Sing Your Melody, I'll Sing Along Chapter 1
Title: Sing Your Melody, I’ll Sing Along
Pairing(s): Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Rating: PG to R
Genre: AU
Disclaimer: The real-life characters do not belong to me, and the story is fictional.
Summary: 30-year-old singer-songwriter Kris Allen is a year into his divorce. When his daughter asks him why he and her mom separated, he explains that not all serious relationships turn out to be love. She asks that he tell her about each one of his “serious relationships” so she can decide whom he’s truly meant to be with, and so begins his story.
Author’s Notes: This fic was inspired by the film Definitely, Maybe and the title is from the song “Falling Slowly.”
1
January 2016
At the sound of the doorbell, Kris quickly sets his guitar back on its stand and rushes to the entryway. He opens the door without bothering to check the security camera, and a ball of energy with a head of hazel curls jumps into his arms yelling, “Daddy!”
Kris smiles and kisses his daughter’s cheek. “Hello, sweetie pie.” She giggles when his next kiss is a ridiculously noisy smack against her skin. “How was school?”
“Fine,” she says when he lets her down. “We learned about sex today.”
“What?” Kris stares and blinks because Elena is eight, and he was definitely past long division when health class appeared on his schedule. “Aren’t you too young?”
“This isn’t the nineties, gosh.” Elena rolls her eyes and Kris is in awe at just how quickly kids grow up these days. Regardless of his daughter’s precocity, Sex Ed and second grade shouldn’t belong in the same sentence, and he’s about to voice his disapproval when Katy appears in the doorway, a little breathless.
She flashes him a polite smile. “You sure this is okay? It’s not too overwhelming with your tour and everything?”
“Yeah, don’t worry.” Kris nods at Katy and looks down at Elena, who’s gazing up at him from his waist side. “In the mood for a couple of concerts, young lady?”
“As long as you keep that stylist away from me. She always pinches my cheeks and leaves finger marks on my face.”
Kris laughs and tugs his daughter a little closer to him by her shoulder before reaching out to take the duffel bag from Katy. “We’ll be fine. Enjoy the convention.”
Katy thanks him again, leans forward to give Elena a kiss and then she’s gone. Her flight to New York out of LAX leaves in three hours, and Kris can tell she’s in a rush to get to her favorite city in the world. If it weren’t for Elena insisting that she live within an hour of both her parents, Katy would instantly pack her bags and move to the Big Apple.
When the door shuts, Kris turns to Elena. “Are you hungry?”
“Kind of. Can we have breakfast for dinner?”
He grins. “Whatever you want.” Taking her hand, Kris leads her to the kitchen where she climbs up onto one of the stools tucked underneath the island countertop. Kris quickly busies himself with pulling out ingredients out of the fridge and the pantry while Elena rests her chin in her palms and watches her dad pensively.
“Daddy?” she finally asks.
Kris places a frying pan on the stove and pours some vegetable oil. “Yes, baby?”
“Why did you and Mom get divorced?”
Kris’ eyes meet Elena’s, the spatula frozen in mid-air. He sighs when it hits him that he won’t be able to change the subject. “Does this have anything to do with the lesson you had at school today?”
“Well, you had me, right? That means you loved each other, because you’re a celebrity and everything, but I doubt Mom was a groupie.”
“How do you know what a groupie is?”
“That’s not the point,” Elena retorts, and Kris finds it hard to believe that she isn’t even a preteen yet. “Stop avoiding the question.”
Kris cracks an egg on the edge of the pan and lets the white and yoke fall in a sizzling circle in the center. “We got divorced because... sometimes married people are more compatible as friends.”
Elena chews on her lip while she stares at the egg cook in front of her before glancing up at her dad again. “But weren’t you serious? Don’t people only get married when they’re serious?”
At times like these, Kris desperately wishes that somebody out there would write an emergency guidebook for parents, particularly those who are one year into their divorce and have an especially bright child. “Of course we were. But someone can be in a perfectly serious relationship that seems a lot like love, and end up realizing otherwise.”
He plates the fried round and hands it to Elena, who immediately digs into it while he starts on the pancakes. “How many of those relationships have you been in?” Elena asks between mouthfuls.
Over the sound of the sink water running into the pan, Kris contemplates the question. “Four,” he says after a few moments.
“Four?” Elena exclaims. “So that - so you could’ve married any of them?”
“... Maybe.”
Horror mixed with surprises crosses Elena’s porcelain face. “Dad, you’re a man slut!”
Kris jerks his body around, equally appalled. “A what? That’s not - how do you know all these words?” Then he mutters mostly to himself “What in the world is going on with the schools?”
But it doesn’t seem to bother Elena that she just called her dad a man slut and she’s thoughtful again, focused on a single spot on the wall behind Kris. When she speaks, it catches Kris off guard. “Dad, what if you were wrong? I mean did you ever think that you could have been wrong about being wrong about you and Mom?”
It takes a few seconds for the sentence to register. “Elena, the decision to get a divorce was ours, not just mine. Your mom and I agreed that it was for the best, even though it was difficult.”
They are both silent for a couple of minutes, but then Elena pauses while cutting into her pancakes. Kris joins her on the next stool over and that’s when she announces decisively, “Tell me about those four people, Dad.” She continues when Kris raises an eyebrow at the request. “I’ll listen, and then let you know if you were wrong about Mom.”
“Elena -”
“I’m serious! You’re only thirty and you’re the one always telling me that it’s never too late for anything, right?”
Such is the moment when your own advice comes to bite you in the ass.
“It’s not...” Kris trails off, knowing that he should probably dissuade her, but his logic reminds him that she really is completely serious and set on hearing about what she wants. He considers trying to talk her out of the idea but argues against himself that it’s pointless. So he finally yields. “Okay.” Elena beams. “But not until we finish our dinner.”
“Deal.” Elena sticks a huge forkful of moist pancake into her mouth, and Kris has no choice but to chuckle and shake his head.
An hour later, Elena is settled into one end of the couch, a blanket draped over her lap and a plush pillow behind her back. In her arms, she has her treasured red panda stuffed animal that he and Katy had gotten her at the Los Angeles Zoo four years ago. Kris plops down on the other end so he’s facing her.
“You ready?”
“Oh, wait.” Elena scrambles off the couch and goes over to the bookcase for the pad of construction paper and their assorted collection of mugs all filled with pens and pencils. She returns with a pink sheet and a marker. Hastily, she divides the page by drawing three horizontal lines, snaps the cap back on the marker and sits back. “Now I’m ready.”
“Alright, I’m going to change Katy’s name in the stories so you’re not biased. In fact, I’ll change everyone’s names because... well, because I just decided to.” Elena replies with a nonchalant “fine” and Kris takes a deep breath. “We’re rewinding back to thirteen years ago. I was eighteen, fresh out of high school in Arkansas and heading to New York for college...”
August 2003
“I’m going to miss you,” Jane murmurs from the edge of the bed. She’s halfheartedly folding the last of Kris’ shirts while Kris pulls an empty suitcase out of his closet.
Kris pushes the suitcase aside and walks over to his girlfriend, who scoots over a bit so he can sit next to her. He leans forward to kiss her forehead. “I’ll miss you too,” he whispers against her soft skin. “But I’m not moving to Antarctica, you know? It’s only New York, just a few hours away. I’ll be back for Thanksgiving in a heartbeat.”
“That’s the thing, Kris. It’s not only New York. I’m sure the girls there are beautiful and adventurous and I’m... What if you realize that you don’t want to come back here? That the people you meet there are so much cooler and better? What then?”
“Then you can punch me and knock some sense into my brain.” Jane rolls her eyes but the corners of her mouth have already turned up slightly, and Kris raises an arm to affectionately tuck back a strand of her hair. “Jane, the only thing I can give you is my word. You have to trust me on this. This, what we have, was never supposed to end two months after graduation. We’re young, I know. But I love you.”
Jane smiles and Kris is instantly relieved. “I love you, Kris Allen,” she whispers. Her head falls on Kris’ shoulder, and suddenly all their worries seem to simultaneously disappear.
+
“Hold up,” Elena interrupts. “How did you and Jane meet?”
Kris leans into the sofa cushion, his expression nostalgic. “She moved to Arkansas the summer before our sophomore year. I had a crush on her but couldn’t work up the nerve to ask her out, and then one day during a chemistry lab I bumped into her and spilled iodine on her yellow shirt.”
“What’s iodine?”
“It’s this purple liquid that stains if you get it on your clothes.”
“Is that how people asked each other out during the Stone Age? Via embarrassment?”
“Very funny. Anyway, her shirt now had this ugly purple blotch so I gave her my jacket to wear for the rest of the day. I bought her another shirt, and she treated me to ice cream to thank me for it. Eventually I asked her to the spring dance, and we started to date after that.”
At the top of her chart, Elena has written “Jane” and scrawled notes like “crush”, “dad bought present” and “likes ice cream.” There’s a star next to her name and Kris isn’t quite sure what that means, but Elena’s brown eyes are twinkling and she’s pulling her toy closer to her chest in anticipation, so he continues with the story.
October 2003
“You sure you don’t want to come hang with us art freaks?”
Kris glances up to find his roommate Matt by the door, one hand on the handle but his expression comically hopeful. Matt invited Kris to a quirky little café he’d found and, as tempted as Kris is, his open econ textbook coldly reminds him that he’ll have to rethink his major if next week’s first exam of the term is a bust.
“Not tonight, Giraud.”
“If not now, when?” Matt declares dramatically, complete with a flourishing gesture. “Today’s open mic, Allen! You need to stop fiddling around on your guitar and perform for once. It’ll take your edge off and make you less of a jerk for me to deal with.”
“Yeah right.” Kris chuckles and throws his stack of post-its at Matt, who catches it out of the air with a grin.
“You’ve been cooped up in here all day. This place still smells like the sandwich you had at lunch for Christ’s sake. You’re gonna say no to hot chocolate? Coffee? Wait, do you even drink caffeine?”
With Matt’s persuasive voice in his ear, the small print in front of him begins to look less and less appealing. Finally, Kris sighs and shuts the text, leaving a pencil in there as a bookmark. Matt whoops triumphantly and drags him out of their room when Kris has just one arm in his jacket.
Matt is an environmental science major but a jazz pianist during his spare time, and there are Tisch kids greeting him left and right as soon as he and Kris enter the café just a couple of blocks from campus. There are white Christmas lights hung along the walls and old photos of NYU students, and instead of uniform dishware all the ceramic mugs and plates are different - stripes, polka dots, magenta, orange, olive...
“Your name’s on the list, man.” Matt claps Kris on his shoulder before sitting down in a chair across from him.
“What?” There’s a shot of panic that flashes in Kris’ eyes. “Hey, no, I don’t -”
“Blah, blah, blah can’t hear you, roomie.”
“Matt.” Kris buries his face in his hands, the heat from the flush in his cheeks carrying over to the skin on his palms.
“Look, the owner’s a friend of mine, alright? I wouldn’t sign you up if I thought you weren’t good.”
“That’s a relief... I guess,” Kris mutters glumly.
A half-hour later, the host calls his name and introduces him as a “Sternie” like he’s an outsider from enemy territory. Kris tosses Matt an exasperated glance and drags his feet over to the stage at the back of the café. The gazes that follow him are curious and skeptical, not such a fantastic mix for an audience.
He takes a seat at the piano bench and wipes his clammy hands on his jeans. “I, um, don’t have an original song” - the crowd doesn’t appear surprised - “but this is a favorite of mine, so, here goes.”
The place is silent after his rendition of “Ain’t No Sunshine,” so quiet that Kris can’t even hear the bottoms of cups clinking against the tables. But then applause and cheers erupt throughout the space, and Kris is even more stunned. It’s not like there are stage lights or anything, but the students all turn into blurry outlines except for Matt, who’s giving him a very enthusiastic and vocal standing ovation.
He stumbles a bit down the steps at the side of the stage, awed by the response, showered with compliments from unfamiliar faces. Matt gives him a look that screams “I told you so” and Kris just rolls his eyes.
“I’ll go get us drinks to celebrate,” Matt announces.
“They have beer here?”
“Uh, it’s a café, Allen. I was talking about refills for our coffee.” He emphasizes the point by lifting both mugs he’s holding. “Unless you want beer. I mean I understand the line of reasoning. Linking superstardom with alcohol... or something. But dude, you have a midterm in five days and it’s not a great time to suddenly -”
“Oh geez just shut up and get the coffee, Giraud.”
Matt heads over to the counter while Kris waits, drumming his fingertips on the table.
“Hey you were great up there.”
When Kris looks up, his breath sort of hitches in his throat. The guy is tall - Kris has to crane his neck a little - with ink black hair and piercing ice blue eyes. Freckles dance across his skin and his lips are slightly pink and he’s handsome enough to be intimidating. Kris is almost too distracted to thank him.
He extends a hand. “I’m Adam Lambert.” His grip is strong, confident. “You’re Kris Allen the Sternie?”
Kris laughs. “Yup, I’m the intruder messing up all the vibes among the artistes.” He uses an exaggerated French accent for the last word, pronouncing it like arr-teest and Adam cracks up.
“Well I doubt you’ll be thought as an intruder for much longer. You should apply for an ambassadorship between the schools.”
“That’ll be my insurance if my econ grade doesn’t fare favorably this semester,” Kris jokes. “So are you at Tisch?”
“Nah, I don’t go to NYU. I’m an understudy on Broadway for Wicked.”
Kris’ eyes widen. “The show that just moved to Gershwin?” Adam smiles sheepishly and nods, and Kris can’t help but exclaim, “That’s amazing. Wow.” He doesn’t mean to fan boy, really, but he finds that he can’t help himself.
+
“Dad, wait.” Elena puts up a hand. “Adam?”
“Right.” Kris rubs his neck and studies his daughter’s ambiguous expression. “Actually, two of the four people are guys.”
She chews on the end of her marker, shrugs and says, “Whatever, that’s cool.” After scribbling Adam’s name on the chart below Jane, she waves her hand. “Proceed.”
+
Adam’s in the middle of asking Kris about his freshman year when someone taps his shoulder and says, “Baby, you ready to go?”
He hesitates for a moment but pushes his chair back to stand up. “Sure. Brad, this is Kris Allen, who performed earlier. Kris, this is my boyfriend Brad.”
Brad doesn’t bother to shake Kris’ hand but just gives him a curt nod. “Good to meet you. Come on, Adam, we’re late.”
Adam huffs in annoyance but grins at Kris, albeit it’s a bit strained. “Well, I’ll see you around, Kris.”
“Of course.”
Matt practically jogs over to their table a couple of minutes after Adam and Brad leave, apologizing for the lateness. He argues that he didn’t intend on talking with Megan, one of the baristas, for so long but they simply connected really well. Kris just assures him that it’s okay.
“Hey what’s this?”
“What?” Kris takes the napkin that Matt is holding out to him and reads the note in the corner. Matt cocks an eyebrow when his friend starts beaming.
Let’s talk soon. 212-012-9082. :)
Pairing(s): Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Rating: PG to R
Genre: AU
Disclaimer: The real-life characters do not belong to me, and the story is fictional.
Summary: 30-year-old singer-songwriter Kris Allen is a year into his divorce. When his daughter asks him why he and her mom separated, he explains that not all serious relationships turn out to be love. She asks that he tell her about each one of his “serious relationships” so she can decide whom he’s truly meant to be with, and so begins his story.
Author’s Notes: This fic was inspired by the film Definitely, Maybe and the title is from the song “Falling Slowly.”
1
January 2016
At the sound of the doorbell, Kris quickly sets his guitar back on its stand and rushes to the entryway. He opens the door without bothering to check the security camera, and a ball of energy with a head of hazel curls jumps into his arms yelling, “Daddy!”
Kris smiles and kisses his daughter’s cheek. “Hello, sweetie pie.” She giggles when his next kiss is a ridiculously noisy smack against her skin. “How was school?”
“Fine,” she says when he lets her down. “We learned about sex today.”
“What?” Kris stares and blinks because Elena is eight, and he was definitely past long division when health class appeared on his schedule. “Aren’t you too young?”
“This isn’t the nineties, gosh.” Elena rolls her eyes and Kris is in awe at just how quickly kids grow up these days. Regardless of his daughter’s precocity, Sex Ed and second grade shouldn’t belong in the same sentence, and he’s about to voice his disapproval when Katy appears in the doorway, a little breathless.
She flashes him a polite smile. “You sure this is okay? It’s not too overwhelming with your tour and everything?”
“Yeah, don’t worry.” Kris nods at Katy and looks down at Elena, who’s gazing up at him from his waist side. “In the mood for a couple of concerts, young lady?”
“As long as you keep that stylist away from me. She always pinches my cheeks and leaves finger marks on my face.”
Kris laughs and tugs his daughter a little closer to him by her shoulder before reaching out to take the duffel bag from Katy. “We’ll be fine. Enjoy the convention.”
Katy thanks him again, leans forward to give Elena a kiss and then she’s gone. Her flight to New York out of LAX leaves in three hours, and Kris can tell she’s in a rush to get to her favorite city in the world. If it weren’t for Elena insisting that she live within an hour of both her parents, Katy would instantly pack her bags and move to the Big Apple.
When the door shuts, Kris turns to Elena. “Are you hungry?”
“Kind of. Can we have breakfast for dinner?”
He grins. “Whatever you want.” Taking her hand, Kris leads her to the kitchen where she climbs up onto one of the stools tucked underneath the island countertop. Kris quickly busies himself with pulling out ingredients out of the fridge and the pantry while Elena rests her chin in her palms and watches her dad pensively.
“Daddy?” she finally asks.
Kris places a frying pan on the stove and pours some vegetable oil. “Yes, baby?”
“Why did you and Mom get divorced?”
Kris’ eyes meet Elena’s, the spatula frozen in mid-air. He sighs when it hits him that he won’t be able to change the subject. “Does this have anything to do with the lesson you had at school today?”
“Well, you had me, right? That means you loved each other, because you’re a celebrity and everything, but I doubt Mom was a groupie.”
“How do you know what a groupie is?”
“That’s not the point,” Elena retorts, and Kris finds it hard to believe that she isn’t even a preteen yet. “Stop avoiding the question.”
Kris cracks an egg on the edge of the pan and lets the white and yoke fall in a sizzling circle in the center. “We got divorced because... sometimes married people are more compatible as friends.”
Elena chews on her lip while she stares at the egg cook in front of her before glancing up at her dad again. “But weren’t you serious? Don’t people only get married when they’re serious?”
At times like these, Kris desperately wishes that somebody out there would write an emergency guidebook for parents, particularly those who are one year into their divorce and have an especially bright child. “Of course we were. But someone can be in a perfectly serious relationship that seems a lot like love, and end up realizing otherwise.”
He plates the fried round and hands it to Elena, who immediately digs into it while he starts on the pancakes. “How many of those relationships have you been in?” Elena asks between mouthfuls.
Over the sound of the sink water running into the pan, Kris contemplates the question. “Four,” he says after a few moments.
“Four?” Elena exclaims. “So that - so you could’ve married any of them?”
“... Maybe.”
Horror mixed with surprises crosses Elena’s porcelain face. “Dad, you’re a man slut!”
Kris jerks his body around, equally appalled. “A what? That’s not - how do you know all these words?” Then he mutters mostly to himself “What in the world is going on with the schools?”
But it doesn’t seem to bother Elena that she just called her dad a man slut and she’s thoughtful again, focused on a single spot on the wall behind Kris. When she speaks, it catches Kris off guard. “Dad, what if you were wrong? I mean did you ever think that you could have been wrong about being wrong about you and Mom?”
It takes a few seconds for the sentence to register. “Elena, the decision to get a divorce was ours, not just mine. Your mom and I agreed that it was for the best, even though it was difficult.”
They are both silent for a couple of minutes, but then Elena pauses while cutting into her pancakes. Kris joins her on the next stool over and that’s when she announces decisively, “Tell me about those four people, Dad.” She continues when Kris raises an eyebrow at the request. “I’ll listen, and then let you know if you were wrong about Mom.”
“Elena -”
“I’m serious! You’re only thirty and you’re the one always telling me that it’s never too late for anything, right?”
Such is the moment when your own advice comes to bite you in the ass.
“It’s not...” Kris trails off, knowing that he should probably dissuade her, but his logic reminds him that she really is completely serious and set on hearing about what she wants. He considers trying to talk her out of the idea but argues against himself that it’s pointless. So he finally yields. “Okay.” Elena beams. “But not until we finish our dinner.”
“Deal.” Elena sticks a huge forkful of moist pancake into her mouth, and Kris has no choice but to chuckle and shake his head.
An hour later, Elena is settled into one end of the couch, a blanket draped over her lap and a plush pillow behind her back. In her arms, she has her treasured red panda stuffed animal that he and Katy had gotten her at the Los Angeles Zoo four years ago. Kris plops down on the other end so he’s facing her.
“You ready?”
“Oh, wait.” Elena scrambles off the couch and goes over to the bookcase for the pad of construction paper and their assorted collection of mugs all filled with pens and pencils. She returns with a pink sheet and a marker. Hastily, she divides the page by drawing three horizontal lines, snaps the cap back on the marker and sits back. “Now I’m ready.”
“Alright, I’m going to change Katy’s name in the stories so you’re not biased. In fact, I’ll change everyone’s names because... well, because I just decided to.” Elena replies with a nonchalant “fine” and Kris takes a deep breath. “We’re rewinding back to thirteen years ago. I was eighteen, fresh out of high school in Arkansas and heading to New York for college...”
August 2003
“I’m going to miss you,” Jane murmurs from the edge of the bed. She’s halfheartedly folding the last of Kris’ shirts while Kris pulls an empty suitcase out of his closet.
Kris pushes the suitcase aside and walks over to his girlfriend, who scoots over a bit so he can sit next to her. He leans forward to kiss her forehead. “I’ll miss you too,” he whispers against her soft skin. “But I’m not moving to Antarctica, you know? It’s only New York, just a few hours away. I’ll be back for Thanksgiving in a heartbeat.”
“That’s the thing, Kris. It’s not only New York. I’m sure the girls there are beautiful and adventurous and I’m... What if you realize that you don’t want to come back here? That the people you meet there are so much cooler and better? What then?”
“Then you can punch me and knock some sense into my brain.” Jane rolls her eyes but the corners of her mouth have already turned up slightly, and Kris raises an arm to affectionately tuck back a strand of her hair. “Jane, the only thing I can give you is my word. You have to trust me on this. This, what we have, was never supposed to end two months after graduation. We’re young, I know. But I love you.”
Jane smiles and Kris is instantly relieved. “I love you, Kris Allen,” she whispers. Her head falls on Kris’ shoulder, and suddenly all their worries seem to simultaneously disappear.
+
“Hold up,” Elena interrupts. “How did you and Jane meet?”
Kris leans into the sofa cushion, his expression nostalgic. “She moved to Arkansas the summer before our sophomore year. I had a crush on her but couldn’t work up the nerve to ask her out, and then one day during a chemistry lab I bumped into her and spilled iodine on her yellow shirt.”
“What’s iodine?”
“It’s this purple liquid that stains if you get it on your clothes.”
“Is that how people asked each other out during the Stone Age? Via embarrassment?”
“Very funny. Anyway, her shirt now had this ugly purple blotch so I gave her my jacket to wear for the rest of the day. I bought her another shirt, and she treated me to ice cream to thank me for it. Eventually I asked her to the spring dance, and we started to date after that.”
At the top of her chart, Elena has written “Jane” and scrawled notes like “crush”, “dad bought present” and “likes ice cream.” There’s a star next to her name and Kris isn’t quite sure what that means, but Elena’s brown eyes are twinkling and she’s pulling her toy closer to her chest in anticipation, so he continues with the story.
October 2003
“You sure you don’t want to come hang with us art freaks?”
Kris glances up to find his roommate Matt by the door, one hand on the handle but his expression comically hopeful. Matt invited Kris to a quirky little café he’d found and, as tempted as Kris is, his open econ textbook coldly reminds him that he’ll have to rethink his major if next week’s first exam of the term is a bust.
“Not tonight, Giraud.”
“If not now, when?” Matt declares dramatically, complete with a flourishing gesture. “Today’s open mic, Allen! You need to stop fiddling around on your guitar and perform for once. It’ll take your edge off and make you less of a jerk for me to deal with.”
“Yeah right.” Kris chuckles and throws his stack of post-its at Matt, who catches it out of the air with a grin.
“You’ve been cooped up in here all day. This place still smells like the sandwich you had at lunch for Christ’s sake. You’re gonna say no to hot chocolate? Coffee? Wait, do you even drink caffeine?”
With Matt’s persuasive voice in his ear, the small print in front of him begins to look less and less appealing. Finally, Kris sighs and shuts the text, leaving a pencil in there as a bookmark. Matt whoops triumphantly and drags him out of their room when Kris has just one arm in his jacket.
Matt is an environmental science major but a jazz pianist during his spare time, and there are Tisch kids greeting him left and right as soon as he and Kris enter the café just a couple of blocks from campus. There are white Christmas lights hung along the walls and old photos of NYU students, and instead of uniform dishware all the ceramic mugs and plates are different - stripes, polka dots, magenta, orange, olive...
“Your name’s on the list, man.” Matt claps Kris on his shoulder before sitting down in a chair across from him.
“What?” There’s a shot of panic that flashes in Kris’ eyes. “Hey, no, I don’t -”
“Blah, blah, blah can’t hear you, roomie.”
“Matt.” Kris buries his face in his hands, the heat from the flush in his cheeks carrying over to the skin on his palms.
“Look, the owner’s a friend of mine, alright? I wouldn’t sign you up if I thought you weren’t good.”
“That’s a relief... I guess,” Kris mutters glumly.
A half-hour later, the host calls his name and introduces him as a “Sternie” like he’s an outsider from enemy territory. Kris tosses Matt an exasperated glance and drags his feet over to the stage at the back of the café. The gazes that follow him are curious and skeptical, not such a fantastic mix for an audience.
He takes a seat at the piano bench and wipes his clammy hands on his jeans. “I, um, don’t have an original song” - the crowd doesn’t appear surprised - “but this is a favorite of mine, so, here goes.”
The place is silent after his rendition of “Ain’t No Sunshine,” so quiet that Kris can’t even hear the bottoms of cups clinking against the tables. But then applause and cheers erupt throughout the space, and Kris is even more stunned. It’s not like there are stage lights or anything, but the students all turn into blurry outlines except for Matt, who’s giving him a very enthusiastic and vocal standing ovation.
He stumbles a bit down the steps at the side of the stage, awed by the response, showered with compliments from unfamiliar faces. Matt gives him a look that screams “I told you so” and Kris just rolls his eyes.
“I’ll go get us drinks to celebrate,” Matt announces.
“They have beer here?”
“Uh, it’s a café, Allen. I was talking about refills for our coffee.” He emphasizes the point by lifting both mugs he’s holding. “Unless you want beer. I mean I understand the line of reasoning. Linking superstardom with alcohol... or something. But dude, you have a midterm in five days and it’s not a great time to suddenly -”
“Oh geez just shut up and get the coffee, Giraud.”
Matt heads over to the counter while Kris waits, drumming his fingertips on the table.
“Hey you were great up there.”
When Kris looks up, his breath sort of hitches in his throat. The guy is tall - Kris has to crane his neck a little - with ink black hair and piercing ice blue eyes. Freckles dance across his skin and his lips are slightly pink and he’s handsome enough to be intimidating. Kris is almost too distracted to thank him.
He extends a hand. “I’m Adam Lambert.” His grip is strong, confident. “You’re Kris Allen the Sternie?”
Kris laughs. “Yup, I’m the intruder messing up all the vibes among the artistes.” He uses an exaggerated French accent for the last word, pronouncing it like arr-teest and Adam cracks up.
“Well I doubt you’ll be thought as an intruder for much longer. You should apply for an ambassadorship between the schools.”
“That’ll be my insurance if my econ grade doesn’t fare favorably this semester,” Kris jokes. “So are you at Tisch?”
“Nah, I don’t go to NYU. I’m an understudy on Broadway for Wicked.”
Kris’ eyes widen. “The show that just moved to Gershwin?” Adam smiles sheepishly and nods, and Kris can’t help but exclaim, “That’s amazing. Wow.” He doesn’t mean to fan boy, really, but he finds that he can’t help himself.
+
“Dad, wait.” Elena puts up a hand. “Adam?”
“Right.” Kris rubs his neck and studies his daughter’s ambiguous expression. “Actually, two of the four people are guys.”
She chews on the end of her marker, shrugs and says, “Whatever, that’s cool.” After scribbling Adam’s name on the chart below Jane, she waves her hand. “Proceed.”
+
Adam’s in the middle of asking Kris about his freshman year when someone taps his shoulder and says, “Baby, you ready to go?”
He hesitates for a moment but pushes his chair back to stand up. “Sure. Brad, this is Kris Allen, who performed earlier. Kris, this is my boyfriend Brad.”
Brad doesn’t bother to shake Kris’ hand but just gives him a curt nod. “Good to meet you. Come on, Adam, we’re late.”
Adam huffs in annoyance but grins at Kris, albeit it’s a bit strained. “Well, I’ll see you around, Kris.”
“Of course.”
Matt practically jogs over to their table a couple of minutes after Adam and Brad leave, apologizing for the lateness. He argues that he didn’t intend on talking with Megan, one of the baristas, for so long but they simply connected really well. Kris just assures him that it’s okay.
“Hey what’s this?”
“What?” Kris takes the napkin that Matt is holding out to him and reads the note in the corner. Matt cocks an eyebrow when his friend starts beaming.
Let’s talk soon. 212-012-9082. :)