakes his head. "Really?" He turns to look at Kris, a kind of odd expression on his face. Not a mean one, almost like, apprehensive. "Do you sing, or..."

"Yeah," Kris admits, with the bashfulness that he's never been able to quite get past. "And I play guitar. That's why-I mean, that's what I'm trying to do out here."

"He'll be the next big thing, I'm telling you," Brad gushes. "He's got a kind of-unassuming sound, I guess is the best way to put it. You don't really think much of it at first, but then he gets going and knocks you over with the awesome."

"That's cool," Adam says mildly. Kris doesn't think he sounds all that impressed. "I'm a singer, too. Just singing, though."

"You don't play anything?"

Brad guffaws loudly, and Adam narrows his eyes at him playfully. "Uh, no. You probably shouldn't even let me near your guitar, I might break it with my mere presence."

"Well, Brad's managed not to break it, I'm sure you'll be fine," Kris says wryly.

"He's teaching me," Brad says proudly. "I can rock the shit out of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. It's phenomenal."

Adam laughs loudly. "I cannot actually picture you with a guitar," he says. "That's a little mind-blowing."

"We have a trade system," Brad says. "He's teaching me guitar, I teach him how to cook. Although he's been incredibly ungrateful so far, I have to say."

"You cook?" Adam asks. "Like. Food?"

"No," Kris says firmly, at the same time Brad squawks, "I cooked this, bitch!"

"Okay but this is Zombie Puke, the point is that it's supposed to be gross," Adam says. "Remember we used to just pull out whatever we could find in the fridge and dump it all together?"

Brad leans in to Kris conspiratorially. "Our relationship was a little bit like summer camp. Only with sex."

"What kind of lame summer camp did you go to?" Kris asks, and feels a little curl of satisfaction at the loud laughter from both Brad and Adam.

"This is why I keep you around," Brad announces. Kris shrugs, scratching at his neck, a nervous tic. He can feel Adam's gaze on the side of his face, inquisitive and piercing.

Later, Kris watches from his perch on the bed as Brad runs through the nightly skin care regime in the bathroom, one foot propped on the cupboard door. Brad is always most comfortable in the most contorted positions-it sometimes physically hurts to watch him.

"So?" Brad asks. "That went well."

"I don't think he likes me," Kris muses. Brad makes a small noise of protest. "He kept giving me these looks like, 'who are you and where did you come from?'"

"Sweetie, he's scared as fuck of you," Brad says wryly. "You're very intimidating."

"What?" Kris asks, baffled. "Me?"

Brad grins. "I know, I know, I was surprised too."

"He's the one who's intimidating," Kris protests. "I feel like you should've charged me admission."

Brad grimaces apologetically. "It's easy to fall back into the pattern." Clicking the bathroom lamp off with one elbow, Brad meanders towards the bed, rubbing lotion into his arms briskly. "Besides, you're the one who came in out of nowhere and swept me off my feet."

Kris frowns. "You haven't told him?"

"No," Brad says carelessly. "Why would I?"

Kris's frown deepens.

"Don't look at me like that, it's not exactly the least embarrassing thing in the world."

Kris rolls his eyes. "Thanks."

Brad smiles at him uncaringly. "Oh, you're so sensitive. What, do you want me to tell him?"

"I dunno, I just figured since he's your Penny and all that you'd want to."

"He's also my ex," Brad says with a peculiar sort of scowl. "So no, I don't particularly want to sit him down and tell him I had to pay someone to marry me."

"That's not-" Kris starts, then thinks better of it. "You could at least tell him that it's a sham, or something."

Brad bites his lip. "Um, yeah, okayyy, no. You're welcome to, though."

"You don't care if he knows, but you don't want to tell him?"

"Welcome to human relationships," Brad says gaily.

-

19 March 2147

Brad says his ex lost his job and needs a place to stay, so. He's coming.

Mother-In-Law also wants to visit. Brad turned her down, in exchange for Christmas in Texas. Am now planning a strategic near-fatal accident sometime between 1 and 23 December.

Mama still won't take my calls. Getting tired of trying. Does that make me a bad person?

-

The thing about the marriage orders is that they really do make sense, in a totally mind-fuck sort of way.

Kris always liked history a lot, and he used to watch old documentaries on the old television that his dad had in the basement, educational stuff that the library gives away at the book sale every month. Films about poverty and globalization and environmental racism, the recessions and the HIV pandemic and tape of the political debates, footage from the old 24/7 news networks, where everyone just yelled at each other with the same exact look in all their eyes, like they'd cease to exist if they weren't the loudest one in the room.

It's one thing to sit in a class and take a test on the early 21st century and a whole other thing to watch footage of firefighters crying on 9/11. No wonder everyone was insane, Kris thinks.

So it's not like he wants the alternative, because the alternative was batshit, divorce statistics skyrocketing and suicide rates through the roof, poverty at a ridiculous level, no gender equity anywhere, homophobia and racism and sexism and everything else ingrained into the culture. The world Kris lives in, with its carefully ordered lines and articulated rules, may not be all that exciting sometimes, but everybody eats. Everybody has a warm bed to sleep in. That, at least, is guaranteed.

The marriage orders are new, anyway. Kris remembers when the act was passed in Congress-everyone stayed home from school to watch it. Kris had been only eight or nine at the time, and all he remembers is how his mother and father hadn't moved from the couch all day, watching the speeches on the telescreen. The President, who'd been against the act from the beginning, signed it into law under threat of a trade embargo from the Asian Alliances, and Kris still goes back and watches her speech sometimes, listens to her talk about a new cultural order.

Brad makes fun of him. His idea of cultural education is taking mushrooms and watching the screensaver on Kris's computer.

He still feels all awkward around Adam, though, since he doesn't know, and apparently Adam's intimidated by him since he thinks Kris is some Don Juan who popped out of nowhere and eloped with his ex-boyfriend. Without certain bits of vital information that Brad has apparently left out in his conversations with Adam, yeah, it does sort of seem like the plot of a really bad romantic comedy.

(Plus, Kris is a little intimidated at the thought of someone being intimidated by him. This is par for the course, since in the time since his marriage to Brad he's been finding new and exciting things to be intimidated by each day, but this is a little ridiculous, even for him.)

He decides to try and get to know the guy, at least. This is a good idea anyway since he's gonna be living with them for however long. It's only polite.

The first attempt is pretty miserable, though. He tries to start a conversation with him about breakfast cereal and gets a nearly-frantic apology for eating the last of the Cheerios. And then Adam goes shopping. And makes dinner. Kris would laugh if he didn't feel so guilty about it.

Brad thinks it's hilarious, because Brad is an asshole.

Kris is still out of work since his job at the restaurant fell through, and since Jimmy skipped town he's been having trouble finding gigs, so he's usually at home most days. Adam doesn't-can't-work either, though he seems to keep himself busy somehow, and he's got money to pitch in for food and other random things, from somewhere. This results in them both being in the apartment for the bulk of each day, kind of talking but not, mostly because Adam can't seem to look Kris in the eye and Kris is pretty crap with this kind of stuff, anyway.

Their conversations usually go something like this:

"Hi."

"Hey."

"Nice weather, huh?"

"Yeah, it's beautiful."

"Yeah, well-California. It's the best."

"...uh huh."

It's pathetic.

It takes about a week of this before Kris starts to seriously consider the possibility that he might be going crazy, because if they have one more conversation about the West coast climate, he's going to break something.

Brad finally takes pity on him and sends them both out for groceries. Apparently this is supposed to be a bonding experience.

"Can you read Brad's handwriting?" Adam asks, frowning at the list. "Because I've never mastered it."

Kris takes the list, squinting at it. "Uh, no. What-does that say 'buttermilk'? Why would he need buttermilk?"

Adam shrugs, and looks over at him, a hint of a devious smile on his face. "Wanna take preemptive action and just get Chinese take away?"

Kris grins tentatively. "Oh yeah." Adam smiles widely in response.

Adam kind of drives like a maniac, and Kris spends most of the ride clutching at the door handle while trying not to be obvious about how he's holding on for dear life.

Adam just laughs. "Relax, I'm not going to kill you."

Kris inhales sharply as Adam takes a sharp curve at ninety-five kilometers an hour. "For some reason, I don't trust you."

Adam laughs again. "Oh come on, what's the point of having a car anymore if you don't drive it fast?"

"Avoiding public transit taxes?" Kris attempts. Adam snorts and switches lanes abruptly, sending Kris lurching over the console. "Okay, seriously, man-"

"Oh my God, you're seriously nervous," Adam says, sounding delighted.

"I'm alone in a speeding car with my husband's ex-boyfriend," Kris exclaims, "of course I'm nervous."

Adam just throws his head back and laughs. It isn't really comforting.

"I'm not mad at you," he says, when the car is safely parked and Kris is climbing out on shaky legs. "And I'm certainly not out to kill you. You should really lighten up a little."

Kris glares at him.

"Brad and I were over a long time ago," Adam says. "And no offense, because I love him to death, but that's a road that I will never, ever go down again. If that's what you're worried about."

Kris fidgets. "I wasn't worried," he says honestly. Adam doesn't look convinced.

"Sure."

"Why are you so weird around me then?" Kris asks, and it's Adam's turn to fidget.

"I don't like to be dependent on people," he says. "And I don't want to be a burden."

"You're not a burden," Kris replies.

Adam looks skeptical. "You can't tell me that having an ex around isn't interrupting your honeymoon period just a little."

It's on the tip of his tongue to blurt out the truth right there, but they're standing in the middle of the street and it occurs to Kris that spilling about he and Brad's illegal activities in public isn't exactly the best idea. "You're not a burden," he settles for repeating. "Seriously."

Adam smiles a little, looking down at his hands. "Thanks," he says, after a beat. "I'm still paying for the food, though."

-

2 June 2146

His name's Brad. Brad Bell. Kind of a porn star name.

Mama's been crying since I told her. She won't let me in her bedroom, won't even look at me when she comes downstairs. Dad's not much better, and Daniel keeps making stupid jokes. I feel like I'm about to scream.

What am I supposed to say? They're not gonna understand. Asking them to try would be the worst thing I could do.

Thirty thousand dollars. Enough to lay down an album, maybe. And he lives in LA. Between this and the University of Arkansas, what did they really expect?

-

Life settles into somewhat of a routine.

Kris had been surprised, all those months ago, as to how easily and quickly he and Brad had gotten past the awkwardness and became something resembling friends. Now, though, he's not surprised. Just grateful.

Brad has a job, like a real job, which surprises many people, as an assistant to a fashion photographer. He gets to play around with costumes and take home the used makeup, so it makes him happy. He also has strange hours, due to the photographer's random bursts of inspiration that often strike at three o'clock in the morning. Kris is bizarrely used to being woken up in the middle of the night at this point, as Brad epically fails at being quiet.

And Adam never sleeps, it seems like. Or at least Kris never sees him sleep-and he's almost always up when Kris gets up, awoken by Brad or by the odd nightmare or stray city sound. It becomes expected for Kris to shuffle into the living room, rubbing sleep out his eyes, to find Adam listening to music, or reading, or watching the news, or oddly, sewing clothes.

"I learned how to do it in Europe," he explains, shrugging. He uses a handheld machine, stitching hemlines with quick, efficient movements. "I was kind of broke and I was dating this guy who worked in a sewing shop, so he got me discounts on material and stuff and taught me how to do it...it's kind of fun. I was in this cabaret show at the time and I made all of my costumes."

Kris likes to curl up on the couch and watch him, sometimes dozing off to the soundtrack of the soft snicks of the sewing machine. Adam can make an entire shirt in an hour, a jacket, in two or three. Sometimes he makes gloves, too, and on one memorable occasion, a scarf with a tiny K in the corner that he wraps around Kris's neck with a grin.

When Kris is awake enough, they'll have long, rambling conversations, and if it's early enough they'll make breakfast and wait for Brad to come home. Kris is the only one in the house who can actually cook (Brad's fanatical experiments really, really don't count), and so Adam mostly observes and looks up crazy recipes on the telescreen that he convinces Kris to try. He attempts some crazy egg dish one morning, with scallions and red peppers and jalapeños, and he's pretty sure that he messed it up but Adam loves it so much he asks Kris to make it every day.

It's during one of these morning conversations that Kris tells him the truth about him and Brad. Adam doesn't seem all that surprised.

"Honestly, I've been waiting for the day that he gets one of those stupid orders," he says, his tone a middle point between affection and exasperation. "Did you know some of the stuff he used to wear out to the clubs? And the things he'd do there-well."

Kris didn't, but isn't really all that surprised regardless. "He doesn't do that kind of stuff anymore. That I know of, anyway."

"Nah," Adam replies, looking at Kris curiously. "So what, you just...answered a personal ad or something?"

"No," Kris says, rolling his eyes. "He's-well, his parents know my aunt and uncle. They live in Texas? And so they told me about him, and gave me his number, and so I-"

"Asked him?" Adam asks, eyebrows shooting to his hairline. "Wow."

Kris shrugs. "It was kind of a convenient thing for both of us. I needed money, and a ticket out of Conway, and he needed to-"

"Not go to jail?"

"-get married," Kris finishes.

"So you guys aren't..." Adam trails off, gesturing vaguely. "Huh. Well, if I'm being honest, I think I'm relieved. I was thinking you guys were far more dysfunctional than this."

"Thanks?" says Kris.

Adam grins and pops a green pepper in his mouth.

"What exactly does Adam do?" Kris asks curiously, later that morning once Brad's staggered home and Adam has wandered off somewhere.

Brad shrugs. "He's a singer." That's not exactly what Kris had meant, but Brad looks half-dead, swaying on his feet, staring at the contents of the 'fridger blankly, so he bites his lip and stays silent. "God, I'm so starving. And tired. I don't think I can't stand one more second." He turns big eyes on Kris. "Will you make me a quesadilla?"

"Adam and I made you eggs," Kris says. Adam had supervised, it counts.

Brad collapses dramatically in a chair and turns wide eyes on Kris. "Please?"

Kris sighs and reaches for the cheese. "How did you survive before I got here?"

"Take away," says Brad, voice muffled against the counter.

Kris sneaks glances at him as he cooks, searing tortillas in a pan while Brad attempts to keep himself awake. He slides the finished product onto a plate and pushes it over, watching in amusement as Brad jerks upward and knocks an empty glass over with his elbow.

"Sorry," Brad says, and grabs for the food, dropping it back on the plate immediately and hissing. "Hot!"

Kris smirks and hands him a fork. "You're welcome."

"Thank you." Brad settles in with great concentration.

"So," Kris says, while he has Brad's attention. "I told Adam."

Brad pauses, bite halfway to his mouth, eyes darting upward to meet Kris's. "Oh?"

"He wasn't mad or anything. He didn't seem all that surprised, either."

Brad lets the fork fall back to the plate. "Oh."

Kris eyes him a little worriedly. "Should I not have-"

"No! No." Brad shakes his head quickly. "No, that's fine. It's." He takes a deep breath. "Fine."

Kris joins him at the counter, watching his impassive face closely. "Are you okay?"

Brad nods jerkily. And stabs his quesadilla rather violently. Kris takes this as a cue to leave.

-

1 June 2147

The Ex is Adam. I knew an Adam once; he was a total dick. He stole first chair from me in orchestra. It was devastating. In retrospect, I kind of had no life.

I don't think Brad's Adam was ever in orchestra. Maybe he would've vandalized the orchestra room, instead. He looks like the vandalizing type.

Not worried, really. Just apprehensive. Possibly overtired. Definitely overtired. Brad gave me a massage last night-pretty sure it increased my stress, also pretty sure massages aren't supposed to do that. To do: find a gentle way to say “your bony hands of death are fucking up my alignment.“ Maybe I should ask Mother-In-Law.

-

Kris gets a gig, at a bar downtown. Finally, he thinks.

Brad makes a huge deal out of it, pinning the flyer to the corkboard in the entryway, circling the date on the calendar in bright red marker and bringing it up in every other conversation. Kris is used to the overenthusiastic marketing but Adam seems infinitely amused by it.

"You're coming, right?" Brad demands of Adam, one night at dinner. He's been more abrasive with him lately, Kris has noticed, not in a mean way but in a Brad way. (It makes sense in Kris's head.)

"Of course I'm coming," Adam says, taking a sip of wine and grinning at Kris, his eyes sparkling. "You're going to play that new song, right? The one you've been working on?"

"I'm not sure yet," Kris demurs.

"You have to," Adam insists. "It's beautiful. And you better not change the bridge back, it's fucking perfect as is."

"What new song?" Brad asks. "You have a new song?"

"I always have new songs," Kris says.

Brad spears a forkful of his latest concoction, dubbed Soup Pie by Adam, a mess of ready-made pie crust and cream of chicken soup. "Well, you have to play them," he says briskly. "The Sand Stone-that's a hot spot. It needs your A material."

"Great," Kris says cheerily, "not like I was nervous or anything."

Brad waves a hand dismissively, making an undignified noise. Adam shakes his head. "You'll be great," he encourages, smile kind, and Kris smiles back, heartened.

"We'll make a night of it!" Brad says. "I'll invite Cass and Scarlett and everyone. Adam, you haven't seen any of the old crowd since you've been back, have you?"

Adam clears his throat, chin ducking slightly. "No," he says simply.

"Cass is Cassidy, right?" Kris asks. "The fashion designer."

"My best man!" Brad crows. "Of course you remember him. He was the one who rescued my shoes when you started puking at our wedding reception."

Kris groans. "Right."

"You guys had a wedding reception?" Adam asks, repressed mirth in his voice. "I thought..."

"It was glorious," Brad says, cutting through Adam's sentence cleanly. "Very classy affair at the Longhorn Lounge in Texarkana. Barbeque ribs, karaoke, beer and mechanical bull rides for five bucks a pop." Brad leans in with a devious grin. "Kris overdid it a bit on the last two." Adam's responding laughter is loud and sharp.

"Right," Kris cuts in, valiantly trying to ignore the blush he knows is staining his cheeks, "Cassidy. I remember him."

"He's a musician too," Brad says cheerily. "So you guys can exchange notes, or something."

First gig in months, A material, all the 'old crowd' in attendance-great. "Now I'm definitely not nervous," Kris announces. Brad laughs, and Adam shoots him a sympathetic look as he refills his wine glass.

"Mind over matter," he says sagely and Kris nods like he understands what that means.

The bar is one of the snotty places that cater to the nouveau-riche, all delicately distressed décor and expensive food served on paper plates. Kris feels distinctly out of place in a sea of polo and designer outfits, especially considering that Brad and Adam fit in seamlessly. Of course both of them always look like they've just stepped off the cover of a magazine, so that's nothing new.

Kris is booked for a thirty-minute set, and it goes fairly well. He's playing on a small stage, and most of the patrons actually listen, even applaud. Brad and Adam's friends all rush in halfway through, and make enthusiastic cheering noises that are only marginally embarrassing, and he gets about fifty bucks in tips. All in all, a success.

Brad makes enthusiastic noises and orders drinks, and Kris is swallowed up by the colorful table of people-Cassidy (who winks and ribs him about being a lightweight), Alisan and Jake, who Kris has met before, a lithe young woman named Antonia, and a guy who introduces himself as Clark Kent.

"It's not my real name," he whispers conspiratorially. Kris nods, biting his lip as Adam gives him an exaggerated eye-roll from behind the guy's bright red coif.

Kris slowly discovers over the course of the rapid conversation that these are all veterans of Brad's old band, the one that Adam sang in. Kris is a little confused as to the logistics of this, but he doesn't really get a word in edgewise, between Alisan quizzing him cheerily about his music, and Clark Kent's increasingly bizarre comments. It's strangely relaxing, to let the chatter wash over him. Brad buys sangria for everyone, and they come in huge boat-like glasses, wine-soaked fruit hanging off the edges. The bar has large windows, propped open to the sound of the distant waves, and on the stage a young woman is singing old jazz standards a capella, and it's about as far from Conway as Kris could ever imagine.

It's perfect.

The only drawback is Adam, who seems strangely withdrawn, sitting quietly in the corner of the booth. He's friendly and pleasant, but he isn't speaking up much, only to answer questions, and when he laughs it sounds off, weird. Kris tries to catch his eye a few times but Adam is either spacing out or avoiding his gaze, and by the second round of drinks, Kris is the only one to notice Adam slipping quietly away.

Kris gives him ten minutes, then gets up to hunt him down, swaying a little as he makes his way through the makeshift dance floor. The sangria must have been stronger than he thought, he thinks.

Adam's on the patio, leaning over the railing, one foot tangled in the rope strung between the wooden beams. Kris pauses momentarily, taken aback at the picture he makes, the force of Adam's attractiveness hitting him like a punch. He has to physically shake his head to move past it.

"Getting some air?" he says by way of greeting, joining Adam at the railing and bumping his shoulder gently.

"Oh. Kris." Adam turns slightly, eyes narrowed against the wind. "Yeah. Sorry."

Kris shrugs off the apology. "You all right?"

Adam chuckles. "Yeah." He pauses to take a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just a little-" he waves his arm vaguely.

"Overwhelming?" Kris says wryly.

Adam makes a face, tangling his fingers together and cracking the knuckles, one by one. "I haven't seen anybody since I got back," he says quietly. "Other than Brad, anyway. I've been avoiding...well, life." He grimaces. "I think this is Brad's way of calling me on it."

Kris wonders, for the millionth time, about the circumstances of Adam's fall from grace, how he went from a rising West End star to crashing in his ex-boyfriend's guest room, avoiding his friends. It doesn't seem right to ask, though. Somehow.

"We could skip out early," Kris offers. "I could pretend to get a migraine or something."

Adam smirks. "Oh honey," he drawls, "there's no way you could pull that off. I've seen you try to lie."

Kris shivers a little. "I could try."

"Nah. I'm a big boy." Adam straightens up, reaching out to squeeze Kris's hand. "Hey...thanks, though. Really."

Kris smiles silently, distracted by hot flush he feels, out of place on the chilly patio.

"What about you?" Adam asks curiously. "You must have friends here-why didn't you invite anyone?"

Kris thinks of Jimmy, currently AWOL after violating the moral code one too many times, and Sandra and Becca from the music store, on an extended honeymoon in Greece, and Cale and Charles and Rick, all back home in Conway, sending awkward 'how are you' emails every month or so. "Not really," he says. "A couple people, but-nobody I'd invite to something like this."

Adam hums thoughtfully, digging in the inside pocket of his coat, emerging with a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a tie-dye colored lighter. "Do you mind?" Kris shakes his head, and he lights up one-handed, blowing a plume of smoke over the railing in an artful cloud. "Well, that sucks. I guess you don't have a lot of time to meet people though."

"Yeah." Kris stuffs his hands in his pockets, shivering against the wind. "Doesn't that..." He waves at Adam's cigarette vaguely. "Your voice?"

Adam lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Not doing much singing nowadays."

"You should," Kris says. He bumps Adam's shoulder again companionably. "I haven't heard you yet. Just an old recording that Brad has, from your band."

Adam smiles a little, humming the melody line of a song Kris vaguely recognizes. He sounds clear and forceful, even without words. Kris grins, and Adam trails off, shaking his head bashfully.

"Out of practice," he says, and takes another drag.

"Sounded pretty good to me," Kris says. "What kind of shows did you do in London, anyway? You never talk about it."

"Nothing spectacular," Adam says, his expression changing slightly, some unnamed emotion flickering across his face. "I was in the chorus for Billy Elliot and Blood Brothers...I was the understudy for a bunch of different parts. Danny in Grease, the Tin Man in Wizard of Oz. I was just cast as Billy Flynn in Chicago when-you know." He smiles, a bitter twist of his mouth. "With Karyn Lester directing. My dream role."

"I'm sorry," Kris says. It sounds lame even to his own ears, but he doesn't know what else to say.

Adam takes another long drag of his cigarette, and when he speaks, smoke pours out along with his words. "Live and learn, right?" He shakes his head. "Let's not talk about me. You're way more interesting."

"I am?" Kris asks. "Whatever you say."

Adam smirks. "I do say. You have to admit that anyone who would up and marry a complete stranger would come off as at least a little intriguing."

The patio is empty, but Kris looks around nervously anyway, glancing at the partially open doors. "It's actually a lot more boring than it sounds."

"Humor me," Adam says breezily. "What made you accept? And don't just say the money again. Thirty grand is a pretty impressive offer, but it's a steal compared to what people usually pay for a black market spouse."

Kris shrugs. "It's not just about the money," he concedes. "I wanted to get out of my hometown. Come to LA. Work on my music."

"And you had to get married to do that?" Adam asks curiously.

"No," Kris admits. "But it seemed easier."

"Really," Adam replies dubiously. "I never thought I'd ever hear anyone say that Brad is the easier option."

"I like Brad," Kris says, feeling oddly defensive. "He's a lot to handle, but he is who he is. There's no bullshit. I like that about him."

"I like that about him, too," Adam agrees.

Tendrils of cigarette smoke waft to Kris's nose and it reminds him of the clubs that Brad took him to when he first came to LA-large, glittering places full of beautiful people, teetering on the razor-sharp edge of the legal morality, bold in a way that just isn't done in Arkansas. Kris hadn't ever considered the code before he'd met Brad; now it seems that every day he finds another reason to disregard its legitimacy.

"I didn't think he deserved to go to jail," Kris continues. "For being himself, I mean."

Adam shakes his head. "There's a difference between being yourself and being foolish," he says darkly. "Brad was foolish. So was I."

"You don't strike me as a foolish person," Kris says.

Adam turns, meeting Kris's gaze directly, and Kris feels the shiver all the way down into his bones.

"I am, though," he says, and something in his voice makes Kris flush hotly, a dizzying contradiction against the cold wind.

"Oh," he says quietly.

Adam turns away, breaking the star, and flicks his cigarette over the railing. Kris watches as it rolls down the grassy hill, the tiny pinprick of flame fading out in the darkness.

"I better head back inside," Adam says quietly, oblivious to Kris's rapidly rising temperature. "It's probably best if you wait a couple minutes. To keep up appearances and all."

Kris just nods dumbly, watching as Adam wanders back inside.

-

12 August 2147

Rafael offered me a regular gig at the Sand Stone. Brad wants to celebrate. Am attempting to hide the most dangerous ingredients-Velveeta, mayo, bacon, Cool Whip. The works.

Adam paid for dinner the other night. He must have some job or something...something he does from home? He hardly ever goes out. Or money left over? I know he got fined for whatever it is he did in London...so it was bad enough to get him deported, but not bad enough to land him in a detention center? I wish he'd tell me. It doesn't feel right to ask.

-

Brad picks up another project, some indie movie that he's doing the photography for. He's hardly ever home, and when he is, he's short-tempered and full of attitude-and not the regular Cheeks attitude that's impish and funny-an asshole mood.

Kris is worried about him, but he knows that if he says anything it will only make Brad worse, and anyway they don't talk about real feelings. Just another trait of their kind of weird, bizarre relationship. Friendship. Whatever.

The closest they come to talking is usually at night, anyway, when Brad returns and inevitably wakes up Kris with his usual nighttime racket. It never used to bother Kris before, but it does now.

"Why don't you sleep on the goddamn couch then," Brad snaps, one night when Kris is jolted out of deep sleep by the clatter of Brad's makeup case on the bathroom floor. "If you're so irritated by it."

"You sleep on the couch," Kris counters. "You're the one who comes and goes at crazy hours of the night."

Brad just rolls his eyes, making dramatic pissed off noises and slamming things around in the bathroom. Kris eventually gets up and leaves; it isn't worth the effort.

It occurs to Kris that there's no reason for them to be sharing a bedroom anyway-there never was. To keep up pretenses with Adam in the beginning, maybe, but they'd been sharing long before then and neither of them had really questioned it.

Adam gives him a strange look the first morning, walking in on Kris in a rumpled mess of blankets on the couch, but other than that he has no comment.

While things with Brad are going sour, Adam is like a breath of fresh air. He starts leaving the house more, going out with his old friends, even doing a couple auditions.

"Can't rot around this place for the rest of my life," he says cheerfully one morning. Brad, in the kitchen, makes an ugly snorting noise and slams a cupboard shut. Adam doesn't even flinch. "Hey, I'm meeting my old friend Danielle for lunch, wanna come?"

"Yes," Kris says desperately. Another slam from Brad has him scrambling for his shoes.

Danielle is really sweet, obviously ecstatic to see Adam, and keeps throwing Kris half confused, half speculative looks that make him more than a little uncomfortable. But she's friendly, and happy to meet Kris, and talks enthusiastically about music with the enthusiasm of someone who has spent their life surrounded by it.

"Oh! I know where I know you from!" she says halfway through the salad course, snapping her fingers. "You're the new guy at the Sand Stone! Rafe told me about you."

"Really?" Kris asks, surprised. "Hey, that's cool."

Adam beams. "Of course he's been talking you up."

"Hey, I didn't say if he said you were good," Danielle teases.

"Of course he said he was good," Adam scoffs. "He's amazing." He sounds so emphatic that Kris pauses, bite halfway to his mouth, a shiver running down his spine.

Danielle throws another look their way, chewing silently. "Well, I'll have to check it out one night then," she says, taking a sip of her iced tea, eyeing Adam over the rim of her glass. Adam seems oblivious.

Later, Kris is coming back from the restroom and overhears a snippet of conversation, Danielle bent over the table, grabbing at Adam's wrist, a fierce he's married to Brad! Kris stops in his tracks just to catch his breath.

Things are all off after that, even with Kris forcing conversation. Adam is quiet afterwards too-even his driving is reserved. Kris only fears for his life once.

Brad is gone when they return, and judging by his schedule the past few weeks, unlikely to return anytime soon.

"He's obviously incredibly stressed out," Adam says, a troubled frown on his face. "And he doesn't want to talk to us about it."

"Can you blame him?" Kris points out. "An ex and his fake husband. Yeah, we're great candidates for emotional support."

"You have a point." Adam frowns, crossing his arms across his broad chest. Kris takes a moment to appreciate the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders. "I still think we should make him some food, or...something. I don't know."

"You mean I should make him some food," Kris corrects.

Adam grins. "Well as long as you're offering, I found this cool recipe for soufflé yesterday."

Kris lifts one eyebrow dubiously. "You know, I think maybe you should try to make it for him," he says, as sweetly as he can manage.

Adam's complexion turns a shade whiter. "Uh-"

"Since I cook for him all the time and everything," Kris presses, "it'll mean more coming from you."

"You really, really don't want to see me cook," Adam protests.

"Brad likes bad food though," Kris says brightly, grinning in triumph as Adam slumps in defeat.

Two hours later finds the kitchen-and Adam-in a state of utter disarray. Kris finds it hysterical, and adorable in a way he's really trying not to think about.

"This is," Kris gasps, between bouts of laughter, "just as funny as I thought it'd be."

Adam scowls. "I'm really glad you're enjoying yourself," he says, cursing as he knocks a bag of flour over with his elbow. "Great."

Still laughing, Kris finally rises from his bench at the counter to come rescue him. "Dork," he says fondly. "Look. We're whisking, not stirring. Here." Sliding in, Kris relieves Adam of the poor, strangled whisk. Adam moves back gratefully. "You take care of the egg yolks."

"Just break them?" Adam looks incredibly relieved. "Oh yeah, that I can do."

Kris shakes his head, his hands already moving in the steady familiar motions, sliding the pan onto the burner, keeping the frothy mixture moving with his whisk. "Maybe we shouldn't have started with soufflé."

"The recipe said it was easy," Adam says mournfully. "Lies."

"Soufflé is a lot of things, but it's never easy," Kris says. "If we had some grits, I'd make my mama's old recipe. Now that was hard work."

Adam is quiet for a moment, moving across the small kitchen with his bowl of freshly-stirred egg yolks, setting it carefully next to the stove.

"You don't talk about your family much," he observes, leaning against the counter casually.

Kris almost falters in his easy rhythm. "We had a falling out," he says. The contents of the saucepan start to boil beneath his whisk, and he turns the heat off, reaching for the eggs and pouring them in slowly. "They weren't too happy about the Brad thing."

"I'm sorry," Adam says. He sounds genuinely sad, and Kris doesn't look at him.

"Can you hand me the cheese?"

Adam hands it over. "You seem to have given up a lot for Brad," he says, apparently not taking the hint. Kris bites back a sharp retort. "I mean, you moved away from your home, your family, you have to pretend to live this whole life that you don't-"

"It was my decision," Kris interrupts, his voice a shade chillier than before.

"Doesn't it bother you, though?" Adam pushes. "That you have to lie to everybody?"

"I didn't lie to my family," Kris says. "They know the truth."

Adam's eyes bug out. "Really? And they didn't turn you in?"

"No," Kris snaps, then takes a calming breath. "They're mad at me but they're not going to send me to jail."

"Are you sure about that?" Adam asks skeptically.

"Uh, yeah," Kris replies shortly.

"It's just-have you considered how wrong this whole thing could go? Even after you get divorced, if someone finds out that it was faked-the statute of limitations on falsifying a marriage order is what, five years-"

"Adam, could you just drop it?" Kris asks tiredly. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Adam almost looks wounded. "I care, you're my friend. And Brad's my-" he waves one hand in the air grandly. "My something."

"I told you before, we both needed it," Kris says testily. "He's paying me, for God's sake."

Adam opens his mouth to reply, then snaps it shut again at Kris's glare. "Okay. Fine." Kris sighs in relief.

Kris finishes the rest of the prep quickly and efficiently, feeling Adam's gaze on him as he whips the egg whites, mixing in the yolk and milk with a hand mixer, pouring it into the cups and shoving the whole thing in the oven.

"You're good at this," Adam observes. "Like I already knew that. But-you really love it, don't you?"

Kris shrugs idly, fiddling with the oven timer. "Yeah," he says absently.

"Look," Adam says, after an extended, awkward silence. "I didn't mean to push or anything-"

"No, I-no." Kris straightens up. "It's fine. I just-I'm happy here, Adam, in LA. My family-they acted like I was going away to war or something, but I knew what I was getting into, and I chose it."

"Okay." Adam smiles. "Okay, I get it."

"What about you?" Kris asks, feeling bold. "What happened in London, anyway?"

Adam's expression shutters closed, like the flash of a light flicking off. "What do you mean?"

"Please," Kris says dismissively, and suddenly he's angry, gripping the oven handle tightly, knuckles turning white. "You've been moping around here all this time, and you never talk about it. What happened, anyway? You'd think you murdered someone, the way you act."

"Wow," Adam says sharply, "that is a whole lot of none of your fucking business."

"Right," Kris barks. "Because I'm just Brad's beard, right? No one important."

"Shut up," Adam says fiercely, stepping forward until they're in each other's space. "Just-what is your problem? I'm sorry I asked, Jesus-"

"You shut up," Kris says, and in utter frustration, reaches up and kisses him.

It lasts a frenzied twenty seconds before Adam stumbles backwards, eyes wide.

"Oh, shit," he says succinctly, and Kris's stomach drops in agreement.

-

16 June 2146

I'm moving out tomorrow, it doesn't seem real. Nobody's talking to me. It's like Cold War part three around here.

I get why they're upset. Like I haven't been listing all the reasons why it's a stupid thing to do since Brad and I made the deal in the first place. They think it's about the money. And it is, kind of. But more about the...chance, I guess. The chance for something different. I feel like I have to do it. Like I'll regret it if I don't. And that's what they don't, what they'll never understand. I love them all to death, but they've never wanted anything but what they have in Conway. Maybe that's right for them, but it's not right for me.

Then again, I could just be a giant idiot. Who knows.

-

"God, you have no idea how much I wanted this," Adam mutters, mouth pressed to the inside of Kris's wrist, his hands working deftly on his belt buckle.

"Um," Kris says vaguely, distracted by the planes of skin being slowly revealed as Adam frantically sheds his clothes. "I think I do? Oh-shit, ow-"

"Watch the-yeah." They tumble back onto Adam's bed, narrowly avoiding serious injury, and Adam grins triumphantly. "You do? Good, I thought it was just me."

"No, not just you," Kris says, gasping as Adam mouths his way down Kris's chest, stopping to bite and lick at his nipples. "Adam! Jesus."

"Here, wait." In an impressive display of upper body strength, Adam scoots them both up on the bed, draping himself over Kris's body artfully.

"Oh-oh." Kris gulps, feeling all kinds of new and interesting things as Adam thrusts hard against his hip, pressing Kris's hands into the bed and biting at the edge of his jaw. "Oh my God."

Adam laughs, strained, moving his hips slightly and-hello. "Yeah, like that. Move with me, Kris."

Kris's hips respond to that enthusiastically, already finding much to adore in the slick slide of his cock against Adam's, the powerful back and forth between them. It's not going to last long, not with the urgency thrumming between them, the frantic tempo of their movements. Adam swallows each groan with his deep kisses, setting the rhythm at an overwhelming pace, breathless and frantic. It doesn't take long for Kris to come, starting in his toes and racing up his spine with a sharp-edged intensity that leaves him trembling-God, it's been too long.

Adam comes on the tail end of Kris's orgasm, burying his deep moan in Kris's collarbone, his fingers flexing painfully on Kris's wrists. He collapses, and Kris almost doesn't even feel his weight, he's already so wrung out.

"Fuck," Adam says after a minute, voice muffled into Kris's skin.

Kris laughs, a little hysterically. "Uh, yeah."

Adam rolls over with a heavy sigh, his chest still heaving, staring up at the ceiling balefully. "We're in trouble."

"Uh huh."

Adam sighs again, and Kris feels rather than sees his breath starting to slow down to normal, almost perfectly matching the rhythm of Kris's chest. After a moment, he reaches out and grabs Kris's hand, squeezing it tightly.

"It was that guy I told you about. The one who taught me to sew," he says, out of nowhere.

Kris blinks, still groggy. "Uh. What?"

"Why I got deported." Adam looks determinedly at the ceiling, his mouth tense and tight. "He was married. To a woman." He laughs, sharp and bitter.

Kris winces. "I-"

"His father was in Parliament, though, and so he rushed the whole thing through. A fine and a ticket home. I got off easy, considering how strict their moral code is over there. And it's not like I was in love with him."

"God, Adam." Kris turns and rolls into his side instinctively, pressing his forehead to Adam's chest. Adam reaches up one tentative hand, sliding it through Kris's hair.

"I'm so fucked," Adam whispers. "I wasn't going to-but you were so-I couldn't stop thinking about you, and then you told me it wasn't real, and-"

"I'm sorry," Kris says, and "me too," and then "shh," and cranes his chin up to kiss him again, just so he won't have to keep looking at the expression on Adam's face.

Adam kisses him back deeply before pulling away, burying his face in a pillow. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, voice muffled. "Oh, Brad, Jesus. Jesus."

Kris chokes on the mention of the name, biting his lip viciously. "It-we're not together. Not even close. We made out a couple times, just to try it, but it wasn't-there was no spark, no anything. We're just friends, that's all."

"It doesn't matter," Adam says, voice wrecked. "Kris, it doesn't matter."

It's like there's a car crash in his head, all screeching metal and burning upholstery. Kris presses his forehead to the mattress and tries to breathe. "We'll fix it," he says plaintively, to the smooth sheets. "We'll-I dunno, figure something out. I'll talk to him." He gropes for Adam's hand, finding it shaking against the side of his ribcage.

"Kris. Hey." Kris pulls his head up, and Adam's eyes are almost painfully bright against the shadowed darkness of his face. "Promise me you won't bail on me. Okay? Please." Adam sounds strained, desperate, something ugly and dark in his voice. "Please promise me we'll stick together, that you'll still be here when-"

"Yes. Of course." Kris reaches out and Adam lurches into his touch. "God, Adam, of course."

Adam's lips press together tightly, and he rolls forward, pushing his face into Kris's collarbone, arms wrapping around Kris's torso like tentacles, pressing tightly into his skin. He mumbles something inaudible, goose bumps popping up wherever Kris runs his fingers.

"Adam," Kris murmurs, just to say his name, and Adam shudders hard. Kris feels it all over.

-

1 August 2146

Brad's not that bad. He's funny, anyway. And he's really nice, energetic. He says he doesn't have the money yet, but that he will-whatever. I guess I'm not in any rush.

He works a lot; he's got like, five different jobs, and all of them are bizarre and inexplicable. We get along, which is...more than I'd expected. When we are both home at the same time, it's...nice. He's a good guy. He looks out for me, like he thinks I need to be protected or something. It's kind of sweet in a weird way.

So this is married life. Huh.

-

Kris stumbles back to his bedroom sometime around dawn, tearing himself away from Adam's sleeping form. Brad's in the bathroom, splashing water on his face. Kris isn't surprised; he'd heard him come in about twenty minutes ago.

"You almost burnt the fucking apartment down," Brad says, not looking up. "Whatever you were cooking was burnt to a crisp. Did you even-" straightening up, he stops talking abruptly, mouth dropping open.

Kris sits on the bed, not even making an attempt to hide it. "I slept with Adam."

"Fuck," Brad says faintly, eyes running over Kris's mussed clothes, the angry red marks on his neck, the torn lip where Adam had bitten too hard. Kris holds himself still, lets him look, feeling little pinpricks of embarrassment and shame with every sweep of Brad's eyes.

"Yep," Kris says wryly, throat dry.

He watches as a myriad of emotions scroll across Brad's face before he slumps against the door jamb, burying his face in his hands.

"Fuck," he says again, and Kris winces.

"I'm sorry," he says lamely, not knowing what else to say. "I didn't-I mean. I wouldn't-"

"Shut up," Brad says sharply. "Just-shut up for a second."

Kris snaps his mouth shut obediently.

"You-care about him?" Brad finally chokes out. "If it was just-what, stress relief, I swear to God I'll kick you out right now-"

"Yes," Kris says quickly. "Yes, I-we care. It meant something."

"Son of a bitch," Brad says softly, scrubbing at his eyes with his palms, raising his head and shaking it. "Wow. I don't know what to say."

"That's a first," Kris jokes weakly. Brad doesn't laugh.

With a heavy sigh, he rises and pulls an envelope from his back pocket, tossing it in Kris's direction. It lands at Kris's feet. "Your payment," Brad says, a trace of bitterness. "It won't bounce. Trust me."

Kris opens it with numb fingers, seeing the inked numbers with detached surprise. "Brad," he starts, scraping the words through a thick throat. "I don't want it."

"No," Brad says fiercely, straightening up. "Fuck you. No. Thirty grand, that's what we agreed on, that's what you're getting. The contract is up next month, did you forget? Or you just thought I wouldn't come through?" Brad shakes his head, cutting off Kris's reply with a sharp laugh. "Don't flatter yourself. It won't bankrupt me. Just take it, do me that small favor."

Kris nods silently, slipping the check back into the envelope and closing it carefully.

"Look." Brad opens his mouth, then shuts it again, shaking his head. "I have to go to New York for a couple weeks. I think-" he swallows. "I think it'd be best if you weren't here when I came back. Either of you."

Kris bites his lip. "Of course," he says dully.

"Thank you," Brad says, oddly formal.

"Brad," Kris says, raw, "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

Brad's face flickers, and his stiff posture melts slightly. "Kris," he says, taking a deep breath. "You fucked my ex-boyfriend. I need you to-not be here right now."

Kris sucks in a sharp breath, rising to his feet. "Right. I'll just-go."

He pauses at the door, a year's worth of emotion welling up in his throat, a year of bickering and inventive food and bathroom adventures and marriage, and he suddenly feels like the biggest piece of shit in the world.

Brad's just standing there too, in the middle of the room, his face turned away and his fists clenched, and Kris wants to hug him, or say I think you're the best friend I've ever had, or even kiss him maybe. He doesn't. Instead he walks away, straight out of the apartment, and shuts the door behind him.

He doesn't live there anymore.

Epilogue

12 February 2148

Adam's settled into his place, finally. The man is pickier than anyone I've ever met in my life. I'm half convinced he dragged it out that long just to annoy me. Apparently 'moving in' means 'carrying a couple of boxes then take a break to make out for twenty minutes' in his mind.

He keeps trying to convince me to move with him, but I like my apartment just fine. It's close to the Sand Stone, and the music store. And anyway, it doesn't...feel right yet.

I left Brad another message. He didn't call back.

-

The marriage contract expires officially on Valentine's Day, something that Brad had set up way back when. He'd thought it was funny or something.

Rafe teases him all day, asking about a hot date, but Kris just shakes his head and locks himself in the back room to do inventory. Adam's not going to call him-not today.

He's been picking up shifts at the Sand Stone more and more-Rafael is a cool guy, and Maya and Adrian are super nice, and the other bartender, Felipe is kind of a dick but he only works week days so it's mostly okay. It's still frequented by annoying rich people, but sometimes Cassidy and his coworkers come in, and Adam's cast mates come for their post-rehearsal refueling, so sometimes it's actually awesome. Plus the tips plus the tiny fee he gets for playing is enough to pay utilities on the apartment, and his extra shifts at the music store, now that Becca's back, are enough for rent.

He gave Brad's money to charity. He hopes Brad never, ever finds out.

He spends most of the day alternately beating himself up and talking himself out of trying to call Brad again. He settles on a compromise and anonymously sends him a bouquet of sunflowers.

The day passes without much incident. No fanfare, no fireworks. Just one day he's married, and the next he's not.

He'd spent the weeks after moving out of Brad's apartment expecting to see police show up at his door, arrest warrant in hand, like there was some loud blasting megaphone screaming their deception at top volume, but nothing had come. Just Facebook messages from various people, consoling him on his "separation," a relieved and slightly smug email from his brother, and Adam, awkward and nervous and wonderful and a million other things.

They're working their way up to actual, official dating. Kris is trying not to jinx it.

It'd been hard-really hard-to get past everything in the first few weeks after they moved out. There'd been apartment searching, too, and job searching, and the big elephant in the room with a bitchy attitude and bad taste in food, and for a while there Kris hadn't even thought it was worth it.

It was, though, and is. Worth enough for Kris and Adam both to risk losing Brad, equally important in different but also kind of similar ways to both of them. And they hadn't lost Brad, not really. It's not the same as before, but he's still Brad, and Brad just doesn't lose people. It's something Kris has learned intimately.

He doesn't actually hear from Adam until a couple days later-not unusual since Adam started rehearsals for Reefer Madness. Adam, as usual, ends the radio silence with a flurry of texts and phone calls that blow up Kris's phone.

"Come over right now," Adam demands, once he finally gets Kris on the line. "You need to see this immediately."

Kris immediately gets visions of burst pipes and exploded microwaves and murdered annoying upstairs neighbors. "I need to see what, exactly?" he asks warily.

"There's no time for this!" Adam declares. "You should be driving! Now!"

"Remember how we talked about phone numbers to call in an emergency?" Kris asks. "And how I really suck at fixing stuff and your landlord is supposed to do that for you?"

"Not that kind of emergency," Adam says impatiently. "Come on." He manages to spread 'on' out into at least seven syllables, which Kris has to admit is impressive.

"I'll be right there," Kris says, long-suffering.

What he finds when he arrives is neither a dead neighbor nor an exploded microwave. Instead, it's a puppy.

"Look at this face. Look!" Adam holds the small dog up for Kris's perusal. Kris looks.

It's small, like purse-dog small, with fluffy brown fur and big floppy ears and a huge balloon tied to its collar. The balloon is actually bigger than the dog itself, which is mind-boggling, and it's practically shaking in excitement in Adam's hold, wiggling and shivering and yipping, high-pitched and frantic.

"I think I'm in love," Kris says, in awe.

"Right?!" Adam grins excitedly, and Kris realizes with a bit of a jolt that he hasn't seen Adam this genuinely excited about anything since before...well. "My heart has been stolen. By a lady, no less. Who would've thought?"

Kris falls to his knees next to Adam, reaching out and letting the puppy go crazy licking his hand, barking and hopping, her claws making little, scratchy noises on the floor. "Where'd you get her?"

Adam looks up, his smile bright and wide. "Brad sent her," he says.

Kris's breath catches. "He did?"

Adam nods. "A Valentine's Day present for us." He flicks the balloon aside with his wrist, reaching across the floor and picking up a card. Kris recognizes the photo on the front as a Brad Bell original, and feels the involuntary grin spread across his face.

Every gay couple needs a cute dog, it reads, in Brad's messy handwriting. Take her for a long walk and call me in the morning. Brad.

P.S.: thanks for the flowers.

Kris laughs. "He gave us a dog."

"He gave us a dog." Relieved happiness practically radiates from Adam's every pore, and Kris feels the topmost layer of his guilt/shame cocktail of the last few months melt away. He leans in for a kiss and Adam meets halfway, the puppy squirming between them restlessly. The moment is completed when she pees on their legs.

"Oh!" Adam jumps away, laughing. "Oh, I see now. This is actually revenge."

"I think we might deserve it," Kris replies, grinning widely.

Adam thrusts her into Kris's hands, scrambling to his feet and heading into the kitchen, returning with a towel. "Two words: shared custody."

Kris is too busy making faces at the puppy to reply.

Adam shakes his head. "What should we name her, then? I veto any and all famous musician names, you cliché freak."

"Naw, I have the perfect name," Kris says, smiling slowly. "What do you think of Cheeks?"