FIC: There's More Than One Way To Win
Title: There's More Than One Way To Win
Author:
american_halo
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Rating: R
Summary: Adam's Idol journey and the complications that arise when he finds himself inexplicably attracted to another contestant.
Disclaimer: Uhm, fiction.
Read: Part 1 | Part 2
PART 2
It’s another awkward night back at the house as expected. The conversation is forced and the laughter is strained. Everyone’s on edge and I know I certainly feel anything but safe. I voice my concerns along with the rest of the group, but I’m quickly dismissed and deemed too modest. It’s frustrating because inside I’m freaking the fuck out, but no one will commiserate.
I find Allison across the room and wait impatiently for her eyes to meet mine. When they finally do, I jerk my head over my shoulder and hope she gets the message. A small nod confirms that she does. Casually, I back towards the doors and quietly let myself out. I know I said I’d stop secluding myself, but the need for space is overwhelming.
It’s a cool night despite the mild California weather and I collapse down into a cushioned patio chair with a sigh. I’m loving every minute of this journey and I’m terrified of it ending. It would be the ultimate cocktease to get just a taste of this life and then be thrown back into mediocrity and open mic nights. Allison appears and slumps down into the chair beside me, pulling her knees up to her chest.
“This can’t end for me,” I whisper and I hate the desperation in my voice. I watch her from the corner of my eye, hoping she knows I’m not stating it as a threat.
She nods slowly and it’s more of a response than I expected. We’re both fighting for the same spot and I’m sure she wants it just as bad. Or at least she thinks she does.
“Are you worried?” she asks and I admit I am. Being a good singer won’t get you to the next round. If it did, none of us would be eliminated. It’s unpredictable. Even nailing your performance won’t guarantee your safety. There’s no telling what will turn America against you, and right about now I’m considering a few skeletons in my closet that might make conservatives a little leery. Who knows? Maybe it’s actually what’s out of the closet that will taint any of my possible popularity.
Allison and I sit in silence, but it’s comfortable. I pick idly at my nail polish and rest my head back against the chair, gazing out over the property. When the glass French doors click open I’m relaxed so I don’t bother looking over to see the newcomer. I should have.
“So this is where you hide out.”
It’s a smooth voice with a faint hint of southern drawl and I pop up so fast that my chair grates nosily against the stone patio blocks.
Kris bites his lip, stifling a laugh. “Sorry, didn‘t mean to scare you.”
I shrug coolly, but only because words are failing me and I can’t seem to spark the connection between my brain and my mouth.
Allison comes to the rescue. “We’re not hiding,” she explains with a cheeky grin. “It‘s all just a lot.”
Kris nods in agreement. She’s right - this competition, the priceless exposure, the title, the sudden electricity crackling out on the patio - it is a lot. It’s almost too much and there’s really no other eloquent way to put it.
She stands then, unfolding her body from the chair and I have to fight the urge to snatch her by the wrist and force her back down. She can’t leave me out here.
I try to quickly formulate an excuse to make her stay, but I’m drawing a frustrating blank. I don’t know why the hell I’m acting like such a little bitch, but every muscle in my body is tense as she offers Kris her seat.
“I’m going to call it an early night,” she explains with a yawn and I feel irrationally betrayed.
Kris wishes her a goodnight and I automatically do the same, though my voice is grainy and foreign to my ears. I’m clutching the armrests of my chair so hard that my knuckles are blanched so I force my hands to my lap. She offers a small wave then disappears into the house leaving me with Kris, a soft California breeze and a head full of unsorted feelings.
“It’s harder than I thought,” Kris says from his place beside me and my mind immediately goes to the gutter.
“What?”
“The whole competition.”
“Oh, yeah.” I feel like a moron. Whatever the fuck is going on here is stopping, now. Or so I tell myself.
Kris turns, twisting his entire upper body to face my chair and assaults me with a crooked grin that halts my thought process completely.
“We could be the final two.”
I’m not a mathematician, but I suppose that probability does exist on some plane of reality. Here and now, out on the patio, however, it seems infinitely far out of reach. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating to consider such a fate, but I’m not exactly sure my reaction is solely with the competition in mind. My hand moves to my hair, smoothing it down against my head.
“We could,” I agree and I hope I sound properly enthusiastic.
The truth is that I’m confused and this is an awful time for a mindfuck. I have quite enough to worry about without this weird reaction to Kris’ presence affecting my ability to think clearly. Whatever, he’s a cute guy, but I’m not a hormonal teenager. Not to mention he’s straight which is an obvious automatic turn off. There isn’t even any temptation. This is a competition, not a gay bar.
But then he nods and grins again, in that infuriating way that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, and I realize with horror that there is temptation. Just the tiniest bit. And it’s making me glad I chose to rest my hands over my crotch.
Fuck.
I’ve had enough. This is not a meaningless game. I need to get my self-control in check. This is about a chance at a career, a better life, a dream fulfilled. I won’t be distracted by this straight, Southern, practicing Christian.
I smile, but it’s bitter and ironic. God hates me.
Kris decides he’s going to bed and I follow him inside. I claim I’ll be right behind him once I grab a late night snack and wash my face. I literally choke realizing my word choice and rush off down the hall.
In reality I sneak off to a downstairs bathroom and rub one out, thinking about anything but the signature Kris Allen smirk burned into the front of my brain. It takes some fucked up fantasies to keep my mind off the guitar-strumming all-American boy, but I figure I’m going to hell anyway.
***
It’s more awkward silence the next day, though by the time the results show rolls around, I’m ready to stop agonizing and start getting answers. The anticipation is torture and I can’t imagine how much worse it can get as the odds dwindle.
The holding-room is charged with anxiety and the hair on my arms pricks up in response. We’re all looking at the floor, searching for that inner strength. The votes have already been cast and our fates have been decided, but I feel, somehow, if I wish hard enough, I‘ll be safe regardless of the public census.
Much to my genuine surprise, I am, though I’m not naïve enough to believe it’s due to a little last minute soul selling. There’s a price this time however, because Allison isn’t and I’m feeling horrible. I don’t even remember what she sang, because I was so wrapped up in Kris last night.
Oh if only.
Fuck.
I’m a shitty friend, but that’s not even the worst of it. Allison’s fate is not the only one hanging precariously in the balance. Sarver and Alexis join her in the bottom three and I’m struck with an odd combination of relief and distress.
Besides my obvious platonic affections towards Allison, Alexis and Sarver are good people. They share the common bond of parenthood, each struggling in their own way to be a proper role model while making ends meet financially and pursuing their dreams. They’ve got more responsibilities in this moment than I’ve had in my entire lifetime.
Allison is freed from nerve-wracking limbo first and she rushes across set into my arms. I hug her to me and whisper congratulations while we cut to commercial.
“Was it scary?” Matt asks and I can’t help but roll my eyes. It’s a moronic insensitive question.
“Terrifying,” Allison answers and I can tell by the quiver in her voice that she’s still thoroughly shaken up.
I glance across the stretch of stage to where Alexis and Sarver stand, shifting anxiously and staring at the floor. It’s pathetic, really, to divide us like this. The audience murmurs quietly - judging, predicting - and I wonder if they truly grasp the amount of power this show allows them. They will change a life. And, if past seasons are any indication, they will destroy a few as well.
“Who do you think is going?”
There’s a warm breath of air against the nape of my neck and I shiver, despite my heavy leather jacket. I twist around to identify the owner of the velvety whisper, even though I already know who it belongs to. Kris is leaning down from the top row, close, so that when I turn, our faces are only inches apart and those soft brown eyes are level with mine. His cheeks flush and he pulls back, but not all the way.
“I think it’s Michael. It’s got to be Michael,” he whispers, offering his own predictions when I don’t answer right away. His eyes are wide and he draws his mouth into a tight-lipped frown. My chest aches.
And then there’s a countdown and we’re back on the air. I’m lost in thought, replaying Kris’ question in my mind, but only to savor the rise and fall of his voice.
Alexis is out and behind me Kris grunts in surprise. It’s an innocent enough noise but my stomach flips and I can feel a familiar pressure building in my core. I’m so easy it’s pathetic.
I force my attention on Alexis’ farewell performance. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s out so soon, but America is fickle and I doubt this will rival the unfair eliminations to come. She waves to her precious daughter in the audience and I’m strangled with unexpected emotion. Alexis is twenty-one, a full five years younger than me and she‘s got ten times the courage and fight. I’d be a great dad. I’d be a horrible dad. I’ll probably never know.
***
There’s no celebration tonight back at the Idol mansion. Saver’s convinced he’s next and I don’t have the conviction to assure him otherwise. The drinks still flow, albeit slowly, but they serve only to medicate wounds and drown fears. It’s almost as if people are just now realizing this is a competition.
For the first time, I’m in my bedroom before the lights are out. The atmosphere in the rest of the house is depressing and that’s just not me. Of course I’m feeling the pressure, but we’ve got a long road ahead of us and it’s too early to be mentally checking out.
I’m lounging across my mattress, propped up against the headboard with a spiral notebook balanced on my knee. I haven’t written anything cohesive, just a few lines of lyrics and random words. The dull murmur of conversation down the hall is distracting and I often find my pen doodling random entwined patterns around the letters instead of anything coherent. My mind is being stretched in too many different directions, which is why I’ve chosen to be alone tonight. Allison understands or if she doesn’t at least she says she does.
I’m thinking about everything and nothing when Kris appears in the doorway, dark purple circles coloring the delicate flesh beneath his eyes. It’s a surprising, but telling observation. He always appears to be so laid back and removed from the pressures of the competition, but the physical implications reveal the truth. He is so much like me. He is nothing like me.
“Long night,” he says crawling onto his own bed with a sigh. He exaggerates the motions of flopping down onto his stomach in exhaustion, resting his cheek against the mattress so he can still see me.
“It’s only going to get worse,” I respond and my voice sounds tired, even though I hadn’t noticed my own increasing fatigue.
He smiles and it’s even more lop-sided then normal due to the way his face is pressed flat against the bed.
“I guess we can’t complain though,” he adds thoughtfully. “The worse the anxiety, the farther we’ve gotten.”
I tilt my head and nod in agreement. It’s funny to consider the growing gut-twisting pressure as a positive presence, but he’s right. I want to be nauseous and restless every Tuesday night from now until May.
Kris mumbles a good night and rolls over, away from me. I know I’m staring, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from his back until it’s rising and falling evenly and I realize he’s asleep.
I force my eyes down to my notebook, twirling my blue pen through my fingers. I want to continue writing, if only to distract my mind, but I flip it closed and toss it on my nightstand as I lazily get to my feet. I move quietly across the carpet towards the door and flick the light switch off when I reach it. Again I tip-toe, back to bed and climb in, easing myself down against the mattress so not to wake Kris.
I force my eyes closed, listening to the steady sound of my roommate’s low snoring. I’m positive that I’ll have difficulty falling asleep, but when my lids flutter open again there’s light filtering in through the window shades and Megan is passed out, face down, on her bed across from mine. Kris’ bed is empty and made, and the digital clock on his night stand reads 10:20am. I’m surprised that I’ve slept so late.
It’s a busy week with all of us being ushered off into different directions for appearances and photo shoots and interviews. One of the perks of real time reality shows is the fact that we can speak freely about the competition and aren’t sworn to secrecy or forced into seclusion. Almost everything that we know, America knows. In fact, I’m willing to bet that they know more. The official public relations consultants for American Idol suggest we avoid reading the tabloids and specifically stay off the internet. It’s really rather cruel that we’ve got a gorgeous high end Mac on a desk in the sitting room, yet we are instructed to ignore the Firefox icon.
Things are smooth for the most part, although I continue to grin like a fool every time Kris enters the room. When we sit around the long dining room table for meals or just unwinding after a long day, I find myself straining to hear his every word, even when the conversation doesn’t involve me. I watch, surreptitiously, as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees when it’s late and he’s getting tired. I notice the way he drums his fingers on the kitchen counter, plucking away at invisible piano keys, while waiting for coffee to brew. I study his movements and quirks and I commit them to memory. It’s pathetic.
I’m bored and stressed out as I sit in front of the Mac, idly dragging cards in a lazy game of solitaire and torturing myself with glances at the internet icon. Half of the group is at rehearsals, while the rest of us screw around waiting for our turn later in the evening. I’m so absorbed in the complete nothingness of this moment that I don’t hear someone enter the sitting room behind me.
“Winning?”
I jump, smacking my knee on the desk with a curse. I don’t need to turn to see who it is. Even if I wasn’t familiar with smooth tone of his voice, I would know it was Kris. Of course it’s Kris. I have sinned and I am now being punished with overwhelming attraction to a straight, Southern, Christian boy while participating in the single most life changing competition of my life. I’ve been bad; very bad, apparently.
“I don’t even know,” I answer, staring at the screen. “I’m just killing time.”
“Are you hungry?”
I answer “yes”, because I am. Of course I don’t consider the ramifications of such a response so what he asks next catches me off guard.
“Do you want to get out of here? Go get something to eat?”
I fix my eyes on the red hearts and black clubs while trying to compute his question into something my brain can comprehend. It’s a simple enough question, really, but the answer is complicated if we’re being honest. I’ve already committed to being both hungry and bored, so declining would only make me look like an asshole, unless I had a good excuse. The problem is that I don’t.
“Alright,” I answer and click off the computer.
When I stand and turn towards him, he’s smiling that crooked grin and I almost have to sit down again. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and smile back.
As we leave the sitting room I hang back slightly, letting him walk in front of me so I can appreciate the view. It’s going to be one hell of an afternoon, that’s for sure.
Author:
american_halo
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Rating: R
Summary: Adam's Idol journey and the complications that arise when he finds himself inexplicably attracted to another contestant.
Disclaimer: Uhm, fiction.
Read: Part 1 | Part 2
PART 2
It’s another awkward night back at the house as expected. The conversation is forced and the laughter is strained. Everyone’s on edge and I know I certainly feel anything but safe. I voice my concerns along with the rest of the group, but I’m quickly dismissed and deemed too modest. It’s frustrating because inside I’m freaking the fuck out, but no one will commiserate.
I find Allison across the room and wait impatiently for her eyes to meet mine. When they finally do, I jerk my head over my shoulder and hope she gets the message. A small nod confirms that she does. Casually, I back towards the doors and quietly let myself out. I know I said I’d stop secluding myself, but the need for space is overwhelming.
It’s a cool night despite the mild California weather and I collapse down into a cushioned patio chair with a sigh. I’m loving every minute of this journey and I’m terrified of it ending. It would be the ultimate cocktease to get just a taste of this life and then be thrown back into mediocrity and open mic nights. Allison appears and slumps down into the chair beside me, pulling her knees up to her chest.
“This can’t end for me,” I whisper and I hate the desperation in my voice. I watch her from the corner of my eye, hoping she knows I’m not stating it as a threat.
She nods slowly and it’s more of a response than I expected. We’re both fighting for the same spot and I’m sure she wants it just as bad. Or at least she thinks she does.
“Are you worried?” she asks and I admit I am. Being a good singer won’t get you to the next round. If it did, none of us would be eliminated. It’s unpredictable. Even nailing your performance won’t guarantee your safety. There’s no telling what will turn America against you, and right about now I’m considering a few skeletons in my closet that might make conservatives a little leery. Who knows? Maybe it’s actually what’s out of the closet that will taint any of my possible popularity.
Allison and I sit in silence, but it’s comfortable. I pick idly at my nail polish and rest my head back against the chair, gazing out over the property. When the glass French doors click open I’m relaxed so I don’t bother looking over to see the newcomer. I should have.
“So this is where you hide out.”
It’s a smooth voice with a faint hint of southern drawl and I pop up so fast that my chair grates nosily against the stone patio blocks.
Kris bites his lip, stifling a laugh. “Sorry, didn‘t mean to scare you.”
I shrug coolly, but only because words are failing me and I can’t seem to spark the connection between my brain and my mouth.
Allison comes to the rescue. “We’re not hiding,” she explains with a cheeky grin. “It‘s all just a lot.”
Kris nods in agreement. She’s right - this competition, the priceless exposure, the title, the sudden electricity crackling out on the patio - it is a lot. It’s almost too much and there’s really no other eloquent way to put it.
She stands then, unfolding her body from the chair and I have to fight the urge to snatch her by the wrist and force her back down. She can’t leave me out here.
I try to quickly formulate an excuse to make her stay, but I’m drawing a frustrating blank. I don’t know why the hell I’m acting like such a little bitch, but every muscle in my body is tense as she offers Kris her seat.
“I’m going to call it an early night,” she explains with a yawn and I feel irrationally betrayed.
Kris wishes her a goodnight and I automatically do the same, though my voice is grainy and foreign to my ears. I’m clutching the armrests of my chair so hard that my knuckles are blanched so I force my hands to my lap. She offers a small wave then disappears into the house leaving me with Kris, a soft California breeze and a head full of unsorted feelings.
“It’s harder than I thought,” Kris says from his place beside me and my mind immediately goes to the gutter.
“What?”
“The whole competition.”
“Oh, yeah.” I feel like a moron. Whatever the fuck is going on here is stopping, now. Or so I tell myself.
Kris turns, twisting his entire upper body to face my chair and assaults me with a crooked grin that halts my thought process completely.
“We could be the final two.”
I’m not a mathematician, but I suppose that probability does exist on some plane of reality. Here and now, out on the patio, however, it seems infinitely far out of reach. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating to consider such a fate, but I’m not exactly sure my reaction is solely with the competition in mind. My hand moves to my hair, smoothing it down against my head.
“We could,” I agree and I hope I sound properly enthusiastic.
The truth is that I’m confused and this is an awful time for a mindfuck. I have quite enough to worry about without this weird reaction to Kris’ presence affecting my ability to think clearly. Whatever, he’s a cute guy, but I’m not a hormonal teenager. Not to mention he’s straight which is an obvious automatic turn off. There isn’t even any temptation. This is a competition, not a gay bar.
But then he nods and grins again, in that infuriating way that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, and I realize with horror that there is temptation. Just the tiniest bit. And it’s making me glad I chose to rest my hands over my crotch.
Fuck.
I’ve had enough. This is not a meaningless game. I need to get my self-control in check. This is about a chance at a career, a better life, a dream fulfilled. I won’t be distracted by this straight, Southern, practicing Christian.
I smile, but it’s bitter and ironic. God hates me.
Kris decides he’s going to bed and I follow him inside. I claim I’ll be right behind him once I grab a late night snack and wash my face. I literally choke realizing my word choice and rush off down the hall.
In reality I sneak off to a downstairs bathroom and rub one out, thinking about anything but the signature Kris Allen smirk burned into the front of my brain. It takes some fucked up fantasies to keep my mind off the guitar-strumming all-American boy, but I figure I’m going to hell anyway.
***
It’s more awkward silence the next day, though by the time the results show rolls around, I’m ready to stop agonizing and start getting answers. The anticipation is torture and I can’t imagine how much worse it can get as the odds dwindle.
The holding-room is charged with anxiety and the hair on my arms pricks up in response. We’re all looking at the floor, searching for that inner strength. The votes have already been cast and our fates have been decided, but I feel, somehow, if I wish hard enough, I‘ll be safe regardless of the public census.
Much to my genuine surprise, I am, though I’m not naïve enough to believe it’s due to a little last minute soul selling. There’s a price this time however, because Allison isn’t and I’m feeling horrible. I don’t even remember what she sang, because I was so wrapped up in Kris last night.
Oh if only.
Fuck.
I’m a shitty friend, but that’s not even the worst of it. Allison’s fate is not the only one hanging precariously in the balance. Sarver and Alexis join her in the bottom three and I’m struck with an odd combination of relief and distress.
Besides my obvious platonic affections towards Allison, Alexis and Sarver are good people. They share the common bond of parenthood, each struggling in their own way to be a proper role model while making ends meet financially and pursuing their dreams. They’ve got more responsibilities in this moment than I’ve had in my entire lifetime.
Allison is freed from nerve-wracking limbo first and she rushes across set into my arms. I hug her to me and whisper congratulations while we cut to commercial.
“Was it scary?” Matt asks and I can’t help but roll my eyes. It’s a moronic insensitive question.
“Terrifying,” Allison answers and I can tell by the quiver in her voice that she’s still thoroughly shaken up.
I glance across the stretch of stage to where Alexis and Sarver stand, shifting anxiously and staring at the floor. It’s pathetic, really, to divide us like this. The audience murmurs quietly - judging, predicting - and I wonder if they truly grasp the amount of power this show allows them. They will change a life. And, if past seasons are any indication, they will destroy a few as well.
“Who do you think is going?”
There’s a warm breath of air against the nape of my neck and I shiver, despite my heavy leather jacket. I twist around to identify the owner of the velvety whisper, even though I already know who it belongs to. Kris is leaning down from the top row, close, so that when I turn, our faces are only inches apart and those soft brown eyes are level with mine. His cheeks flush and he pulls back, but not all the way.
“I think it’s Michael. It’s got to be Michael,” he whispers, offering his own predictions when I don’t answer right away. His eyes are wide and he draws his mouth into a tight-lipped frown. My chest aches.
And then there’s a countdown and we’re back on the air. I’m lost in thought, replaying Kris’ question in my mind, but only to savor the rise and fall of his voice.
Alexis is out and behind me Kris grunts in surprise. It’s an innocent enough noise but my stomach flips and I can feel a familiar pressure building in my core. I’m so easy it’s pathetic.
I force my attention on Alexis’ farewell performance. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s out so soon, but America is fickle and I doubt this will rival the unfair eliminations to come. She waves to her precious daughter in the audience and I’m strangled with unexpected emotion. Alexis is twenty-one, a full five years younger than me and she‘s got ten times the courage and fight. I’d be a great dad. I’d be a horrible dad. I’ll probably never know.
***
There’s no celebration tonight back at the Idol mansion. Saver’s convinced he’s next and I don’t have the conviction to assure him otherwise. The drinks still flow, albeit slowly, but they serve only to medicate wounds and drown fears. It’s almost as if people are just now realizing this is a competition.
For the first time, I’m in my bedroom before the lights are out. The atmosphere in the rest of the house is depressing and that’s just not me. Of course I’m feeling the pressure, but we’ve got a long road ahead of us and it’s too early to be mentally checking out.
I’m lounging across my mattress, propped up against the headboard with a spiral notebook balanced on my knee. I haven’t written anything cohesive, just a few lines of lyrics and random words. The dull murmur of conversation down the hall is distracting and I often find my pen doodling random entwined patterns around the letters instead of anything coherent. My mind is being stretched in too many different directions, which is why I’ve chosen to be alone tonight. Allison understands or if she doesn’t at least she says she does.
I’m thinking about everything and nothing when Kris appears in the doorway, dark purple circles coloring the delicate flesh beneath his eyes. It’s a surprising, but telling observation. He always appears to be so laid back and removed from the pressures of the competition, but the physical implications reveal the truth. He is so much like me. He is nothing like me.
“Long night,” he says crawling onto his own bed with a sigh. He exaggerates the motions of flopping down onto his stomach in exhaustion, resting his cheek against the mattress so he can still see me.
“It’s only going to get worse,” I respond and my voice sounds tired, even though I hadn’t noticed my own increasing fatigue.
He smiles and it’s even more lop-sided then normal due to the way his face is pressed flat against the bed.
“I guess we can’t complain though,” he adds thoughtfully. “The worse the anxiety, the farther we’ve gotten.”
I tilt my head and nod in agreement. It’s funny to consider the growing gut-twisting pressure as a positive presence, but he’s right. I want to be nauseous and restless every Tuesday night from now until May.
Kris mumbles a good night and rolls over, away from me. I know I’m staring, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from his back until it’s rising and falling evenly and I realize he’s asleep.
I force my eyes down to my notebook, twirling my blue pen through my fingers. I want to continue writing, if only to distract my mind, but I flip it closed and toss it on my nightstand as I lazily get to my feet. I move quietly across the carpet towards the door and flick the light switch off when I reach it. Again I tip-toe, back to bed and climb in, easing myself down against the mattress so not to wake Kris.
I force my eyes closed, listening to the steady sound of my roommate’s low snoring. I’m positive that I’ll have difficulty falling asleep, but when my lids flutter open again there’s light filtering in through the window shades and Megan is passed out, face down, on her bed across from mine. Kris’ bed is empty and made, and the digital clock on his night stand reads 10:20am. I’m surprised that I’ve slept so late.
It’s a busy week with all of us being ushered off into different directions for appearances and photo shoots and interviews. One of the perks of real time reality shows is the fact that we can speak freely about the competition and aren’t sworn to secrecy or forced into seclusion. Almost everything that we know, America knows. In fact, I’m willing to bet that they know more. The official public relations consultants for American Idol suggest we avoid reading the tabloids and specifically stay off the internet. It’s really rather cruel that we’ve got a gorgeous high end Mac on a desk in the sitting room, yet we are instructed to ignore the Firefox icon.
Things are smooth for the most part, although I continue to grin like a fool every time Kris enters the room. When we sit around the long dining room table for meals or just unwinding after a long day, I find myself straining to hear his every word, even when the conversation doesn’t involve me. I watch, surreptitiously, as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees when it’s late and he’s getting tired. I notice the way he drums his fingers on the kitchen counter, plucking away at invisible piano keys, while waiting for coffee to brew. I study his movements and quirks and I commit them to memory. It’s pathetic.
I’m bored and stressed out as I sit in front of the Mac, idly dragging cards in a lazy game of solitaire and torturing myself with glances at the internet icon. Half of the group is at rehearsals, while the rest of us screw around waiting for our turn later in the evening. I’m so absorbed in the complete nothingness of this moment that I don’t hear someone enter the sitting room behind me.
“Winning?”
I jump, smacking my knee on the desk with a curse. I don’t need to turn to see who it is. Even if I wasn’t familiar with smooth tone of his voice, I would know it was Kris. Of course it’s Kris. I have sinned and I am now being punished with overwhelming attraction to a straight, Southern, Christian boy while participating in the single most life changing competition of my life. I’ve been bad; very bad, apparently.
“I don’t even know,” I answer, staring at the screen. “I’m just killing time.”
“Are you hungry?”
I answer “yes”, because I am. Of course I don’t consider the ramifications of such a response so what he asks next catches me off guard.
“Do you want to get out of here? Go get something to eat?”
I fix my eyes on the red hearts and black clubs while trying to compute his question into something my brain can comprehend. It’s a simple enough question, really, but the answer is complicated if we’re being honest. I’ve already committed to being both hungry and bored, so declining would only make me look like an asshole, unless I had a good excuse. The problem is that I don’t.
“Alright,” I answer and click off the computer.
When I stand and turn towards him, he’s smiling that crooked grin and I almost have to sit down again. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and smile back.
As we leave the sitting room I hang back slightly, letting him walk in front of me so I can appreciate the view. It’s going to be one hell of an afternoon, that’s for sure.