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 3
AN: Sorry about the delay. I promise the next parts will come much faster. Also, hang on to your seats because after this things speed up considerably. Hope you enjoy. Please review and rec if the mood strikes you. :]
PART 3
Drivers are provided for our excursions outside of the Idol mansion. They sometimes double as bodyguards and accompany us on our trips when our publicist deems our outing “high risk“. It's an odd thing to get used to and I find myself resenting the need for a chauffer, let alone a babysitter. Honestly, we would draw much less attention to ourselves without a 250lb black suit hovering around like we're someone important. I know things will get worse as the competition progresses, but that seems to be a reoccurring theme. For now, though, we normally get double takes and whispers and confused stares for the most part. We aren’t household names just yet.
I follow Kris out to the driveway as he mumbles into his cell phone, requesting a driver and fulfilling the requirement of making our Idol publicists aware of our plans. After a few more moments, he snaps the phone closed and shoots me a thumbs up letting me know that we've been given the all clear. Seconds later a black tinted window Mercedes pulls to where we stand. Personally, I think a modest green Jetta would be much more conspicuous. This vehicle screams "transporting someone important", which, as I've said before, is false advertising. We are just two guys who love to sing who happen to be getting lunch. There’s really nothing to see.
"What are you in the mood for?" Kris asks, pulling the car door open and hopping in.
I smile to myself as I slide in next to him, running through a long list in my mind of highly inappropriate things I'm currently in the mood for. Of course I voice none of them.
"Pizza?" I suggest.
Kris grins and nods enthusiastically before leaning forward and directing the driver. I feel oddly elated that he seems pleased with my choice. In fact, I'm smiling like such an idiot you'd think he agreed to give me blowjob. See, now that was on the list of highly inappropriate things I'm in the mood for yet would die before actually saying. I guess pizza will have to do instead.
The pizza joint isn't far and we arrive before I’ve had nearly enough time to clear my head. I’m not worried too much about awkward silences, as Kris seems like the type of guy who can just relax and enjoy the company without constantly spouting out words just for the sake of talking.
We climb out of the backseat after parking in a spot near the front and walk up to the small casual restaurant. I toss the driver, a large pucker faced man named Ray, a wave over my shoulder and silently thank the gods that we aren’t at the stage where he actually needs to accompany us inside a mom and pop pizzeria.
Kris holds the door open for me a few steps ahead and I silently swoon over his gentlemanly qualities. This is quickly followed by the sobering thought that he is far too classy for me, regardless of sexual preference.
Once inside the nearly empty joint, he chooses a booth in back and I slide in across from him, grabbing a paper menu in the process. The air between us buzzes and I can feel the short hairs on the back of my neck prick up in response.
“What are your feelings on pepperoni?” he asks, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table in an unidentifiable beat.
“I am pro-pepperoni,” I answer truthfully, setting down the menu without ever having opened it.
A waitress saunters over, lazily clutching a pad and snapping her gum. “What can I get you two?”
Kris orders the pizza, large with pepperoni, and we both decide on Cokes, though admittedly I would have enjoyed something a bit stronger. I remind myself that it’s only two in the afternoon and I have rehearsals at seven, which gives me a good segue into conversation.
“Do you know what your singing next show?”
Kris bites his lower lip and his fingers still on edge of the table. “Maybe. I’m not sure. You?”
“Tracks of My Tears,” I admit confidently. “I have to pick something that means something to me or else it just won’t work.”
The waitress brings our drinks and I busy myself with removing the paper casing from my straw. Kris, however, stares at me thoughtfully.
“That’s a pretty sad song.”
I poke my straw into my Coke and take a long sip, considering his assessment. I’m certainly not sad right now. I’m competing in American Idol, singing for thousands of people each week and at this exact moment I’m getting lunch with a cute Southern boy who shares my passion. The song does have some personal relevance, particularly in the sense that I ended a steady but unfulfilling relationship right before auditioning for Idol, but that’s not why I chose it.
“I’m not sad,” I say, resting my chin in my hand. “I’m just getting used to hiding my anxiety. I’m freaking the fuck out about this competition, but I can’t ever let it show. Last week after my unique rendition of Ring of Fire I was thoroughly convinced my number was up. Back at the house everyone just played it off, telling me I was modest and oblivious. I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I was trying to commiserate.”
Kris watches me as I speak, nodding when appropriate. When I finish, he unwraps his own straw and balls the paper up between his fingers.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, staring down into his drink. “I think you’re vocals are amazing. You’re my biggest competition.” He looks up and smiles and I feel my breath hitch. “But, if you ever need someone to just listen, I’m here for you man.”
“Thanks,” I say and it sounds strangled to my ears
I’m surprised by the choking emotion that seizes my throat now, but the small gesture of friendship is meaningful and, if we’re being honest, I’ll take anything he offers. I’m thankful when the pizza arrives and gets pushed between us, but I’m aware of a change in the electricity in the booth and even more so in myself. It’s as though something in my soul has been unhinged and now dangles precariously, threatening to tumble off completely at any minute.
I pull a hot cheesy slice onto my plate and take a large bite, occupying my mouth with the necessity of chewing and he does the same, humming with enjoyment in a way that makes my thighs twitch.
For the remainder of our impromptu lunch we fill the silence with easy meaningless conversation. It’s mostly back-story and our reaction to the competition so far, but I’m careful to censor my own contributions, leaving out any anecdotes that might clue him in on my unconventional lifestyle. He’s accepted the American Idol version of Adam Lambert that I’ve presented and I’m determined to keep that image intact.
Though our conversation is light, I find myself drawn into his every word and it pains me to admit that I’m enjoying getting to know Kris on a personal level. Our histories could not be more different. We’ve walked separate paths that only ever veered farther away from each other until now, where they crossed at American Idol. His life isn’t particularly interesting, and God knows it pales in comparison to the things I’ve seen and done, but I find myself intrigued and craving more.
Somewhere during his recollection of a mundane childhood, he mentions meeting Katy and the conversation spirals off into a direction I’m reluctant to follow. Besides keeping my own marital status under wraps I’m irrationally repelled by any talk involving him and his wife and I despise the way he twists his wedding band thoughtfully around his finger at the mention of her name.
So when his talk edges into that uncomfortable area that ruffles my feathers and spears a white-hot streak of unexpected jealousy through my gut, I do the mature thing by scarfing down the last slice of pizza and asking for the check.
He insists we split the bill, despite the fact that both of our money comes from our American Idol food allowance, but I easily comply because it seems to make him happy.
I’m relieved when we push through the glass door, out into the California sunlight, but I’m equally disappointed. Our afternoon seemed both painfully long and short all at the same time. I’m impressed with how easily the conversation flowed and how genuine the laughs and smiles appeared to be, but I’m also terrified. I am far too familiar with the point of no return and right now I’m dangerously toeing the line. I should know better.
Ray’s face is hidden behind a large newspaper spread open across the steering wheel, but as we approach and catch his attention he folds it up and starts the car. Kris and I slide in, sitting side by side, just as we did on the way to the restaurant and I’m careful to keep my knees locked together on my side of the bench to avoid any physical contact.
For the most part we watch the California scenery outside of our respective windows, but very now and then I can feel his eyes on me. It takes all the self-control I’ve got to keep my eyes trained to the side of the road and when we pull in front of the Idol mansion I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Thanks for lunch,” Kris says as we climb out from the backseat. “I’m going a bit stir crazy.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I respond. “It really was good to get out.”
Our first stretch of awkward silence begins now as we both shift uncomfortably right outside the front door. If this were a date, we’d probably be struggling internally with the decision of whether or not to end it with a kiss, but it wasn’t and now I hate my mind for even going there. Unnerved by my subconscious reasoning, I reach out and pull open the large wooden door.
“So, I’ll see you at rehearsals,” I say and it comes out in an odd tone, as both a statement and a question.
Kris nods and grins and we both step across the threshold, only to part ways in the foyer. It’s an awkward and disappointing ending to an otherwise great afternoon, yet I intend to salvage it. I head down to the rarely used bathroom down by the garage, suddenly overwhelmed with sexual tension I’d been desperately ignoring.
There would be no edgy fantasies this time. The point of no return had been breached. I lean my forehead against the wall next to the sink and undo the restraints of my jeans, shamefully replaying our lunch in my head. I focus on the way his lips curl around his straw and his long fingers tap gently against the edge of the table and his eyes crinkle at the edges when he laughs. It doesn’t take many rough strokes before I’m teetering over the edge and I eagerly give in to the rolling wave of blissful darkness as spasms of pleasure ignite my every nerve. And as I slowly regain composure and pull myself back from the brink of ecstasy only one thought is blaring through my skull.
I am thoroughly fucked.
***
“Adam! We’re leaving for the studio! Let’s go!”
I groan and roll over, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. When I finally get them to focus I glance at Kris’ digital alarm clock. Its three o’clock and the live show is tonight. I sigh and sit up as a short red haired blur sprints in through the doorway of my bedroom.
“Come on, sleepyhead. Danny’s getting pissed that everyone is dragging today.” Allison bounces up onto my bed, shaking my shoulders to rouse me further awake. The jarring movement is doing nothing for the prick of tension below the base of my skull that threatens to break out into a full blown migraine.
“I’m up!” I sigh, standing from the tangle of covers and pulling on my snakeskin boots.
It’s been an exhausting week of rehearsals and interviews and filming, not to mention my self-exile from Kris.
After our lunch and my subsequent extra-curricular activities in the mansion bathroom I can hardly stand to face him over dinner in the dining room, let alone our shared bedroom. I wait until he is undoubtedly asleep before crawling onto my own mattress and even then my nights are restless. I just can’t seem to relax when I’m near him, which is unfortunate because ever since our afternoon of pizza and Coke he’s become somewhat of a shadow.
When we sit down to eat, he’s always by my side, whispering trivial observations of our competitors or sharing juvenile jokes, usually with the incorrect punch line. When we convene in the living room to talk and blow off steam he situates himself painfully close on the rug or the couch or the armchair or wherever I choose to sit. When we ride on the bus to rehearsals or press events he’s the first one to share my bench.
The one place I find solitude is out on the patio, which has been lovingly coined by my bright-haired friend ‘Adison’s Patio’ because the two of us frequent the place of escape so often. Being around Allison is a welcomed distraction and she keeps me laughing without much effort. I can relax, if only for a moment, and forget about Kris and the competition and the general fucked up state of my affairs.
Needless to say, my sleeping schedule is way off and I find myself catching short naps whenever my bedroom is empty and I’m toeing the line of exhaustion.
“Come on!” Allison jumps off my bed and ropes her arm through mine, pulling me out of the room as I try and shift my foot properly inside my boot.
Outside, everyone is already piling into the bus, chatting nervously. I push Allison gently in front of me as we board, relived when she chooses an empty bench for us to share. I can hear Kris’ voice from somewhere behind me as he whispers with Scott and I have to fight the strong urge to twist around and peek at him through the seats.
I suddenly remember that Kris never told me what he was planning on singing tonight and the hundreds of possibilities fulfilling the week’s theme filter through my head. Outside my window the scenery flies by as we head to the studio.
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 3
AN: Sorry about the delay. I promise the next parts will come much faster. Also, hang on to your seats because after this things speed up considerably. Hope you enjoy. Please review and rec if the mood strikes you. :]
PART 3
Drivers are provided for our excursions outside of the Idol mansion. They sometimes double as bodyguards and accompany us on our trips when our publicist deems our outing “high risk“. It's an odd thing to get used to and I find myself resenting the need for a chauffer, let alone a babysitter. Honestly, we would draw much less attention to ourselves without a 250lb black suit hovering around like we're someone important. I know things will get worse as the competition progresses, but that seems to be a reoccurring theme. For now, though, we normally get double takes and whispers and confused stares for the most part. We aren’t household names just yet.
I follow Kris out to the driveway as he mumbles into his cell phone, requesting a driver and fulfilling the requirement of making our Idol publicists aware of our plans. After a few more moments, he snaps the phone closed and shoots me a thumbs up letting me know that we've been given the all clear. Seconds later a black tinted window Mercedes pulls to where we stand. Personally, I think a modest green Jetta would be much more conspicuous. This vehicle screams "transporting someone important", which, as I've said before, is false advertising. We are just two guys who love to sing who happen to be getting lunch. There’s really nothing to see.
"What are you in the mood for?" Kris asks, pulling the car door open and hopping in.
I smile to myself as I slide in next to him, running through a long list in my mind of highly inappropriate things I'm currently in the mood for. Of course I voice none of them.
"Pizza?" I suggest.
Kris grins and nods enthusiastically before leaning forward and directing the driver. I feel oddly elated that he seems pleased with my choice. In fact, I'm smiling like such an idiot you'd think he agreed to give me blowjob. See, now that was on the list of highly inappropriate things I'm in the mood for yet would die before actually saying. I guess pizza will have to do instead.
The pizza joint isn't far and we arrive before I’ve had nearly enough time to clear my head. I’m not worried too much about awkward silences, as Kris seems like the type of guy who can just relax and enjoy the company without constantly spouting out words just for the sake of talking.
We climb out of the backseat after parking in a spot near the front and walk up to the small casual restaurant. I toss the driver, a large pucker faced man named Ray, a wave over my shoulder and silently thank the gods that we aren’t at the stage where he actually needs to accompany us inside a mom and pop pizzeria.
Kris holds the door open for me a few steps ahead and I silently swoon over his gentlemanly qualities. This is quickly followed by the sobering thought that he is far too classy for me, regardless of sexual preference.
Once inside the nearly empty joint, he chooses a booth in back and I slide in across from him, grabbing a paper menu in the process. The air between us buzzes and I can feel the short hairs on the back of my neck prick up in response.
“What are your feelings on pepperoni?” he asks, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table in an unidentifiable beat.
“I am pro-pepperoni,” I answer truthfully, setting down the menu without ever having opened it.
A waitress saunters over, lazily clutching a pad and snapping her gum. “What can I get you two?”
Kris orders the pizza, large with pepperoni, and we both decide on Cokes, though admittedly I would have enjoyed something a bit stronger. I remind myself that it’s only two in the afternoon and I have rehearsals at seven, which gives me a good segue into conversation.
“Do you know what your singing next show?”
Kris bites his lower lip and his fingers still on edge of the table. “Maybe. I’m not sure. You?”
“Tracks of My Tears,” I admit confidently. “I have to pick something that means something to me or else it just won’t work.”
The waitress brings our drinks and I busy myself with removing the paper casing from my straw. Kris, however, stares at me thoughtfully.
“That’s a pretty sad song.”
I poke my straw into my Coke and take a long sip, considering his assessment. I’m certainly not sad right now. I’m competing in American Idol, singing for thousands of people each week and at this exact moment I’m getting lunch with a cute Southern boy who shares my passion. The song does have some personal relevance, particularly in the sense that I ended a steady but unfulfilling relationship right before auditioning for Idol, but that’s not why I chose it.
“I’m not sad,” I say, resting my chin in my hand. “I’m just getting used to hiding my anxiety. I’m freaking the fuck out about this competition, but I can’t ever let it show. Last week after my unique rendition of Ring of Fire I was thoroughly convinced my number was up. Back at the house everyone just played it off, telling me I was modest and oblivious. I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I was trying to commiserate.”
Kris watches me as I speak, nodding when appropriate. When I finish, he unwraps his own straw and balls the paper up between his fingers.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, staring down into his drink. “I think you’re vocals are amazing. You’re my biggest competition.” He looks up and smiles and I feel my breath hitch. “But, if you ever need someone to just listen, I’m here for you man.”
“Thanks,” I say and it sounds strangled to my ears
I’m surprised by the choking emotion that seizes my throat now, but the small gesture of friendship is meaningful and, if we’re being honest, I’ll take anything he offers. I’m thankful when the pizza arrives and gets pushed between us, but I’m aware of a change in the electricity in the booth and even more so in myself. It’s as though something in my soul has been unhinged and now dangles precariously, threatening to tumble off completely at any minute.
I pull a hot cheesy slice onto my plate and take a large bite, occupying my mouth with the necessity of chewing and he does the same, humming with enjoyment in a way that makes my thighs twitch.
For the remainder of our impromptu lunch we fill the silence with easy meaningless conversation. It’s mostly back-story and our reaction to the competition so far, but I’m careful to censor my own contributions, leaving out any anecdotes that might clue him in on my unconventional lifestyle. He’s accepted the American Idol version of Adam Lambert that I’ve presented and I’m determined to keep that image intact.
Though our conversation is light, I find myself drawn into his every word and it pains me to admit that I’m enjoying getting to know Kris on a personal level. Our histories could not be more different. We’ve walked separate paths that only ever veered farther away from each other until now, where they crossed at American Idol. His life isn’t particularly interesting, and God knows it pales in comparison to the things I’ve seen and done, but I find myself intrigued and craving more.
Somewhere during his recollection of a mundane childhood, he mentions meeting Katy and the conversation spirals off into a direction I’m reluctant to follow. Besides keeping my own marital status under wraps I’m irrationally repelled by any talk involving him and his wife and I despise the way he twists his wedding band thoughtfully around his finger at the mention of her name.
So when his talk edges into that uncomfortable area that ruffles my feathers and spears a white-hot streak of unexpected jealousy through my gut, I do the mature thing by scarfing down the last slice of pizza and asking for the check.
He insists we split the bill, despite the fact that both of our money comes from our American Idol food allowance, but I easily comply because it seems to make him happy.
I’m relieved when we push through the glass door, out into the California sunlight, but I’m equally disappointed. Our afternoon seemed both painfully long and short all at the same time. I’m impressed with how easily the conversation flowed and how genuine the laughs and smiles appeared to be, but I’m also terrified. I am far too familiar with the point of no return and right now I’m dangerously toeing the line. I should know better.
Ray’s face is hidden behind a large newspaper spread open across the steering wheel, but as we approach and catch his attention he folds it up and starts the car. Kris and I slide in, sitting side by side, just as we did on the way to the restaurant and I’m careful to keep my knees locked together on my side of the bench to avoid any physical contact.
For the most part we watch the California scenery outside of our respective windows, but very now and then I can feel his eyes on me. It takes all the self-control I’ve got to keep my eyes trained to the side of the road and when we pull in front of the Idol mansion I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Thanks for lunch,” Kris says as we climb out from the backseat. “I’m going a bit stir crazy.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I respond. “It really was good to get out.”
Our first stretch of awkward silence begins now as we both shift uncomfortably right outside the front door. If this were a date, we’d probably be struggling internally with the decision of whether or not to end it with a kiss, but it wasn’t and now I hate my mind for even going there. Unnerved by my subconscious reasoning, I reach out and pull open the large wooden door.
“So, I’ll see you at rehearsals,” I say and it comes out in an odd tone, as both a statement and a question.
Kris nods and grins and we both step across the threshold, only to part ways in the foyer. It’s an awkward and disappointing ending to an otherwise great afternoon, yet I intend to salvage it. I head down to the rarely used bathroom down by the garage, suddenly overwhelmed with sexual tension I’d been desperately ignoring.
There would be no edgy fantasies this time. The point of no return had been breached. I lean my forehead against the wall next to the sink and undo the restraints of my jeans, shamefully replaying our lunch in my head. I focus on the way his lips curl around his straw and his long fingers tap gently against the edge of the table and his eyes crinkle at the edges when he laughs. It doesn’t take many rough strokes before I’m teetering over the edge and I eagerly give in to the rolling wave of blissful darkness as spasms of pleasure ignite my every nerve. And as I slowly regain composure and pull myself back from the brink of ecstasy only one thought is blaring through my skull.
I am thoroughly fucked.
***
“Adam! We’re leaving for the studio! Let’s go!”
I groan and roll over, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. When I finally get them to focus I glance at Kris’ digital alarm clock. Its three o’clock and the live show is tonight. I sigh and sit up as a short red haired blur sprints in through the doorway of my bedroom.
“Come on, sleepyhead. Danny’s getting pissed that everyone is dragging today.” Allison bounces up onto my bed, shaking my shoulders to rouse me further awake. The jarring movement is doing nothing for the prick of tension below the base of my skull that threatens to break out into a full blown migraine.
“I’m up!” I sigh, standing from the tangle of covers and pulling on my snakeskin boots.
It’s been an exhausting week of rehearsals and interviews and filming, not to mention my self-exile from Kris.
After our lunch and my subsequent extra-curricular activities in the mansion bathroom I can hardly stand to face him over dinner in the dining room, let alone our shared bedroom. I wait until he is undoubtedly asleep before crawling onto my own mattress and even then my nights are restless. I just can’t seem to relax when I’m near him, which is unfortunate because ever since our afternoon of pizza and Coke he’s become somewhat of a shadow.
When we sit down to eat, he’s always by my side, whispering trivial observations of our competitors or sharing juvenile jokes, usually with the incorrect punch line. When we convene in the living room to talk and blow off steam he situates himself painfully close on the rug or the couch or the armchair or wherever I choose to sit. When we ride on the bus to rehearsals or press events he’s the first one to share my bench.
The one place I find solitude is out on the patio, which has been lovingly coined by my bright-haired friend ‘Adison’s Patio’ because the two of us frequent the place of escape so often. Being around Allison is a welcomed distraction and she keeps me laughing without much effort. I can relax, if only for a moment, and forget about Kris and the competition and the general fucked up state of my affairs.
Needless to say, my sleeping schedule is way off and I find myself catching short naps whenever my bedroom is empty and I’m toeing the line of exhaustion.
“Come on!” Allison jumps off my bed and ropes her arm through mine, pulling me out of the room as I try and shift my foot properly inside my boot.
Outside, everyone is already piling into the bus, chatting nervously. I push Allison gently in front of me as we board, relived when she chooses an empty bench for us to share. I can hear Kris’ voice from somewhere behind me as he whispers with Scott and I have to fight the strong urge to twist around and peek at him through the seats.
I suddenly remember that Kris never told me what he was planning on singing tonight and the hundreds of possibilities fulfilling the week’s theme filter through my head. Outside my window the scenery flies by as we head to the studio.