Krim: the fic
Title: #SlezakNeverStoodAChance
Pairing: Kris Allen/Jim Cantiello
Rating: R
Wordcount: 8,000
Summary: "Sorry to harp on this Kris Allen stuff, but I'm kind of obsessed with him." -Jim Cantiello
Disclaimer: This is untrue. Or. Mostly untrue. I dunno, this skates the line of fiction and reality more than anything I've ever written. But it is lies until confirmed, ok?
A/N: Dear Jim. ILU, but if you're looking at this page, please click that back button up there on your browser. You don't wanna read this - or maybe you do, whatever, I won't judge - but if I ever hear you say this fic exists, I will cry. Don't make me cry, ok? (everyone else - don't you dare tweet this to him. I will make your life HELL. I have no job, I am free at all times. Don't test me.)
A/N2: Please disregard some of your Krim timeline, because I didn't see their initial interview together until after I wrote most of this. OOPS. Beta by moonmelody ♥ Additional A/N (& bonus additional ending) at the finish line.
Not everyone can say it, but Jim? He loves his job. LOVES it. Rockstars and free reign to be as snarky as he pleases and MTV, man. M-FRICKEN-TEEVEE. It’s the kinda job pre-pubescent boys dream of between airings of Family Guy, Spring Break: Cabo, and all day Star Wars marathons. Not that he knows from personal experience or anything. Though, if pressed, he would concede that whipped cream bikinis are always in fashion -- as is Bobba Fet.
Anyways. Lactose-laden fashion choices and kick-ass bounty hunters aside, the point is that Jim totally loves his job.
The other thing Jim really loves? Is loves American Idol. He knows that’s not something every guy in the world likes to own up to, but really? It’s fun and has, ultimately, allowed him his own subset at the offices and he-llo, his own web show. Not just anyone can carry that off.
Well, ok. Maybe that Slezak guy does the exact same thing. But, not really. Jim tapes his segments alone, thank you very much, no snappy straight man co-star needed.
Not that Jim would ever, ever admit that out loud. That Kristen chick is all sorts of terrifying and could totally kick his ass.
Jim thinks this season seems pretty promising, though. He even goes as far as to audition, just to get the first-hand scoop, and while that turns out to be an epic fail and an all day long waste of his time, Jim does get a preview of some potential talent. The people who make it through seem decently interesting. And with the addition of a fourth judge -- seriously bizarre, but whatever -- Jim thinks this year might even be the one to change it all.
::
So -- maybe Kris wins Jim over in the end.
Maybe the guy doesn’t have the sizzle that Lambert does, or the sob story Gokey keeps working (good GOD, the douchiness makes Jim’s head swim and if he thinks about it too long, his head might just explode and then, really, where would they all be?), but -- where was he?
Kris, oh yes. Kris Allen is quiet, the token “cute boy” of the season. Jim’s seen those ones make it through for a couple of rounds before ultimately flopping and getting the boot plenty of times before. Gotta keep the eye candy to talent ratio up or what kind of production would Idol be running? But somewhere around the middle of the season, Kris puts down his humble, guy-next-door guitar act and drags a piano into the mix and, oh, wow, okay. Maybe that Kris kid isn’t just a pretty face after all.
Not that Jim notices things like that or anything. It’s entirely his wife’s fault, cooing and awing and, oh, hey, kind of pouncing on Jim later that very same evening. An hour and a half later, Jim decides that, yeah, maybe Kris Allen can stay. And play on air all the time, if this is how Jess gets after.
It’s a downhill slide from there.
He ends up actively rooting for the guy at the end. Jim always was a sucker for the underdog and anyone who rid his screen of that four-eyed twat-waffle is a hero in Jim’s book. So even while he thinks Lambert will take it, he privately crosses his fingers and toes and hopes for an upset.
When it comes, he almost doesn’t know what to do. There’s this strange elation, something that, even after covering the show for four seasons, Jim’s never experienced. It feels like - like he’s won, somehow, and Jim doesn’t even understand why.
He does a quick google check that night, figuring he better brush up on his Kris knowledge because the road ahead is bound to be long and tedious. Post season, tour, digging for inside album info and fact checking; and the best place to get all that, still, is the good ol’ world wide web. Idol fans are awesome that way.
A few hours and boards later and Jim feels pretty up to date on this Allen kid. The fans pretty much deem him ridiculously perfect on every level (though they keep calling him BB - is that some thinly veiled hick joke?), and while Jim has his doubts, Kris does seem like a pretty decent guy.
Jim shoves his laptop onto the cluttered coffee table, sets his Tivo to record anything with the mention of Kris Allen in its summary and leaves it at that.
::
It’s kind of anti-climactic finally meeting Kris. Jim’s got his questions all ready and he flips through his stack of colored index cards while he waits. He made sure to use green for Kris and everything, and he’s got his apology for doubting Kris’s potential to take it all at the tip of his tongue when the tour manager practically shoves Kris at him. Or actually does. Kris pitches forward, palm pressed flat to Jim’s chest. He’s smaller than Jim imagined.
“Three questions, that’s it. Sixty seconds. We’re beyond behind, go, go, go,” the guy says, and rushes off to rope in the rest of the Idols.
“Uh, sorry about that,” Kris says. He rebalances himself and shoots a weary smile Jim’s way.
“Is he always like that?” Jim asks. The guy’s wrangled in Megan and is pushing her rapidly towards where they’re standing. She body checks Kris in her haste and he sways forward again, balancing himself on the fingertips he has pressed to Jim’s chest.
“Nah, but LA’s been brutal. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many reporters at once.” There are dark bags under Kris’s eyes and he drags the back of his hand across his face. Jim feels terrible for making him stop. Maybe the guy will be able to swing a power nap or something between the start of the show and his set. “And that’s one, two questions left.”
Jim sputters. “What, I. But the camera’s not even on, that’s not,” he gets out, before catching his own tongue and realizing that Kris is joking. He’s laughing even, a quiet chuckle that wrinkles the skin around his eyes. He doesn’t look so tired when his smile is genuine. “You suck.”
“If you believe what they say online, I’m amazing at it,” Kris says and winks. That’s. Wow, so maybe Kris Allen is nowhere near as vanilla as a lot of the world thinks. Kris claps his hands together, grabbing Jim’s attention again. “We really do have to rush though, sorry. Ready to do this?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Sure! Ready on three, Steve?”
The camera man waves, fingers ticking off, and Jim smiles. Kris comes across as charismatic and lovable in the quick minute they have on camera. He’s surprisingly witty, too. Jim doesn’t even have to fake his laugh at the tired dig Kris makes at the station - somehow, coming from such a laid-back, non-confrontational guy, it’s the perfect amount of adorably shocking.
“And you’ll follow me, right?” Jim hears himself saying when the burly producer comes back to drag Kris away. He actually has to twine his fingers in Kris’s shirt and pull, making him look for all the world like a puppy getting scruffed by the collar. Kris looks back at Jim, his eyes scanning quickly over the front of Jim’s shirt.
“Jamba Jim, got it,” Kris half-yells, and mock salutes. Jim can hear his laughter as he twists out of the guy’s grasp and darts towards the appropriate curtain, almost skipping.
Ok, so. Maybe it’s not anticlimactic at all.
::
Direct message from KrisAllen4Real: Hey, man. Was cool meeting with you. And MTV doesn’t actually suck…Pop-pop still loves it.
Jim reads over the words and does not, despite what anyone in a ten foot radius around him might say, whoop out loud. And he definitely does not cackle with maniacal glee when Slezak tweets a few hours later, all pouty and insulted, trying to guilt trip Kris into following him as well.
It’s not Jim’s fault that he’s good with an iron and the bold color selection of his tees. Dritz Iron-On and Hanes should be sending him comp packs, actually. Cross promotion: Hanes should recognize. Kris certainly did.
::
The trip to Florida is exactly what Jim needs. The city is crazy in the summer, heat shimmering off the asphalt and pavement. Here, though, the breeze grazes over Jim’s skin like a caress. He leans back in his beach chair, digging his toes further into the warm sand. His wife asks him for a drink, so he pulls one from the cooler, condensation sliding down his fingertips, and smears his hands down her neck after handing the can of Coke over, laughing when she shudders and leans into the touch.
He and Jess sit for a few hours, just being and watching the waves lap at the shore until she gets restless and wants to check out the souvenir shop, maybe head back and grab a quick shower before an early dinner? Jim agrees, sending her off while he drags their stuff up the sand.
After he’s packed their chairs and towels into the trunk, Jim digs in the glove compartment and pulls out his cell. There are three missed calls, all from the office, and Jim sighs. His vacation time is all of a week. It’s not like he’s Sway or something, but a week isn’t that long to ask, right?
He checks his text messages next, but there’s only one -- a message from the news office’s secretary that reads, simply: KRIS ALLEN.
Kris Allen? What kind of text message is that? Susie’s vague at the best of times, but this text takes the cake. Did something happen? He tries not to think about bus crashes and terrible vocal chord injuries, presses 3 on speed dial and leans down to brush sand off his foot.
“MTV dungeon, Susie the malnourished and much abused intern speaking.”
Jim flaps a little, leaning back against the rental car. “Malnourished my ass. I’m betting you’ve had at least two Ring Dings and half a gallon of Mt. Dew already. And it’s only two o clock. And you haven’t been an intern for years!”
He can hear Susie clattering away at her keyboard. As much as she likes to complain, the girl is good. “Right. I’m rolling in vitamins from that diet. Thank god this place is stocked with so many nutritional sub stations. And the intern thing adds a little flair to it, gotta keep up company image.” She sighs. “’Sup, Jimbo? Aren’t you supposed to be soaking up the sun while the rest of us toil extra hard in your absence?”
Jim rolls his eyes. The sun-warmed metal of the car burns against the small of his back. “Uh. Kris Allen? That ring a bell?”
“Oh,” Susie says. Her voice rises a little out of her usual monotone, and after two years, Jim knows her tells enough to pick up on her excitement, even if it’ll ruin her calm-cool-collect hipster street cred. “That, yeah. He wants to meet with you. Asked for you by name, actually.”
Jim stumbles, kicking his leg out so hard that his flip flop goes skidding across the pavement. “Wait, what?”
“I dunno. They’ve got him with Alexa, some concert thing in the Park before that? He’s your boyfriend, not mine. And apparently he misses your stupid face.”
“Did he say that?”
“Oh my god. You are such a tool. These hallways haven’t seen someone of your toolish caliber since the Carson era. Get your ass back here, they’re lonely without your presence.”
“Yeah, I.” There are about eight million things Jim’s gotta do. Tickets and packing and oh, shit. His wife. She’s…not gonna be thrilled about leaving early. Maybe she could stay, yeah. He’ll totally tell her to stay, he’s just gonna be holed up in his office prepping because - it breaks out of him, shrill, and he knows he’s being a total teenage girl, but, “For serious? Kris Allen asked to do a one on one with me?”
Susie sighs. “Yeah.” She’s exasperated but there’s fondness there, too. “I’ve already booked you on the 5:30. Be sure to pick me up a cheesy shot glasses on your way out of town. You can buy me a bottle when you get here.”
::
“You sat on her lap, what was that.”
What Jim means to say, of course, is: Hi, Kris Allen. How are you this lovely afternoon? So glad you could stop by to chat, thanks for giving me a call, I’m so pleased you wanted to grant me this exclusive interview.
Instead, he sounds like a jealous teenager with a crush. Which --
Kris laughs and Jim finds himself staring at his mouth. His teeth are really white.
“Hey to you too, man,” Kris says and pulls Jim into a hug. He’s totally unprepared and is only just relaxing into it when Kris pulls back and holds up his hand. “It meant nothing, Scout’s honor. Though I guess we could figure something out if you need to, like, one-up her or something?”
Jim’s still stuck on god, he smells good, sweat and something citrus, and, huh, he totally would buy Kris as a Boyscout, how stupidly cute. He stares at Kris and cocks his head to one side. “How would we -- ”
“Dude, as long as you don’t make me sing jingles, I will get down on my knees. I have a feeling my friends are never gonna let me live that down.”
And that, well. Jim’s got no comeback for that one, not when Kris blinds him with a smile. “I -- I’ve got nothing.”
“One me, zero you,” says Kris, grinning. He pumps his fist, victorious, and Jim’s stomach absolutely does not flip at having all of Kris’s attention directed at him. He also can’t shake the mental picture, Kris folded down on the floor, those talented hands sliding up Jim’s thighs, his breath hot through denim --
Wow. This is so not how Jim expected his twenty seventh year of life to go. Insta-gay, now in Kris Allen flavor.
He gestures to the stools production set up. It’s a good thing he doesn’t get rattled easily, because this is kind of - a big revelation, really. “Ready to have your interview world rocked, then?” he manages. He snatches up a bottle of water and slugs down a quick gulp.
“Always,” Kris responds easily. He hops on the stool, feet dangling. Jim has to fight back an overwhelming desire to wrap his arms around Kris from behind, feel him tucked inside his embrace.
He collapses onto his own stool instead.
The interview goes well, Jim thinks. Like. Really well, actually. Kris is all smiles and quick wit. He plays straight man (and no, Jim doesn’t even mean it that way) to Jim’s hyper line of questioning with an ease that Jim really hadn’t expected when he first caught sight of Kris on AI. He’d seemed so skittish and young back then. Now, the confidence vibing from him is intense. He’s aware of the camera on them, smartly asking how he should angle himself, taking direction well. Jim bets he takes direction that well everywhere and loses a few moments daydreaming about just that.
All in all, Jim thinks he does a pretty good job of masking the desire that’s suddenly planted itself in his mind, too. Kris is just a natural flirt, it seems, laughing at Jim’s jokes in a way that makes him feel like the belle of the ball.
It doesn’t help that the entire time, Jim keeps getting a glimpse of Kris’s skin, tan and smooth where his shirt flaps away from his chest. Jim’s more of a t-shirt kind of guy himself, but buttons (or lack there-of) and plaid work for Kris, god, do they ever. He brings it up, casual, and of course, Kris agrees. “It’s just gonna be completely undone soon,” he says, and winks, and continues on to talk about sex toys and ganstas.
It’s a good time.
And, okay, maybe Jim throws a dick joke in there, but it’s not his fault, really, it’s not. The face Kris makes, surprised and thrown for just a second, is totally worth it, though, so Jim doesn’t beat himself up over the slip too much. It takes a good twenty minutes for Jim to run out of questions, or reasons to keep Kris there, but the head of Kris’s entourage is busily checking her Blackberry, waving her hand and chattering to Jim’s producer, so Jim turns back to Kris and gives him a smile. He feels shy, suddenly, which is just ridiculous. “Thanks, man. I think we got a lot of good stuff to pull together. The fans are gonna love it.”
He’s rambling a bit, he knows, but whatever. Kris just -- he brings that out in Jim. And oh, god, he really is 100% losing it over an Idol. Could his life be any more ridiculous?
Kris doesn’t seem to notice Jim’s internal freak out, however. If anything, he glazes over it and plays his hand, leaning in until his breath is warm on Jim’s neck. Jim glances up: the camera light is dark, thank god.
“Well,” Kris says. He squeezes Jim’s thigh, fingers sliding over the inseam for a fleeting moment. “Gotta give the fans what they want, right?”
He laughs, patting Jim’s leg before rising and tossing a goodbye over his shoulder, but Jim stays planted on his stool, long after, willing his heart to stop pounding in his ears and his blood to make a return trip back from his dick.
::
So. It‘d be one thing if Jim had been imagining it. Projecting, maybe. He’s been known to have an overactive imagination; hell, his mom has a misshapen lump of clay pottery still tucked in the back of her hutch -- the tiny castle he’d crafted in third grade for his imaginary best friend-slash-three inch tall monster named Clyde. Drop Dead Fred, pfft, Clyde was ten times the trouble maker; but at least his tiny stature made his hijinks more manageable.
Point is, Jim is good at placing his faith in the smallest of signs, but his inner cynic still flares up and tries to beat his hope into submission; which is why he convinces himself that it’s all in his mind. Kris Allen is just one of those people -- open and trusting and charming as all get out. It’s not flirting, it’s just -- Kris being Kris.
Plus, he is pretty tiny. Maybe Jim’s just trying to relive his youth by replacing one imaginary miniature relationship with another.
The rest of Jim’s week passes by uneventfully. On Saturday, he heads uptown to a friend’s gig and drinks himself silly, good music and bright lights pulsing away the week’s stress. His wife giggles against his neck on the walk home, tripping in her sandals. He tugs her up the stairs and lays her out on their bed, unbuckling the miniature closures around her ankles with clumsy fingers. He’s kissing his way up her calf, tickling at her thigh with his hands and laughing when she accidentally crashes her knee against his temple.
“Sorry, baby,” Jess says, and pulls him up to her, kissing the sore spot. He presses her shoulders down to the bed and kisses her sloppily, lazy, and they laugh and tumble, too drunk to make it work. She sighs against his mouth and tucks into his arms and they fall asleep just like that, half dressed and comfortable.
If Jim dreams of Kris that night, his fingers quick on his guitar as he plays in the same bar, spotlight shining a bright beacon on his form, it doesn’t mean a damn thing. Even when Dream!Kris glances his way in the middle of a song and winks, sly, overhead lights painting his image blue and red, lower lip dropped open in invitation.
At least it’s better than the time Jim had dreamed that he was at the Playboy mansion, chatting up Hugh Hefner, who was surrounded by Playmates in classic bunny-gear, tight asses and tighter clothes, perfectly proportioned and identical in every way. The only real thing shocking about the situation was: they all had Kris’s face.
Yeah. That one had been a doozy.
::
Jive forwards Jim a copy of Kris’s proposed single in early September. He slits the side of the envelope with careful precision, tilts, and lets the CD fall to his desk from its bubble wrapped encasement with a clatter. His fingers are shaking.
It’s silly, he knows, but Jim just can’t help it. There’s just something about Kris, something raw and natural that Jim doesn’t see everyday. Not in his line of work, anyways, or even in the city, in general. New York is grey, muted neutrals and practiced nonchalance; and in busts Kris with his bright, garish plaid, easy drawl and even easier smile.
Jim slides the CD into his player and leans back at his desk chair, eyes slipping shut, trying to remain calm and failing spectacularly. The song is perfect, exactly the type of song Kris needs on air: punchy and simple, the hook awesomely catchy. It’s him, uplifting and clean and Jim’s heart is pounding afterwards as he quickly sets his player to repeat and opens Word to start a new article.
He’s already mouthing the words along with Kris by the time he updates his blog, a permanent smile on his face.
::
“Can-tell-yoooo,” Kris says, and wraps his arms around Jim. He’s ready for it this time and hugs back, embracing Kris fully. Jim brushes his fingers over the nape of Kris’s neck without thinking; he breathes Kris’s scent in, clean and sharp. He can feel Kris’s heart pounding against his chest, absolute excitement strumming through him. The messy feathered tips of Kris’s hair brush Jim’s chin when Kris finally thumps his palm across Jim’s back and he lets go.
Slezak’s across the room and he’s looking at them both with an odd, calculating glimmer in his eye. Jim ignores it and turns back to face Kris -- who, it seems, feels the need to remain all up in Jim’s space. That’s just peachy keen with him, though.
Kris’s eyes shine with excitement, his cheeks flushed, despite the early morning hour. “So?” he asks, earnest and bouncing on his heels. ”I read your article, but I figure the label paid MTV off to assure your review was good. Whaddaya really think?”
Jim could laugh, really he could. He thinks he’s been more than transparent about how he feels about Kris’s music, just how excited he is for the guy, but apparently Kris has a little cynic in him, too (and, oh, god, Jim did so not mean it that way, but now that he thinks about it…)
“Um,” Kris says. He squeezes Jim’s arm and quirks his lips into a sideways grin. “I know it’s early, so I’m gonna hope the whole eyes-glazing over thing isn’t your reaction. It’s not that bad, is it?”
Jim lets the hysterical chuckle he’s been tucking away bubble out. “No, it’s not that.” He’s supposed to be a professional, what is he doing right now? And beyond that, he’d like to think of himself, at the very least, as Kris’s friend. He focuses, banishing the very persistent mental images to the back of his mind. “The single is awesome, man. Seriously stellar and catchy. It’s gonna blow up, I’m sure.”
It feels like every interview they do is shorter and shorter, the seconds speeding by. This time, Kris really does have a packed schedule, but their convo is nothing less than perfect. Kris even brings up the idea of them having a show, again. It’s a good thing Jess had insisted they take yoga once a week, because Jim is totally able to center himself and not flail like a muppet. It wouldn’t really do to whap Kris in the face in a fit of glee.
“Whatever,” Jim says, pretending not to be dying inside. “You don’t love me at all, can’t even get my name right.”
Kris’s eyes narrow, lower lip plump and pouty. That’s -- it’s, uh, gonna look amazing on camera. “I’m not saying it right?”
The instant he says it, Jim regrets even bringing it up. He sounds legitimately upset and Jim, in turn, feels terrible. So what if Kris Allen doesn’t say his name right? It’s not important at all.
“It’s Cantiello,” Slezak chimes in from the sidelines. He’s staring at Jim again and he knows it’s written all over his face now. At this point, though, he doesn’t even care.
“Can-Tea-Ellow,” Kris drawls, the name slipping from his lips long and sweet. Jim holds himself still, steadfastly ignoring the shiver hearing Kris wrap his lips around his name incites. Kris presses his knuckles to his temple and twists his wrist. “Locked away, never gonna screw it up again.”
Jim tampers down his heart eyes, just barely, and waves Kris away. “Yeah, yeah. Go on, now. I’m sure you have better places to be than chilling in the lobby with us losers.”
“Speak for yourself,” Slezak says, flipping his notebook shut. “Good luck, Kris. Thanks again.” He extends a hand to Kris, all professional courtesy, and Kris takes it with a small smile. It doesn’t escape Jim that Kris isn’t handing out hugs all willy-nilly.
Kris is halfway to the door and Jim is three seconds away from leaping into the air and clicking his heels together when Kris turns back, leveling his gaze at Jim. His eyebrow arches up. “Hey,” Kris says, “Didn’t you promise me coffee? I see no coffee.”
Now it’s Jim’s turn to chuckle. So his obvious public declarations hadn’t gone unnoticed after all. “Next time,” he says. “Gotta draw you superstars in somehow.”
::
By the time October rolls around, Jim’s interacting with Kris almost daily, which is a little freaky at first, but they fall into a natural rhythm with their banter and direct messaging. Jim does his best to limit the amount of times he tweets Kris where everyone can see, but whenever he does, his replies blow up, so really? It’s kind of his obligation to continue doing so. He thinks back to the interview he’d done with Kris months back, give the fans what they want, and honestly, it’s no skin off Jim’s nose. The indulgence is a delight, and ten times healthier than giving into his nightly craving for Coldstone, thank-you-very-much. Tweeting and talking about and slipping Kris into as much conversation as possible is simply good for his diet.
Plus, all promotion is good promotion; a lesson Jim had learned straight out of college, when he’d pushed his tape across the desk at MTV’s offices, begging for a position. Intern, minion, coffee-slave, whatever. Gotta work hard to reach your dreams, and if he could help Kris out, well? That was just icing on the proverbial cake.
Hopefully chocolate icing, mmm, mixed with cake batter ice cream and Snickers, that would be -
Jim’s phone buzzes in his pocket, one new text flashing on the outside screen. He flips it open, a smile spreading across his face as he reads Kris’s latest tweet.
KrisAllen4Real: Those kids could have just shared a bowl of cereal rather than making fun of the poor Trix rabbit. Not on, bullies.
Well, ok. Maybe Kris isn’t that good for his diet.
He just talked about Kris a few hours ago, though, so he holds his tongue - fingers, whatever - and says nothing. But, if later that night Jim happens to upload a song and Twitter it away and, say, that song happens to be one that matches the theme? Well. No one has to know that he’s actually making Kris a mix, one song at a time.
A week later, he’s given up all pretenses. People around the office have taken notice and are giving him shit. On Thursday, he walks into his office and finds a good dozen pictures of Kris taped to the walls, several with graffiti “Krim” and “JC + KA” all over them. There’s even one with Lena’s trademark red lipstick smudged on its cheek, a perfect heart-shaped kiss.
Jim doesn’t take them down.
The next week, Jim goes all out and fawns spectacularly over the greatest hits of Kris Allen’s Twitter. It’s less than an hour after he puts it up that he gets a DM from the man himself.
Direct Message from KrisAllen4Real: Yo Jimbo! You’re giving a guy performance anxiety over here. This pedestal, it is high.
Not buying it. I saw the Idols Live Tour. My good money is on Kris Allen having NO performance issues whatsoever., Jim DMs back, throwing caution to the wind.
::
They don’t have coffee, as it turns out. Winter comes early to the city, white washing the streets for one glorious moment before the slush and dirt intermingle, soaking through the soles of Jim’s worn boots. He’d planned to get a new pair, but the sudden storm had caught them all by surprise. No bargains now.
He tromps into work and is leaning down to brush ice off the hem of his jeans when someone slaps him on the ass.
“Sexual harassment,” Jim says, and starts in on his other pant leg. He hates when his jeans stay damp all day, salt lines crusting them stiff at the bottom. “Goes both ways, Suze.”
There’s a chuckle behind him, far too deep to belong to Susie. “I’ll keep that in mind,” the guy says and oh. It can’t be.
“Kris?” Jim spins so fast he almost loses his footing, hands still somewhere around his knees, twisting between his legs. “What. Why -- “
“Surprise,” Kris mutters, which is completely pointless because duh, surprise.
“I didn’t know you were gonna be here. Why didn’t I know you were gonna be here?”
“Oh,” Kris says. “I guess I finally shook the GPS tracker you planted on me.” He presses his lips together, corner turning up to give him away. “Last minute thing, I didn’t have time to pack. They just kinda shoved me on a plane and then a car and now I’m here. Taping a couple of promos, I guess? And,” Kris crooks his finger, beckoning Jim closer. As if Jim needs to be called. He leans in so fast he gets a head rush.
“We’ve got a thing at NBC. Lizzy thinks they want me on SNL.”
Kris’s eyes are wide, excited, and it takes every ounce of Jim’s will power to limit his response to a simple squeeze of Kris’s arm and not, say, the cinematic kiss he wants to dip Kris into.
“I know, right?” Kris says, and covers Jim’s hand with his own, thumb brushing deliberate over Jim’s knuckles. Jim swallows, hard, and drags his gaze away from their hands and up to Kris’s face. Kris, who’s staring at him, lids heavy, his grin lopsided and well, ok. Jim didn’t need to breathe ever again, anyways.
“Um,” he manages, and the bubble pops. Kris’s manager calls him away, but not before Kris says that he knows it’s kind of rude to just impose, but did Jim maybe wanna do something later?
“Figure I might as well have some fun while I’m here, right? Being stuck in the hotel is boring and I thought you might not mind if -- ”
“No, no, not a problem at all,” Jim says, cutting in. Is Kris seriously asking if it’s okay that he crashed a mundane, dreary Tuesday with his presence? It’s like the MTV News office turned to heaven over night -- though there’s always the possibility that there was a tragic accident where a piano fell on his head from an eight story window (he always thought that would be a cool way to go) and maybe he just doesn’t know that he’s passed thru the pearly gates already. Jim thinks he smells fresh baked cookies. His heaven would have cookies and Kris, for sure.
“Killer,” Kris says, and Jim snaps out of it then; even more so when Kris claps him on the shoulder before being sheparded out. He’s almost at the door when he looks back, sheer mischief in his eyes. The guy has no poker face. “I almost forgot. Love your office decorations, man. It’s nice to personally know my number one fan.”
He actually winks and Jim can melt into a puddle and soak into the floor now, thanks. He covers his face with both hands, only peeking out from between his fingers to watch Kris walk away.
::
The day drags by. Like. Absolutely, one hundred percent drags along. There’s no way Jim can concentrate, not knowing that one, Kris is no more than a few thousand feet away and two, he’s got an evening with Kris-freakin-ALLEN to look forward to at the end of the day. Who in their right mind would be able to worry about Britney’s newest flub with that hanging over their heads?
And, okay, it’s not like it’s a date or anything, Jim knows that. Still - it feels that way, maybe, just a little. Jim’s all twitchy and on edge and he can’t stop smiling, not even when Tim steals the last fortune cookie from lunch and follows Jim around, reciting the same line ad nauseum all afternoon, in a variety of increasingly obnoxious accents. Or when Susie begs off to run a quick errand and can Jim maybe just cover the phones for her for a little bit?
Two hours later and he’s still putting people on hold and trying to figure out how to explain to the fifth person who proclaims him to be the most delightful person they’ve spoken to on the phone in weeks just why he’s like that, today. It doesn’t even matter, though, because Jim’s stress level is zil to none. He’s floating on an endorphin cloud and clicking Mr. Hambleson from City National over to accounting when Kris appears at the front desk, leaning to peer over the high ledge at where Jim’s seated.
“Did ya’ miss me?” Kris beams, startling Jim and then promptly sending him and his endorphin cloud into the stratosphere.
“Like a punch to the face,” Jim replies. “Or a knee to the groin. A car full of clowns, even. A documentary about knitting. Ooo, needles in the eye.” The chair squeaks when he leans forward, grinning up at Kris, who pulls a face.
“So poetic. You should help me with my next song, I swear.” It takes a lot for Jim to not make a ridiculous sound at that, but he knows Kris is joking. Probably. “Is it too early to steal you away? I could probably go find something to do while I wait, but I’m kinda starving.”
Jim looks around. The office is pretty quiet and Susie’s absence be damned, Kris is right there, waiting. Like hell he’s gonna make him wait any longer. “Nah,” Jim says, and pushes away from the desk. “Lemmie just grab my coat and we’re golden.”
It’s only when he gets to his feet that Jim sees Kris’s full get up. Kris must notice his arched eyebrow, because he spreads his arms wide, showing off the ridiculously oversized puffy jacket hanging from his frame.
“Told you they snatched me straight out of the sunshine. You know you’re jealous of what they brought me at the airport.” The jacket is a weird mustard yellow color and looks insane. Throw in a heavy chain and an obnoxious cap with an area code emblazoned across the top and Kris might, actually, be repping his rapper persona to the T.
“Yo, yo, yo,” Jim says, throwing a peace sign and cracking Kris up in the process. It feels -- it feels amazing and Jim lets out a deep breath, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.
::
He takes Kris to Sully’s, which Jim knows is relatively quiet on a Tuesday night. The Rangers game is playing on four out of the six widescreens behind the bar, and after grabbing two drafts from the bartender, Jim weaves his way back to the round booth where Kris is watching the game.
”So today was good?” Jim asks, slotting a glance at Kris after checking the score. The place is noisy, the crowd groaning as one when Drury misses a shot. Kris scoots closer.
“Huh?” he says, and Jim leans in even more, not wanting to shout.
“Today, your meetings.” He’s not even trying to pry for a scoop, though Kris certainly did bless him with it this morning. Jim is just genuinely interested and happy for Kris’s success.
From the grin Kris turns up at him, he doesn’t mind Jim’s questions at all. “Yeah, man. It was awesome. A little boring, but it’s gonna be so cool.”
They watch the game in companionable silence, occasionally grimacing at the crack of the player’s bodies against the plexi glass. A waitress comes by and Jim orders another round; she promises to keep them coming. Around the third period, Kris gets them a basket of wings and fries to share and it’s good -- right until Jim turns away from the television during a commercial and sees Kris licking his fingers, damn near obscene.
It’s the last straw. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that last beer, because drinking sometimes makes him bitchy, but Kris is sucking at his own thumb and looking at Jim, the smirk on his face a dare. Jim catches Kris’s wrist and tugs. “What are you, the King of Gay Chicken or something?”
Kris’s entire face scrunches up at that: eyes squinting shut, his nose wrinkling, cheeks rounding adorably. His laughter is almost silent, his shoulders shaking with it, and Jim is torn between complete frustration and searing pride. He made Kris laugh that way. Kris wants to be here, is having a good time.
It’s intoxicating and he’s drawing up a mental list of ways to do it again when Kris’s features smooth out and he sucks in a deep breath, tilting forward to invade Jim’s space even more. It’s a struggle for Jim to keep his eyes open, Kris’s face blurring this close. Their noses touch.
“Something like that,” Kris says, barely a whisper against Jim’s lips. He follows up with a brush of his mouth, faint graze across the chapped surface of Jim’s, skin catching, and then sighs.
Jim gasps, drawing back, his heart trip-hamming in his throat. His lips tingle, from shock or the spice of wing sauce, he doesn’t know, but -- Kris’s eyes are shut, giving Jim a moment to soak in how he looks, lips slightly parted and curved into a secret smile. Kris sighs, soft and content, and when his lashes flutter open, he tilts his head further to the side, baring the chords of his neck in the bar’s dim light.
“Yeah,” Jim stutters out. “You win.”
::
“So,” Kris says. They’re outside his hotel and he’s looking up at Jim through sooty lashes, his cheeks pink from the cold, dark grey beanie pulled low over his brow. It’s started to snow again, barely, flakes falling around them to melt on the ground. “If I asked you up for dessert -- ”
“Um, we could grab some ice cream,” Jim offers and glances down the street. “Or there’s this really awesome gelato place on 82nd.”
Kris straight up laughs, open and clear, and latches his fingers around Jim’s wrist. “I’ve never actually tried that line before, and now I know why. Guess it’s better to just be direct,” he says and tugs, pulling Jim after him through the hotel doors. The doorman gives them a curt, polite nod, Kris waving his free hand and grinning, and then they’re through the lobby and in the elevator. Kris unwraps his fingers from where they were looped around Jim’s wrist, and his hand falls, feeling heavy and cold without the touch. Kris leans his shoulder against Jim’s instead, their backs pressed to the wall. The elevator siding is metal, copper-colored, and Jim watches Kris’s expression, mischievous, their eyes locked through the reflection.
He’s all but shaking as he follows Kris down the hall. Jim reaches out when Kris stops in front of a door - 1624 - unsure of the boundaries here. He allows his knuckles to skim behind Kris’s ear, shocked and pleased when Kris shivers, almost faintly enough that no one would notice.
But Jim notices everything Kris does. Has for months now, can’t stop, can’t hardwire his brain differently anymore. Kris dug his way in without even trying and honestly? Having Kris in his mind and heart, well, it doesn’t bother Jim that much at all.
::
What happens next is not very PG rated. It’s all sorts of inappropriate and should never, ever be discussed, obviously. Not only because it would be unwise for both of them, but really, discussing a private, intimate moment would just be classless and tacky.
Yeeeeah. Who’s Jim trying to kid? If there was ever a time he’d wished for three different cameras to capture multiple angles and a boom and, oh, yes, maybe even a script so he didn’t feel at a complete loss, now was it. Jim wouldn’t even mind his own lily-white ass being captured permanently in HD, just as long as he had the images to look back on, video to splice and edit and rewatch to his hearts content.
He’ll settle for the memory, though. Glorious 3D, live and in the flesh, Kris Allen pressing those calloused thumbs behind Jim’s ears and opening Jim’s mouth with a light nip of his teeth, sliding his tongue in and weakening Jim’s knees in a heartbeat. Kris pulls Jim in and their chests bump together, swish of slippery jackets and padding in the way.
“Off,” Kris pants against Jim’s mouth, urgent and hungry. Jim had imagined this moment, sure, but never so desperate, never so vivid. His fingers are shaking, the jacket zipper stupidly impossible to operate, and he has to pull away fully from Kris before he can get his motor skills under control. The jacket slips to the floor and when Jim looks up, Kris is dropping his own on one of the suite’s easy chairs and peeling off the layers beneath, T-shirt rolling up along with his sweater, face obscured by the fabric for a moment.
Kris’s hair is all rumpled when his head pops back out, boyishly cute, but Jim knows fully well that what Kris wants isn’t innocent at all. And Kris is no boy, not by a long shot. Jim takes in the expanse of Kris’s chest, the way his shoulders round smooth and toned. He feels inadequate himself, so narrow and thin, but Kris is stalking towards him with intent. Jim swallows back his trepidation and lets his fingers trail down Kris’s bare skin, his thumb skating over the thin line of scar tissue that runs along Kris’s ribs. Kris tiptoes up and slides his fingers against Jim’s scalp, pulling him down and into another drugging kiss.
“Why me,” Jim asks, moments, minutes, hours later. He’s breathless, sucking Kris’s lower lip between his teeth before he can answer. The tender flesh is his, for the moment, to worry, to bruise. It feels incredible.
“Why not,” Kris manages, panting hard. He slides his mouth down the side of Jim’s neck, tongue darting out to draw quick patterns as he moves lower. “I like you,” he says, as if it’s just that simple. Kris’s fingers drag up the fabric of Jim’s shirt, and it doesn’t take long at all for them to both end up naked, tangled together on the bed.
Maybe, Jim thinks later, while he’s reclined against the pillows, propped up on his elbows to watch Kris slide his mouth down Jim’s dick, it really is that simple for Kris. Maybe once Kris makes up his mind, he just. Maybe he just --
Actually, it’s kind of impossible to try to figure it out more than that because Kris swirls his tongue around the head of Jim’s cock, a fleeting press against the underside before he slurps his way back down. He’s good at this, god is he ever, and so Jim allots himself a few points for reading Kris right all along.
Then he just watches, wide-eyed and stunned. Kris alternates, sliding all the way down and slipping off, letting his lower lip drag up the side, lashes fanning out across his cheeks. He looks incredibly peaceful and completely debauched, all at once. Jim thought he knew every way Kris’s face could twist, every goofy face and sultry one, but clearly he knew nothing.
Jim’s body is trembling, Kris’s eyes ever watchful and locked on his, and when he’s just about to burst apart at the seams from the pressure of Kris’s mouth around his dick, the slip of his thumb skating around and under his balls, Kris pulls off. Jim groans, his fingers twisted in the comforter, and falls back flat onto the bed. He should have expected no less than for Kris to be a huge fucking tease.
Jim throws his arm over his eyes, trying to refocus, trying to breathe and not cry in frustration. Kris’s skin drags up Jim’s body, hard muscles and burn of stubble against his stomach, so much different than what Jim’s used to but still so, so good. He doesn’t know how this all works, but Kris seems to have it all figured out, rutting against Jim’s thigh, his cock hot against Jim’s skin.
“Fuck,” Jim says, and curves his hands around Kris’s hips, his thumbs digging in above Kris’s ass, his fingers slotting perfectly over the cut muscles that frame Kris’s cock. Kris catches Jim’s mouth in another kiss, repositioning himself as he goes, his cock dragging wet across Jim’s stomach, pre-come leaving a sticky trail. “This is - I can’t believe -- ”
“Yeah,” Kris breathes, and gets his hand between them. His touch is sure, confident, and he thumbs over the head, callused digit dragging over sensitive skin, across the dripping slit. It’s intense; the slide-press of Kris’s cock against his own, sweat slicking between their chests, Jim’s fingers tight on Kris’s skin, holding him close. And when Kris gasps against Jim’s mouth, spilling wet between them, Jim thrusts his hips up and follows.
He’ll follow Kris every time.
::
“So I should probably -- “
“Yeah.” Kris sighs. He doesn’t move, though, and stays splayed across Jim’s chest, lips grazing over Jim’s collarbone. He’s warm, so soft and relaxed. Jim realizes it’s the first time he’s ever actually seen Kris so comfortable. No pressure, no acting for the cameras, nothing but the quiet puff of his breath against Jim’s skin.
Jim lets himself drift just a little longer. He grazes his fingertips down the curve of Kris’s back just to feel him shiver, matching Kris’s grin when he tilts his face up, eyes hooded but bright. Kris’s chin digs into Jim’s sternum.
“I really do have to go,” Jim says. Kris nods and pushes up, biceps bulging as he hovers above Jim. He leans down to press a quick kiss against Jim’s lips, something Jim really didn’t expect, after, but it’s good. Natural, just like everything else between them.
He’s flopped back onto his back when Jim finally rises to gather up his stuff. Jim’s searching for his right boot when the realization hits him, brutal and hard.
“Oh my god, I’m such a groupie,” he says, and drops his face into in his hands. From the bed, Kris gives a soft laugh, drawing Jim’s focus. Moth to a flame and all that.
“Think it goes both ways,” Kris says, and shifts himself higher on the pillows, sheet pooling around his waist. He still looks bleary with sleep, small and wonderful, and it loosens something in Jim’s chest. He lets himself smile back before slipping out the door.
::
The night air is especially chilly, prickling at his skin. Jim’s over half-way home when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He draws it out slow, unsure of who’s texting him. He hopes it's not his wife, because he'd promised to tell her everything should these very unlikely and totally awesome set of circumstances occur, but it’ll be so much easier to gab than type. It’s not, but when Jim flips his phone open, he can’t help but beam and laugh.
KrisAllen4Real: FYI. @jambajim: 1 @EWMichaelSlezak: 0
Jim decides to text Kris directly, since he’s in no mood to deal with Slezak, or for this high to end. Lack of context! They’re gonna run with that, he sends, none too surprised when his phone vibrates just a moment later.
Then let em run a marathon, it reads, and talk to you soon.
:: bonus ending (AKA, Jim saves a baby per his request, but it really has no relevance to the rest of this fic) ::
Jim slips his phone back into his pocket and is still lost in the thought when he hears the screaming. There’s a woman at the top of the hill, waving her arms frantically, voice gone so shrill that Jim can’t make out a word of what she’s saying. His first instinct is to duck - growing up in the city does have it’s advantages in life lessons - but then Jim notices the stroller sliding down the ice-covered sidewalk at an alarming pace.
The ice nearly trips him up, his footwear not really weather appropriate, but how was Jim to know when he woke that morning that the sky would open up, that he’d be walking home from Kris’s hotel at just this moment, that everything would tilt on it’s axis and his whole world would be repolarized in just a few hours? He skids into the stroller’s path, wishing, hoping, praying with every ounce of his being that the thing doesn’t flip; that he doesn’t miss, that it doesn’t plow into him and bust his kidney or something in the process.
Time slows, his heart pounding, but before the stroller zips past, Jim manages to wrap his fingers around the handle. It jars against his leg, pain shooting up his thigh, but it doesn’t tip, oh god, thank sweet baby Jesus.
The baby inside, however, is wailing at the top of its lungs. Jim’s not all that steady himself, arms shaking, but he reaches down and scoops the kid up, fingers gently checking for any bumps or bruises. The mom comes slip-sliding towards them, clutching Jim’s arm in a death grip with one hand and dipping down to press her cheek to her baby’s head.
“Thank you, thank you,” she says, tears flowing freely over her cheeks. She wraps herself around Jim, the baby pressed tight and safe between them, and Jim finally exhales, his whole body shuddering with it. His own eyes prickle, the band wrapped around his chest loosening.
The baby wails, a high, clear scream that cuts through the night air, mouth rounded, her tiny face pinched tight and red, but -- the kid is okay. It’s all okay.
::
Additional author notes: This is for realholiday (though, really I'm just saying that b/c I owe her a bday gift and she's been on my ass about teasing her with this fic for several days and good god, I do NOT want her wrath brought upon me. DNW Kroegercest, sorry.) ANYWAYS. I love her - and Chachi and the rest of my lovely friends who pushed me to write this - and so it's really for everyone. (& yeah, even Jim, because he made it so, so easy and almost guilt free to write)
I have to thank xbeyondinsanex for encouraging & pushing me when I got frustrated with this; moonmelody for the amazing & thorough beta; chachithegreat for a killer line of snark; & windandcoffee for being AMAZING and listening to me bitch for weeks about this fic - and then making me feel like a rockstar before posting. ILU all soo much ♥
I hope this lived up to reality. These two make it really, really hard to top the epicness of natural Krim!
Pairing: Kris Allen/Jim Cantiello
Rating: R
Wordcount: 8,000
Summary: "Sorry to harp on this Kris Allen stuff, but I'm kind of obsessed with him." -Jim Cantiello
Disclaimer: This is untrue. Or. Mostly untrue. I dunno, this skates the line of fiction and reality more than anything I've ever written. But it is lies until confirmed, ok?
A/N: Dear Jim. ILU, but if you're looking at this page, please click that back button up there on your browser. You don't wanna read this - or maybe you do, whatever, I won't judge - but if I ever hear you say this fic exists, I will cry. Don't make me cry, ok? (everyone else - don't you dare tweet this to him. I will make your life HELL. I have no job, I am free at all times. Don't test me.)
A/N2: Please disregard some of your Krim timeline, because I didn't see their initial interview together until after I wrote most of this. OOPS. Beta by moonmelody ♥ Additional A/N (& bonus additional ending) at the finish line.
Not everyone can say it, but Jim? He loves his job. LOVES it. Rockstars and free reign to be as snarky as he pleases and MTV, man. M-FRICKEN-TEEVEE. It’s the kinda job pre-pubescent boys dream of between airings of Family Guy, Spring Break: Cabo, and all day Star Wars marathons. Not that he knows from personal experience or anything. Though, if pressed, he would concede that whipped cream bikinis are always in fashion -- as is Bobba Fet.
Anyways. Lactose-laden fashion choices and kick-ass bounty hunters aside, the point is that Jim totally loves his job.
The other thing Jim really loves? Is loves American Idol. He knows that’s not something every guy in the world likes to own up to, but really? It’s fun and has, ultimately, allowed him his own subset at the offices and he-llo, his own web show. Not just anyone can carry that off.
Well, ok. Maybe that Slezak guy does the exact same thing. But, not really. Jim tapes his segments alone, thank you very much, no snappy straight man co-star needed.
Not that Jim would ever, ever admit that out loud. That Kristen chick is all sorts of terrifying and could totally kick his ass.
Jim thinks this season seems pretty promising, though. He even goes as far as to audition, just to get the first-hand scoop, and while that turns out to be an epic fail and an all day long waste of his time, Jim does get a preview of some potential talent. The people who make it through seem decently interesting. And with the addition of a fourth judge -- seriously bizarre, but whatever -- Jim thinks this year might even be the one to change it all.
::
So -- maybe Kris wins Jim over in the end.
Maybe the guy doesn’t have the sizzle that Lambert does, or the sob story Gokey keeps working (good GOD, the douchiness makes Jim’s head swim and if he thinks about it too long, his head might just explode and then, really, where would they all be?), but -- where was he?
Kris, oh yes. Kris Allen is quiet, the token “cute boy” of the season. Jim’s seen those ones make it through for a couple of rounds before ultimately flopping and getting the boot plenty of times before. Gotta keep the eye candy to talent ratio up or what kind of production would Idol be running? But somewhere around the middle of the season, Kris puts down his humble, guy-next-door guitar act and drags a piano into the mix and, oh, wow, okay. Maybe that Kris kid isn’t just a pretty face after all.
Not that Jim notices things like that or anything. It’s entirely his wife’s fault, cooing and awing and, oh, hey, kind of pouncing on Jim later that very same evening. An hour and a half later, Jim decides that, yeah, maybe Kris Allen can stay. And play on air all the time, if this is how Jess gets after.
It’s a downhill slide from there.
He ends up actively rooting for the guy at the end. Jim always was a sucker for the underdog and anyone who rid his screen of that four-eyed twat-waffle is a hero in Jim’s book. So even while he thinks Lambert will take it, he privately crosses his fingers and toes and hopes for an upset.
When it comes, he almost doesn’t know what to do. There’s this strange elation, something that, even after covering the show for four seasons, Jim’s never experienced. It feels like - like he’s won, somehow, and Jim doesn’t even understand why.
He does a quick google check that night, figuring he better brush up on his Kris knowledge because the road ahead is bound to be long and tedious. Post season, tour, digging for inside album info and fact checking; and the best place to get all that, still, is the good ol’ world wide web. Idol fans are awesome that way.
A few hours and boards later and Jim feels pretty up to date on this Allen kid. The fans pretty much deem him ridiculously perfect on every level (though they keep calling him BB - is that some thinly veiled hick joke?), and while Jim has his doubts, Kris does seem like a pretty decent guy.
Jim shoves his laptop onto the cluttered coffee table, sets his Tivo to record anything with the mention of Kris Allen in its summary and leaves it at that.
::
It’s kind of anti-climactic finally meeting Kris. Jim’s got his questions all ready and he flips through his stack of colored index cards while he waits. He made sure to use green for Kris and everything, and he’s got his apology for doubting Kris’s potential to take it all at the tip of his tongue when the tour manager practically shoves Kris at him. Or actually does. Kris pitches forward, palm pressed flat to Jim’s chest. He’s smaller than Jim imagined.
“Three questions, that’s it. Sixty seconds. We’re beyond behind, go, go, go,” the guy says, and rushes off to rope in the rest of the Idols.
“Uh, sorry about that,” Kris says. He rebalances himself and shoots a weary smile Jim’s way.
“Is he always like that?” Jim asks. The guy’s wrangled in Megan and is pushing her rapidly towards where they’re standing. She body checks Kris in her haste and he sways forward again, balancing himself on the fingertips he has pressed to Jim’s chest.
“Nah, but LA’s been brutal. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many reporters at once.” There are dark bags under Kris’s eyes and he drags the back of his hand across his face. Jim feels terrible for making him stop. Maybe the guy will be able to swing a power nap or something between the start of the show and his set. “And that’s one, two questions left.”
Jim sputters. “What, I. But the camera’s not even on, that’s not,” he gets out, before catching his own tongue and realizing that Kris is joking. He’s laughing even, a quiet chuckle that wrinkles the skin around his eyes. He doesn’t look so tired when his smile is genuine. “You suck.”
“If you believe what they say online, I’m amazing at it,” Kris says and winks. That’s. Wow, so maybe Kris Allen is nowhere near as vanilla as a lot of the world thinks. Kris claps his hands together, grabbing Jim’s attention again. “We really do have to rush though, sorry. Ready to do this?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Sure! Ready on three, Steve?”
The camera man waves, fingers ticking off, and Jim smiles. Kris comes across as charismatic and lovable in the quick minute they have on camera. He’s surprisingly witty, too. Jim doesn’t even have to fake his laugh at the tired dig Kris makes at the station - somehow, coming from such a laid-back, non-confrontational guy, it’s the perfect amount of adorably shocking.
“And you’ll follow me, right?” Jim hears himself saying when the burly producer comes back to drag Kris away. He actually has to twine his fingers in Kris’s shirt and pull, making him look for all the world like a puppy getting scruffed by the collar. Kris looks back at Jim, his eyes scanning quickly over the front of Jim’s shirt.
“Jamba Jim, got it,” Kris half-yells, and mock salutes. Jim can hear his laughter as he twists out of the guy’s grasp and darts towards the appropriate curtain, almost skipping.
Ok, so. Maybe it’s not anticlimactic at all.
::
Direct message from KrisAllen4Real: Hey, man. Was cool meeting with you. And MTV doesn’t actually suck…Pop-pop still loves it.
Jim reads over the words and does not, despite what anyone in a ten foot radius around him might say, whoop out loud. And he definitely does not cackle with maniacal glee when Slezak tweets a few hours later, all pouty and insulted, trying to guilt trip Kris into following him as well.
It’s not Jim’s fault that he’s good with an iron and the bold color selection of his tees. Dritz Iron-On and Hanes should be sending him comp packs, actually. Cross promotion: Hanes should recognize. Kris certainly did.
::
The trip to Florida is exactly what Jim needs. The city is crazy in the summer, heat shimmering off the asphalt and pavement. Here, though, the breeze grazes over Jim’s skin like a caress. He leans back in his beach chair, digging his toes further into the warm sand. His wife asks him for a drink, so he pulls one from the cooler, condensation sliding down his fingertips, and smears his hands down her neck after handing the can of Coke over, laughing when she shudders and leans into the touch.
He and Jess sit for a few hours, just being and watching the waves lap at the shore until she gets restless and wants to check out the souvenir shop, maybe head back and grab a quick shower before an early dinner? Jim agrees, sending her off while he drags their stuff up the sand.
After he’s packed their chairs and towels into the trunk, Jim digs in the glove compartment and pulls out his cell. There are three missed calls, all from the office, and Jim sighs. His vacation time is all of a week. It’s not like he’s Sway or something, but a week isn’t that long to ask, right?
He checks his text messages next, but there’s only one -- a message from the news office’s secretary that reads, simply: KRIS ALLEN.
Kris Allen? What kind of text message is that? Susie’s vague at the best of times, but this text takes the cake. Did something happen? He tries not to think about bus crashes and terrible vocal chord injuries, presses 3 on speed dial and leans down to brush sand off his foot.
“MTV dungeon, Susie the malnourished and much abused intern speaking.”
Jim flaps a little, leaning back against the rental car. “Malnourished my ass. I’m betting you’ve had at least two Ring Dings and half a gallon of Mt. Dew already. And it’s only two o clock. And you haven’t been an intern for years!”
He can hear Susie clattering away at her keyboard. As much as she likes to complain, the girl is good. “Right. I’m rolling in vitamins from that diet. Thank god this place is stocked with so many nutritional sub stations. And the intern thing adds a little flair to it, gotta keep up company image.” She sighs. “’Sup, Jimbo? Aren’t you supposed to be soaking up the sun while the rest of us toil extra hard in your absence?”
Jim rolls his eyes. The sun-warmed metal of the car burns against the small of his back. “Uh. Kris Allen? That ring a bell?”
“Oh,” Susie says. Her voice rises a little out of her usual monotone, and after two years, Jim knows her tells enough to pick up on her excitement, even if it’ll ruin her calm-cool-collect hipster street cred. “That, yeah. He wants to meet with you. Asked for you by name, actually.”
Jim stumbles, kicking his leg out so hard that his flip flop goes skidding across the pavement. “Wait, what?”
“I dunno. They’ve got him with Alexa, some concert thing in the Park before that? He’s your boyfriend, not mine. And apparently he misses your stupid face.”
“Did he say that?”
“Oh my god. You are such a tool. These hallways haven’t seen someone of your toolish caliber since the Carson era. Get your ass back here, they’re lonely without your presence.”
“Yeah, I.” There are about eight million things Jim’s gotta do. Tickets and packing and oh, shit. His wife. She’s…not gonna be thrilled about leaving early. Maybe she could stay, yeah. He’ll totally tell her to stay, he’s just gonna be holed up in his office prepping because - it breaks out of him, shrill, and he knows he’s being a total teenage girl, but, “For serious? Kris Allen asked to do a one on one with me?”
Susie sighs. “Yeah.” She’s exasperated but there’s fondness there, too. “I’ve already booked you on the 5:30. Be sure to pick me up a cheesy shot glasses on your way out of town. You can buy me a bottle when you get here.”
::
“You sat on her lap, what was that.”
What Jim means to say, of course, is: Hi, Kris Allen. How are you this lovely afternoon? So glad you could stop by to chat, thanks for giving me a call, I’m so pleased you wanted to grant me this exclusive interview.
Instead, he sounds like a jealous teenager with a crush. Which --
Kris laughs and Jim finds himself staring at his mouth. His teeth are really white.
“Hey to you too, man,” Kris says and pulls Jim into a hug. He’s totally unprepared and is only just relaxing into it when Kris pulls back and holds up his hand. “It meant nothing, Scout’s honor. Though I guess we could figure something out if you need to, like, one-up her or something?”
Jim’s still stuck on god, he smells good, sweat and something citrus, and, huh, he totally would buy Kris as a Boyscout, how stupidly cute. He stares at Kris and cocks his head to one side. “How would we -- ”
“Dude, as long as you don’t make me sing jingles, I will get down on my knees. I have a feeling my friends are never gonna let me live that down.”
And that, well. Jim’s got no comeback for that one, not when Kris blinds him with a smile. “I -- I’ve got nothing.”
“One me, zero you,” says Kris, grinning. He pumps his fist, victorious, and Jim’s stomach absolutely does not flip at having all of Kris’s attention directed at him. He also can’t shake the mental picture, Kris folded down on the floor, those talented hands sliding up Jim’s thighs, his breath hot through denim --
Wow. This is so not how Jim expected his twenty seventh year of life to go. Insta-gay, now in Kris Allen flavor.
He gestures to the stools production set up. It’s a good thing he doesn’t get rattled easily, because this is kind of - a big revelation, really. “Ready to have your interview world rocked, then?” he manages. He snatches up a bottle of water and slugs down a quick gulp.
“Always,” Kris responds easily. He hops on the stool, feet dangling. Jim has to fight back an overwhelming desire to wrap his arms around Kris from behind, feel him tucked inside his embrace.
He collapses onto his own stool instead.
The interview goes well, Jim thinks. Like. Really well, actually. Kris is all smiles and quick wit. He plays straight man (and no, Jim doesn’t even mean it that way) to Jim’s hyper line of questioning with an ease that Jim really hadn’t expected when he first caught sight of Kris on AI. He’d seemed so skittish and young back then. Now, the confidence vibing from him is intense. He’s aware of the camera on them, smartly asking how he should angle himself, taking direction well. Jim bets he takes direction that well everywhere and loses a few moments daydreaming about just that.
All in all, Jim thinks he does a pretty good job of masking the desire that’s suddenly planted itself in his mind, too. Kris is just a natural flirt, it seems, laughing at Jim’s jokes in a way that makes him feel like the belle of the ball.
It doesn’t help that the entire time, Jim keeps getting a glimpse of Kris’s skin, tan and smooth where his shirt flaps away from his chest. Jim’s more of a t-shirt kind of guy himself, but buttons (or lack there-of) and plaid work for Kris, god, do they ever. He brings it up, casual, and of course, Kris agrees. “It’s just gonna be completely undone soon,” he says, and winks, and continues on to talk about sex toys and ganstas.
It’s a good time.
And, okay, maybe Jim throws a dick joke in there, but it’s not his fault, really, it’s not. The face Kris makes, surprised and thrown for just a second, is totally worth it, though, so Jim doesn’t beat himself up over the slip too much. It takes a good twenty minutes for Jim to run out of questions, or reasons to keep Kris there, but the head of Kris’s entourage is busily checking her Blackberry, waving her hand and chattering to Jim’s producer, so Jim turns back to Kris and gives him a smile. He feels shy, suddenly, which is just ridiculous. “Thanks, man. I think we got a lot of good stuff to pull together. The fans are gonna love it.”
He’s rambling a bit, he knows, but whatever. Kris just -- he brings that out in Jim. And oh, god, he really is 100% losing it over an Idol. Could his life be any more ridiculous?
Kris doesn’t seem to notice Jim’s internal freak out, however. If anything, he glazes over it and plays his hand, leaning in until his breath is warm on Jim’s neck. Jim glances up: the camera light is dark, thank god.
“Well,” Kris says. He squeezes Jim’s thigh, fingers sliding over the inseam for a fleeting moment. “Gotta give the fans what they want, right?”
He laughs, patting Jim’s leg before rising and tossing a goodbye over his shoulder, but Jim stays planted on his stool, long after, willing his heart to stop pounding in his ears and his blood to make a return trip back from his dick.
::
So. It‘d be one thing if Jim had been imagining it. Projecting, maybe. He’s been known to have an overactive imagination; hell, his mom has a misshapen lump of clay pottery still tucked in the back of her hutch -- the tiny castle he’d crafted in third grade for his imaginary best friend-slash-three inch tall monster named Clyde. Drop Dead Fred, pfft, Clyde was ten times the trouble maker; but at least his tiny stature made his hijinks more manageable.
Point is, Jim is good at placing his faith in the smallest of signs, but his inner cynic still flares up and tries to beat his hope into submission; which is why he convinces himself that it’s all in his mind. Kris Allen is just one of those people -- open and trusting and charming as all get out. It’s not flirting, it’s just -- Kris being Kris.
Plus, he is pretty tiny. Maybe Jim’s just trying to relive his youth by replacing one imaginary miniature relationship with another.
The rest of Jim’s week passes by uneventfully. On Saturday, he heads uptown to a friend’s gig and drinks himself silly, good music and bright lights pulsing away the week’s stress. His wife giggles against his neck on the walk home, tripping in her sandals. He tugs her up the stairs and lays her out on their bed, unbuckling the miniature closures around her ankles with clumsy fingers. He’s kissing his way up her calf, tickling at her thigh with his hands and laughing when she accidentally crashes her knee against his temple.
“Sorry, baby,” Jess says, and pulls him up to her, kissing the sore spot. He presses her shoulders down to the bed and kisses her sloppily, lazy, and they laugh and tumble, too drunk to make it work. She sighs against his mouth and tucks into his arms and they fall asleep just like that, half dressed and comfortable.
If Jim dreams of Kris that night, his fingers quick on his guitar as he plays in the same bar, spotlight shining a bright beacon on his form, it doesn’t mean a damn thing. Even when Dream!Kris glances his way in the middle of a song and winks, sly, overhead lights painting his image blue and red, lower lip dropped open in invitation.
At least it’s better than the time Jim had dreamed that he was at the Playboy mansion, chatting up Hugh Hefner, who was surrounded by Playmates in classic bunny-gear, tight asses and tighter clothes, perfectly proportioned and identical in every way. The only real thing shocking about the situation was: they all had Kris’s face.
Yeah. That one had been a doozy.
::
Jive forwards Jim a copy of Kris’s proposed single in early September. He slits the side of the envelope with careful precision, tilts, and lets the CD fall to his desk from its bubble wrapped encasement with a clatter. His fingers are shaking.
It’s silly, he knows, but Jim just can’t help it. There’s just something about Kris, something raw and natural that Jim doesn’t see everyday. Not in his line of work, anyways, or even in the city, in general. New York is grey, muted neutrals and practiced nonchalance; and in busts Kris with his bright, garish plaid, easy drawl and even easier smile.
Jim slides the CD into his player and leans back at his desk chair, eyes slipping shut, trying to remain calm and failing spectacularly. The song is perfect, exactly the type of song Kris needs on air: punchy and simple, the hook awesomely catchy. It’s him, uplifting and clean and Jim’s heart is pounding afterwards as he quickly sets his player to repeat and opens Word to start a new article.
He’s already mouthing the words along with Kris by the time he updates his blog, a permanent smile on his face.
::
“Can-tell-yoooo,” Kris says, and wraps his arms around Jim. He’s ready for it this time and hugs back, embracing Kris fully. Jim brushes his fingers over the nape of Kris’s neck without thinking; he breathes Kris’s scent in, clean and sharp. He can feel Kris’s heart pounding against his chest, absolute excitement strumming through him. The messy feathered tips of Kris’s hair brush Jim’s chin when Kris finally thumps his palm across Jim’s back and he lets go.
Slezak’s across the room and he’s looking at them both with an odd, calculating glimmer in his eye. Jim ignores it and turns back to face Kris -- who, it seems, feels the need to remain all up in Jim’s space. That’s just peachy keen with him, though.
Kris’s eyes shine with excitement, his cheeks flushed, despite the early morning hour. “So?” he asks, earnest and bouncing on his heels. ”I read your article, but I figure the label paid MTV off to assure your review was good. Whaddaya really think?”
Jim could laugh, really he could. He thinks he’s been more than transparent about how he feels about Kris’s music, just how excited he is for the guy, but apparently Kris has a little cynic in him, too (and, oh, god, Jim did so not mean it that way, but now that he thinks about it…)
“Um,” Kris says. He squeezes Jim’s arm and quirks his lips into a sideways grin. “I know it’s early, so I’m gonna hope the whole eyes-glazing over thing isn’t your reaction. It’s not that bad, is it?”
Jim lets the hysterical chuckle he’s been tucking away bubble out. “No, it’s not that.” He’s supposed to be a professional, what is he doing right now? And beyond that, he’d like to think of himself, at the very least, as Kris’s friend. He focuses, banishing the very persistent mental images to the back of his mind. “The single is awesome, man. Seriously stellar and catchy. It’s gonna blow up, I’m sure.”
It feels like every interview they do is shorter and shorter, the seconds speeding by. This time, Kris really does have a packed schedule, but their convo is nothing less than perfect. Kris even brings up the idea of them having a show, again. It’s a good thing Jess had insisted they take yoga once a week, because Jim is totally able to center himself and not flail like a muppet. It wouldn’t really do to whap Kris in the face in a fit of glee.
“Whatever,” Jim says, pretending not to be dying inside. “You don’t love me at all, can’t even get my name right.”
Kris’s eyes narrow, lower lip plump and pouty. That’s -- it’s, uh, gonna look amazing on camera. “I’m not saying it right?”
The instant he says it, Jim regrets even bringing it up. He sounds legitimately upset and Jim, in turn, feels terrible. So what if Kris Allen doesn’t say his name right? It’s not important at all.
“It’s Cantiello,” Slezak chimes in from the sidelines. He’s staring at Jim again and he knows it’s written all over his face now. At this point, though, he doesn’t even care.
“Can-Tea-Ellow,” Kris drawls, the name slipping from his lips long and sweet. Jim holds himself still, steadfastly ignoring the shiver hearing Kris wrap his lips around his name incites. Kris presses his knuckles to his temple and twists his wrist. “Locked away, never gonna screw it up again.”
Jim tampers down his heart eyes, just barely, and waves Kris away. “Yeah, yeah. Go on, now. I’m sure you have better places to be than chilling in the lobby with us losers.”
“Speak for yourself,” Slezak says, flipping his notebook shut. “Good luck, Kris. Thanks again.” He extends a hand to Kris, all professional courtesy, and Kris takes it with a small smile. It doesn’t escape Jim that Kris isn’t handing out hugs all willy-nilly.
Kris is halfway to the door and Jim is three seconds away from leaping into the air and clicking his heels together when Kris turns back, leveling his gaze at Jim. His eyebrow arches up. “Hey,” Kris says, “Didn’t you promise me coffee? I see no coffee.”
Now it’s Jim’s turn to chuckle. So his obvious public declarations hadn’t gone unnoticed after all. “Next time,” he says. “Gotta draw you superstars in somehow.”
::
By the time October rolls around, Jim’s interacting with Kris almost daily, which is a little freaky at first, but they fall into a natural rhythm with their banter and direct messaging. Jim does his best to limit the amount of times he tweets Kris where everyone can see, but whenever he does, his replies blow up, so really? It’s kind of his obligation to continue doing so. He thinks back to the interview he’d done with Kris months back, give the fans what they want, and honestly, it’s no skin off Jim’s nose. The indulgence is a delight, and ten times healthier than giving into his nightly craving for Coldstone, thank-you-very-much. Tweeting and talking about and slipping Kris into as much conversation as possible is simply good for his diet.
Plus, all promotion is good promotion; a lesson Jim had learned straight out of college, when he’d pushed his tape across the desk at MTV’s offices, begging for a position. Intern, minion, coffee-slave, whatever. Gotta work hard to reach your dreams, and if he could help Kris out, well? That was just icing on the proverbial cake.
Hopefully chocolate icing, mmm, mixed with cake batter ice cream and Snickers, that would be -
Jim’s phone buzzes in his pocket, one new text flashing on the outside screen. He flips it open, a smile spreading across his face as he reads Kris’s latest tweet.
KrisAllen4Real: Those kids could have just shared a bowl of cereal rather than making fun of the poor Trix rabbit. Not on, bullies.
Well, ok. Maybe Kris isn’t that good for his diet.
He just talked about Kris a few hours ago, though, so he holds his tongue - fingers, whatever - and says nothing. But, if later that night Jim happens to upload a song and Twitter it away and, say, that song happens to be one that matches the theme? Well. No one has to know that he’s actually making Kris a mix, one song at a time.
A week later, he’s given up all pretenses. People around the office have taken notice and are giving him shit. On Thursday, he walks into his office and finds a good dozen pictures of Kris taped to the walls, several with graffiti “Krim” and “JC + KA” all over them. There’s even one with Lena’s trademark red lipstick smudged on its cheek, a perfect heart-shaped kiss.
Jim doesn’t take them down.
The next week, Jim goes all out and fawns spectacularly over the greatest hits of Kris Allen’s Twitter. It’s less than an hour after he puts it up that he gets a DM from the man himself.
Direct Message from KrisAllen4Real: Yo Jimbo! You’re giving a guy performance anxiety over here. This pedestal, it is high.
Not buying it. I saw the Idols Live Tour. My good money is on Kris Allen having NO performance issues whatsoever., Jim DMs back, throwing caution to the wind.
::
They don’t have coffee, as it turns out. Winter comes early to the city, white washing the streets for one glorious moment before the slush and dirt intermingle, soaking through the soles of Jim’s worn boots. He’d planned to get a new pair, but the sudden storm had caught them all by surprise. No bargains now.
He tromps into work and is leaning down to brush ice off the hem of his jeans when someone slaps him on the ass.
“Sexual harassment,” Jim says, and starts in on his other pant leg. He hates when his jeans stay damp all day, salt lines crusting them stiff at the bottom. “Goes both ways, Suze.”
There’s a chuckle behind him, far too deep to belong to Susie. “I’ll keep that in mind,” the guy says and oh. It can’t be.
“Kris?” Jim spins so fast he almost loses his footing, hands still somewhere around his knees, twisting between his legs. “What. Why -- “
“Surprise,” Kris mutters, which is completely pointless because duh, surprise.
“I didn’t know you were gonna be here. Why didn’t I know you were gonna be here?”
“Oh,” Kris says. “I guess I finally shook the GPS tracker you planted on me.” He presses his lips together, corner turning up to give him away. “Last minute thing, I didn’t have time to pack. They just kinda shoved me on a plane and then a car and now I’m here. Taping a couple of promos, I guess? And,” Kris crooks his finger, beckoning Jim closer. As if Jim needs to be called. He leans in so fast he gets a head rush.
“We’ve got a thing at NBC. Lizzy thinks they want me on SNL.”
Kris’s eyes are wide, excited, and it takes every ounce of Jim’s will power to limit his response to a simple squeeze of Kris’s arm and not, say, the cinematic kiss he wants to dip Kris into.
“I know, right?” Kris says, and covers Jim’s hand with his own, thumb brushing deliberate over Jim’s knuckles. Jim swallows, hard, and drags his gaze away from their hands and up to Kris’s face. Kris, who’s staring at him, lids heavy, his grin lopsided and well, ok. Jim didn’t need to breathe ever again, anyways.
“Um,” he manages, and the bubble pops. Kris’s manager calls him away, but not before Kris says that he knows it’s kind of rude to just impose, but did Jim maybe wanna do something later?
“Figure I might as well have some fun while I’m here, right? Being stuck in the hotel is boring and I thought you might not mind if -- ”
“No, no, not a problem at all,” Jim says, cutting in. Is Kris seriously asking if it’s okay that he crashed a mundane, dreary Tuesday with his presence? It’s like the MTV News office turned to heaven over night -- though there’s always the possibility that there was a tragic accident where a piano fell on his head from an eight story window (he always thought that would be a cool way to go) and maybe he just doesn’t know that he’s passed thru the pearly gates already. Jim thinks he smells fresh baked cookies. His heaven would have cookies and Kris, for sure.
“Killer,” Kris says, and Jim snaps out of it then; even more so when Kris claps him on the shoulder before being sheparded out. He’s almost at the door when he looks back, sheer mischief in his eyes. The guy has no poker face. “I almost forgot. Love your office decorations, man. It’s nice to personally know my number one fan.”
He actually winks and Jim can melt into a puddle and soak into the floor now, thanks. He covers his face with both hands, only peeking out from between his fingers to watch Kris walk away.
::
The day drags by. Like. Absolutely, one hundred percent drags along. There’s no way Jim can concentrate, not knowing that one, Kris is no more than a few thousand feet away and two, he’s got an evening with Kris-freakin-ALLEN to look forward to at the end of the day. Who in their right mind would be able to worry about Britney’s newest flub with that hanging over their heads?
And, okay, it’s not like it’s a date or anything, Jim knows that. Still - it feels that way, maybe, just a little. Jim’s all twitchy and on edge and he can’t stop smiling, not even when Tim steals the last fortune cookie from lunch and follows Jim around, reciting the same line ad nauseum all afternoon, in a variety of increasingly obnoxious accents. Or when Susie begs off to run a quick errand and can Jim maybe just cover the phones for her for a little bit?
Two hours later and he’s still putting people on hold and trying to figure out how to explain to the fifth person who proclaims him to be the most delightful person they’ve spoken to on the phone in weeks just why he’s like that, today. It doesn’t even matter, though, because Jim’s stress level is zil to none. He’s floating on an endorphin cloud and clicking Mr. Hambleson from City National over to accounting when Kris appears at the front desk, leaning to peer over the high ledge at where Jim’s seated.
“Did ya’ miss me?” Kris beams, startling Jim and then promptly sending him and his endorphin cloud into the stratosphere.
“Like a punch to the face,” Jim replies. “Or a knee to the groin. A car full of clowns, even. A documentary about knitting. Ooo, needles in the eye.” The chair squeaks when he leans forward, grinning up at Kris, who pulls a face.
“So poetic. You should help me with my next song, I swear.” It takes a lot for Jim to not make a ridiculous sound at that, but he knows Kris is joking. Probably. “Is it too early to steal you away? I could probably go find something to do while I wait, but I’m kinda starving.”
Jim looks around. The office is pretty quiet and Susie’s absence be damned, Kris is right there, waiting. Like hell he’s gonna make him wait any longer. “Nah,” Jim says, and pushes away from the desk. “Lemmie just grab my coat and we’re golden.”
It’s only when he gets to his feet that Jim sees Kris’s full get up. Kris must notice his arched eyebrow, because he spreads his arms wide, showing off the ridiculously oversized puffy jacket hanging from his frame.
“Told you they snatched me straight out of the sunshine. You know you’re jealous of what they brought me at the airport.” The jacket is a weird mustard yellow color and looks insane. Throw in a heavy chain and an obnoxious cap with an area code emblazoned across the top and Kris might, actually, be repping his rapper persona to the T.
“Yo, yo, yo,” Jim says, throwing a peace sign and cracking Kris up in the process. It feels -- it feels amazing and Jim lets out a deep breath, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.
::
He takes Kris to Sully’s, which Jim knows is relatively quiet on a Tuesday night. The Rangers game is playing on four out of the six widescreens behind the bar, and after grabbing two drafts from the bartender, Jim weaves his way back to the round booth where Kris is watching the game.
”So today was good?” Jim asks, slotting a glance at Kris after checking the score. The place is noisy, the crowd groaning as one when Drury misses a shot. Kris scoots closer.
“Huh?” he says, and Jim leans in even more, not wanting to shout.
“Today, your meetings.” He’s not even trying to pry for a scoop, though Kris certainly did bless him with it this morning. Jim is just genuinely interested and happy for Kris’s success.
From the grin Kris turns up at him, he doesn’t mind Jim’s questions at all. “Yeah, man. It was awesome. A little boring, but it’s gonna be so cool.”
They watch the game in companionable silence, occasionally grimacing at the crack of the player’s bodies against the plexi glass. A waitress comes by and Jim orders another round; she promises to keep them coming. Around the third period, Kris gets them a basket of wings and fries to share and it’s good -- right until Jim turns away from the television during a commercial and sees Kris licking his fingers, damn near obscene.
It’s the last straw. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that last beer, because drinking sometimes makes him bitchy, but Kris is sucking at his own thumb and looking at Jim, the smirk on his face a dare. Jim catches Kris’s wrist and tugs. “What are you, the King of Gay Chicken or something?”
Kris’s entire face scrunches up at that: eyes squinting shut, his nose wrinkling, cheeks rounding adorably. His laughter is almost silent, his shoulders shaking with it, and Jim is torn between complete frustration and searing pride. He made Kris laugh that way. Kris wants to be here, is having a good time.
It’s intoxicating and he’s drawing up a mental list of ways to do it again when Kris’s features smooth out and he sucks in a deep breath, tilting forward to invade Jim’s space even more. It’s a struggle for Jim to keep his eyes open, Kris’s face blurring this close. Their noses touch.
“Something like that,” Kris says, barely a whisper against Jim’s lips. He follows up with a brush of his mouth, faint graze across the chapped surface of Jim’s, skin catching, and then sighs.
Jim gasps, drawing back, his heart trip-hamming in his throat. His lips tingle, from shock or the spice of wing sauce, he doesn’t know, but -- Kris’s eyes are shut, giving Jim a moment to soak in how he looks, lips slightly parted and curved into a secret smile. Kris sighs, soft and content, and when his lashes flutter open, he tilts his head further to the side, baring the chords of his neck in the bar’s dim light.
“Yeah,” Jim stutters out. “You win.”
::
“So,” Kris says. They’re outside his hotel and he’s looking up at Jim through sooty lashes, his cheeks pink from the cold, dark grey beanie pulled low over his brow. It’s started to snow again, barely, flakes falling around them to melt on the ground. “If I asked you up for dessert -- ”
“Um, we could grab some ice cream,” Jim offers and glances down the street. “Or there’s this really awesome gelato place on 82nd.”
Kris straight up laughs, open and clear, and latches his fingers around Jim’s wrist. “I’ve never actually tried that line before, and now I know why. Guess it’s better to just be direct,” he says and tugs, pulling Jim after him through the hotel doors. The doorman gives them a curt, polite nod, Kris waving his free hand and grinning, and then they’re through the lobby and in the elevator. Kris unwraps his fingers from where they were looped around Jim’s wrist, and his hand falls, feeling heavy and cold without the touch. Kris leans his shoulder against Jim’s instead, their backs pressed to the wall. The elevator siding is metal, copper-colored, and Jim watches Kris’s expression, mischievous, their eyes locked through the reflection.
He’s all but shaking as he follows Kris down the hall. Jim reaches out when Kris stops in front of a door - 1624 - unsure of the boundaries here. He allows his knuckles to skim behind Kris’s ear, shocked and pleased when Kris shivers, almost faintly enough that no one would notice.
But Jim notices everything Kris does. Has for months now, can’t stop, can’t hardwire his brain differently anymore. Kris dug his way in without even trying and honestly? Having Kris in his mind and heart, well, it doesn’t bother Jim that much at all.
::
What happens next is not very PG rated. It’s all sorts of inappropriate and should never, ever be discussed, obviously. Not only because it would be unwise for both of them, but really, discussing a private, intimate moment would just be classless and tacky.
Yeeeeah. Who’s Jim trying to kid? If there was ever a time he’d wished for three different cameras to capture multiple angles and a boom and, oh, yes, maybe even a script so he didn’t feel at a complete loss, now was it. Jim wouldn’t even mind his own lily-white ass being captured permanently in HD, just as long as he had the images to look back on, video to splice and edit and rewatch to his hearts content.
He’ll settle for the memory, though. Glorious 3D, live and in the flesh, Kris Allen pressing those calloused thumbs behind Jim’s ears and opening Jim’s mouth with a light nip of his teeth, sliding his tongue in and weakening Jim’s knees in a heartbeat. Kris pulls Jim in and their chests bump together, swish of slippery jackets and padding in the way.
“Off,” Kris pants against Jim’s mouth, urgent and hungry. Jim had imagined this moment, sure, but never so desperate, never so vivid. His fingers are shaking, the jacket zipper stupidly impossible to operate, and he has to pull away fully from Kris before he can get his motor skills under control. The jacket slips to the floor and when Jim looks up, Kris is dropping his own on one of the suite’s easy chairs and peeling off the layers beneath, T-shirt rolling up along with his sweater, face obscured by the fabric for a moment.
Kris’s hair is all rumpled when his head pops back out, boyishly cute, but Jim knows fully well that what Kris wants isn’t innocent at all. And Kris is no boy, not by a long shot. Jim takes in the expanse of Kris’s chest, the way his shoulders round smooth and toned. He feels inadequate himself, so narrow and thin, but Kris is stalking towards him with intent. Jim swallows back his trepidation and lets his fingers trail down Kris’s bare skin, his thumb skating over the thin line of scar tissue that runs along Kris’s ribs. Kris tiptoes up and slides his fingers against Jim’s scalp, pulling him down and into another drugging kiss.
“Why me,” Jim asks, moments, minutes, hours later. He’s breathless, sucking Kris’s lower lip between his teeth before he can answer. The tender flesh is his, for the moment, to worry, to bruise. It feels incredible.
“Why not,” Kris manages, panting hard. He slides his mouth down the side of Jim’s neck, tongue darting out to draw quick patterns as he moves lower. “I like you,” he says, as if it’s just that simple. Kris’s fingers drag up the fabric of Jim’s shirt, and it doesn’t take long at all for them to both end up naked, tangled together on the bed.
Maybe, Jim thinks later, while he’s reclined against the pillows, propped up on his elbows to watch Kris slide his mouth down Jim’s dick, it really is that simple for Kris. Maybe once Kris makes up his mind, he just. Maybe he just --
Actually, it’s kind of impossible to try to figure it out more than that because Kris swirls his tongue around the head of Jim’s cock, a fleeting press against the underside before he slurps his way back down. He’s good at this, god is he ever, and so Jim allots himself a few points for reading Kris right all along.
Then he just watches, wide-eyed and stunned. Kris alternates, sliding all the way down and slipping off, letting his lower lip drag up the side, lashes fanning out across his cheeks. He looks incredibly peaceful and completely debauched, all at once. Jim thought he knew every way Kris’s face could twist, every goofy face and sultry one, but clearly he knew nothing.
Jim’s body is trembling, Kris’s eyes ever watchful and locked on his, and when he’s just about to burst apart at the seams from the pressure of Kris’s mouth around his dick, the slip of his thumb skating around and under his balls, Kris pulls off. Jim groans, his fingers twisted in the comforter, and falls back flat onto the bed. He should have expected no less than for Kris to be a huge fucking tease.
Jim throws his arm over his eyes, trying to refocus, trying to breathe and not cry in frustration. Kris’s skin drags up Jim’s body, hard muscles and burn of stubble against his stomach, so much different than what Jim’s used to but still so, so good. He doesn’t know how this all works, but Kris seems to have it all figured out, rutting against Jim’s thigh, his cock hot against Jim’s skin.
“Fuck,” Jim says, and curves his hands around Kris’s hips, his thumbs digging in above Kris’s ass, his fingers slotting perfectly over the cut muscles that frame Kris’s cock. Kris catches Jim’s mouth in another kiss, repositioning himself as he goes, his cock dragging wet across Jim’s stomach, pre-come leaving a sticky trail. “This is - I can’t believe -- ”
“Yeah,” Kris breathes, and gets his hand between them. His touch is sure, confident, and he thumbs over the head, callused digit dragging over sensitive skin, across the dripping slit. It’s intense; the slide-press of Kris’s cock against his own, sweat slicking between their chests, Jim’s fingers tight on Kris’s skin, holding him close. And when Kris gasps against Jim’s mouth, spilling wet between them, Jim thrusts his hips up and follows.
He’ll follow Kris every time.
::
“So I should probably -- “
“Yeah.” Kris sighs. He doesn’t move, though, and stays splayed across Jim’s chest, lips grazing over Jim’s collarbone. He’s warm, so soft and relaxed. Jim realizes it’s the first time he’s ever actually seen Kris so comfortable. No pressure, no acting for the cameras, nothing but the quiet puff of his breath against Jim’s skin.
Jim lets himself drift just a little longer. He grazes his fingertips down the curve of Kris’s back just to feel him shiver, matching Kris’s grin when he tilts his face up, eyes hooded but bright. Kris’s chin digs into Jim’s sternum.
“I really do have to go,” Jim says. Kris nods and pushes up, biceps bulging as he hovers above Jim. He leans down to press a quick kiss against Jim’s lips, something Jim really didn’t expect, after, but it’s good. Natural, just like everything else between them.
He’s flopped back onto his back when Jim finally rises to gather up his stuff. Jim’s searching for his right boot when the realization hits him, brutal and hard.
“Oh my god, I’m such a groupie,” he says, and drops his face into in his hands. From the bed, Kris gives a soft laugh, drawing Jim’s focus. Moth to a flame and all that.
“Think it goes both ways,” Kris says, and shifts himself higher on the pillows, sheet pooling around his waist. He still looks bleary with sleep, small and wonderful, and it loosens something in Jim’s chest. He lets himself smile back before slipping out the door.
::
The night air is especially chilly, prickling at his skin. Jim’s over half-way home when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He draws it out slow, unsure of who’s texting him. He hopes it's not his wife, because he'd promised to tell her everything should these very unlikely and totally awesome set of circumstances occur, but it’ll be so much easier to gab than type. It’s not, but when Jim flips his phone open, he can’t help but beam and laugh.
KrisAllen4Real: FYI. @jambajim: 1 @EWMichaelSlezak: 0
Jim decides to text Kris directly, since he’s in no mood to deal with Slezak, or for this high to end. Lack of context! They’re gonna run with that, he sends, none too surprised when his phone vibrates just a moment later.
Then let em run a marathon, it reads, and talk to you soon.
:: bonus ending (AKA, Jim saves a baby per his request, but it really has no relevance to the rest of this fic) ::
Jim slips his phone back into his pocket and is still lost in the thought when he hears the screaming. There’s a woman at the top of the hill, waving her arms frantically, voice gone so shrill that Jim can’t make out a word of what she’s saying. His first instinct is to duck - growing up in the city does have it’s advantages in life lessons - but then Jim notices the stroller sliding down the ice-covered sidewalk at an alarming pace.
The ice nearly trips him up, his footwear not really weather appropriate, but how was Jim to know when he woke that morning that the sky would open up, that he’d be walking home from Kris’s hotel at just this moment, that everything would tilt on it’s axis and his whole world would be repolarized in just a few hours? He skids into the stroller’s path, wishing, hoping, praying with every ounce of his being that the thing doesn’t flip; that he doesn’t miss, that it doesn’t plow into him and bust his kidney or something in the process.
Time slows, his heart pounding, but before the stroller zips past, Jim manages to wrap his fingers around the handle. It jars against his leg, pain shooting up his thigh, but it doesn’t tip, oh god, thank sweet baby Jesus.
The baby inside, however, is wailing at the top of its lungs. Jim’s not all that steady himself, arms shaking, but he reaches down and scoops the kid up, fingers gently checking for any bumps or bruises. The mom comes slip-sliding towards them, clutching Jim’s arm in a death grip with one hand and dipping down to press her cheek to her baby’s head.
“Thank you, thank you,” she says, tears flowing freely over her cheeks. She wraps herself around Jim, the baby pressed tight and safe between them, and Jim finally exhales, his whole body shuddering with it. His own eyes prickle, the band wrapped around his chest loosening.
The baby wails, a high, clear scream that cuts through the night air, mouth rounded, her tiny face pinched tight and red, but -- the kid is okay. It’s all okay.
::
Additional author notes: This is for realholiday (though, really I'm just saying that b/c I owe her a bday gift and she's been on my ass about teasing her with this fic for several days and good god, I do NOT want her wrath brought upon me. DNW Kroegercest, sorry.) ANYWAYS. I love her - and Chachi and the rest of my lovely friends who pushed me to write this - and so it's really for everyone. (& yeah, even Jim, because he made it so, so easy and almost guilt free to write)
I have to thank xbeyondinsanex for encouraging & pushing me when I got frustrated with this; moonmelody for the amazing & thorough beta; chachithegreat for a killer line of snark; & windandcoffee for being AMAZING and listening to me bitch for weeks about this fic - and then making me feel like a rockstar before posting. ILU all soo much ♥
I hope this lived up to reality. These two make it really, really hard to top the epicness of natural Krim!