Fic: Honest Intentions
Author: weisswalder
Title: Honest Intentions
Fandom/Pairing: Kris Allen/Adam Lambert
Rating: PG-13, for language
Summary: Sometimes, refusing help and needing help go hand-in-hand.
Notes: First fanfic I've ever written, how embarrassing! Inspired by this picture of Kris lounging with his guitar. If you like what you read, please let me know. There will be more.
Disclaimer: This is a profitless work of fiction, and is in no way associated with American Idol or its contestants.
"It's good news."
We're all screaming and running then, and between the crazy strobbing lights that signal Matt's safety and my blurry eyes, I can barely see a damn thing. Everyone's screaming congratulations but it's lost in the deafening roar of the audience and the blarring music. In the mad dash Lil trips in her heels and almost eats the stage, and suddenly I'm laughing and choking and crying all at the same time. The emotion is too much, all of us huddled around Matt protectively in a group hug, and I forget for a moment exactly where I am, and then realize that I don't care, because I don't want to be anywhere else except here. Even Ryan is looking overwhelmed by the action, and as usual Paula is bouncing out of her seat, breasts barely contained by her sleek black dress and screaming things that, could I hear them, would make sense in the here and now, but we'd all be laughing about two hours later.
I don't hear the show close and it's only when the stadium has been half exited, fans still screaming and atwitter, that I realize we're still in a huddle. Paula is yanking on Matt's arm like a kid begging in a candy store, and we eventually release him to his fate, in which he'll be questioned for hours by the media. Even now as we spread in different directions, each of us is having mics shoved in our faces when all I'd like to do at this moment is collect myself. I overhear Danny talking about how proud he is of Matt and glad that he's here; Allison is discussing her family and, in her awkward teenage phrasing, explains how all the contestants have become her siblings. I myself have been rushed with six reporters at once, and I do my best to answer their numerous questions, but then Anoop is beating some crazy rhythm on my shoulders and pushing me towards the backstage photo-op.
It's so much quieter here, and as the photographer asks for us all to gather around Matt once more, we start grinning again, the after-effects of the Judge's Save hitting us on the rebound. I'm hovering in the back, my arms around Lil and crossed between Anoop's towards Matt, but this time feels different. The initial high has worn off and I'm aware of everyone so close together, our joy connected as one, but my thoughts focus on the smaller presence in front of me:
Kris' back is really warm.
We're told to lean in for a more "supportive" stance. Kris is bent so far into Matt, his chin resting on his shoulder, that his rear is cushioned up against my lap. It's an uncomfortable position, in more ways than one. I concentrate on my breathing and smile for the camera as it clicks away, trying to live in the moment, attempting to push the thoughts to the farthest reaches of my mind but ultimately achieving only a tiny shove. The photographer is laughing along and tells us that he wants to see a more casual, fun group now. After all the drama of tonight, I could use some fun. And it's so easy and effortless with these people--
Except no, because now Kris is standing upright, his hair brushing past my cheek, his weight pressed against me, and I can feel every contour of his back against my stomach. My tongue gets stuck in my throat and I give a tiny cough, gulping for oxygen as Kris turns his head minutely in my direction before facing the cameras again. This is Matt's night and I should be happy but all I can do to keep sane is glance nervously out the corner of my eye as a production assistant casually shuffles papers on her clipboard. I'm listing the colors of the paper. Blue. White. Green. Yellow. Yellow. Pink. It works about as well as counting sheep at night; utterly useless at moments of need.
Thankfully the session is brief and as the lighting comes down, I pull away, pushing my hair behind my ears and making a beeline for the restroom. It's blissfully empty inside, except the silence leaves me alone in my thoughts, so I turn on the water and plant my hands on the counter, arms locked, staring in the mirror. I need to have a meeting with myself, a long therapy session for my psyche, away from the pressure and the camaraderie, and I sadly realize that this is possibly the only place to do that.
Being in theater for years has taught me to be painfully aware of the emotional state of those around me. You have to shed physical boundaries. But one thing I never learned was how to deal with too much at once.
Kris is too much at once. He's my best friend in this competition and we've reached that level of awareness; that level where we're side-by-side in everything. There's no discussion or motioning to join, it happens of its own accord and if I tried to move away, if I had that kind of willpower, he'd just follow. I don't blame him for it, and I want to not blame myself, but this polarity is always going to have a different context for me than for him. I don't know if I like Kris as I've liked past boyfriends, acquaintances, one night stands, but having him around conjures up old memories that both excite and frustrate me.
I'm too deep in my own examination that I don't hear the door quietly swing open, the pause in stride as Kris stands at the doorway, curious, before he closes the distance and places a hand on my shoulder.
"Hey, are you ok?"
His touch is a shock to my system and I jolt upright. Kris is staring at me with genuine concern and I make to wash my hands. I shiver slightly and wish it was just the ice-cold water that was making me do so.
"Umm." I can't get out more than that, so I just leave it as is.
Kris removes his hand and scratches the back of his neck. "After Extra we're going out to celebrate, so..."
"Yeah. I, uh..." I turn the water off and search desperately for the paper towels, but can't seem to find them. Kris is looking over his shoulder at the dispenser. I move to get past him but then he is moving in the same direction. We lamely dance around each other for a while before Kris turns and grabs a towel, offering it to me. By this point I'm so far gone that I reach past him and grab my own. His expression is slightly amused as he folds the towel neatly and places it on the top of the dispenser. Of course he wouldn't throw it away.
"I think I'll pass. Tonight's been great and Matt's awesome, but I'm tired an--"
I make a move for the door when Kris grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls. It's that gravity thing again.
"Not a chance," he chuckles lightly. "I've heard you sneak into our room at like three in the morning. Since when did you follow the curfew? Come on, party animal."
'No, seriously, I'm not feeling well." It's the truth, but I decide to exaggerate the situation by recalling Megan. "Remember Megan and her flu? Let's not have a repeat."
"Um, err..." Kris shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "You need some help back? You shouldn't be left alone in the house." He's grinning now. "I've seen the way the housekeeping lady stares at you."
Staying home alone with Kris was not going to be an option. He was surprisingly analytical, particularly at the end of results night, and would want do discuss everything from Jennifer Hudson's earpiece problem to how many "I <3 Adam" signs he counted in the audience (last week it was twelve, he told me). The whole time he would strum his guitar and hum to himself, that rich tenor timbre, until eventually Katy would call from her layover. Always the gentlemen, Kris would step outside onto the balcony for privacy, but I could hear him through the glass saying how happy he was that she flew to L.A. every week and how much he loved her. It was mushy and saccharine and very, very suitable for the two recently-married lovebirds.
After that, he'd strip down to his boxers and go to the bathroom to wash his face. Kris' body was like something you'd see in an anatomy textbook; perfectly proportioned and lightly muscled, it was hard to not admire. His skin was smooth, fair and unblemished, a fact that made me secretly jealous -- it took a lot of makeup to look this good, a fact which Kris still finds amusing. Kris always ended the night with some introspective question, like "Where do you see yourself in ten years?" That particular question had been easy to answer -- having always been an entertainer, there would surely be options for me once the show was over. Kris' answer was far more guarded, and when he mentioned that his prospects would depend on how far he made it in the show, the conversation tapered to silence. His unease struck me dumbfounded, and before I could find words to assure him, Kris switched off his bedside lamp and fell asleep.
So that option was out the window. I plastered on a faint smile and turned to face him.
"I suppose a celebration is in order. Just not too long, alright? We've got a heavy schedule tomorrow."
Kris was grinning ear to ear then. "That's the Adam I know!" And before I could protest further, Kris' hand was solid against my back, pushing me out into the corridor. Fight or Flight Mode kicked in then, and I weakly protested with my body that if I was ever going to survive the next two hours, I would have to relax and dismiss these distractions.
---
We're shuttled in two black SUVs that pull up to a chaotic Mexican restaurant, per Matt's request. Matt, Danny, Anoop and Lil all pile out towards the entrance and immediately a swarm engulfs them, arms grabbing for them as the bodyguards silently form a ring and push the onlookers back. Fans have started circling our vehicle too, and two more guards clear the left side of the car and motion for the driver to pull around to the side lot.
Allison is giggling hysterically. "This is awesome! Oh my God, how are we gonna get inside?!" She cheerfully latches on to my arm, and I can't help but turn on the theatrics.
"Fear not, bonita. Zorro will keep you safe!" I waggle my eyebrows and Allison is to the point of choking on her laughter.
The door swings wide open to an earsplitting roar as Allison steps out, myself close behind. As I wave at the crowd, I realize we're short one person. I duck my head back inside the vehicle.
Kris is frozen halfway across the seats, staring out at the crowd in tense fear. He starts to shrink back against the leather seats, appearing ten times smaller than he already is.
"Kris, man, let's go."
"I... I don't know, maybe this wasn't the best id--"
I roll my eyes then, exasperated by his anxiety. If Kris was going to be America's next Idol, he would need to get over his fear of carnivorous, rabid fans now. "Bullshit, you dragged me here, and now you get to suffer with me." I offer him my hand and my most heartfelt smile. When Kris doesn't budge, I pull him by the leg out into the nightlife, and the crowd erupts. Kris' face is pale, paler than that time when Ryan first faked him into believing he was in the Bottom Three.
"If you don't keep up, you'll be left behind!" I tease, as we're slowly escorted towards the restaurant. Kris grabs my last two fingers and I break the contact to take his whole hand, squeezing tightly. The effect is instantaneous -- Kris relaxes, his color returns, and he's goofily waving to the crowd.
Inside, the restaurant is busy but settled. Guards are posted everywhere and it's obvious that the establishment was called prior to our arrival to ensure no nonsense would take place. The decor is typical border-town trash, with neon colors and cerveza banners and sombreros strung about the ceiling. Some odd combination of mariachi and rap is pounding in the background. The open kitchen in the back is working at the speed of light and the aroma of spices and mole hit my nostrils. The bartender has a line of shots on the counter and is furiously pouring.
The party has started without us as Matt and Lil slam back tequila while Danny and Anoop hoot in approval. Anoop spies us from the table and cups his hands around his mouth, hollaring.
"Hey, about time, Three Caballeros!"
Allison is still giddy with excitement and twirls with one hand on her head as she makes her way across the expansive dining room. I'm waving casually to our friends when Kris suddenly jumps onto my back, light but nonetheless shocking, and wraps one arm around my neck and chest while the other one throws the horns into the air. Everyone in the restaurant bursts into laughter and applause.
Well, this is a fine way to start the evening, my mind cries out. Kris' full weight is hunched over me and I can feel his whole body melding to mine, his abdominal muscles fluttering lightly against me as he holds on while I trudge across the floor. Kris chuckles in his good-natured fashion and then leans over, his lips barely grazing my ear as he whispers,
Thanks for the help back there.
Total time from arrival to complete meltdown: three minutes. Nice job. I unceremoniously dump Kris into the closest chair and take a seat next to Lil on the other side of our round table. On her other side sits Allison; the two are gabbing at full speed about the waiter on the opposite end of the dining room. I yawn and throw my arms casually in the air while I take a peek over my shoulder -- he's tall and wirey, with short blonde locks and high cheekbones. Normally I'd join in on my approval with the girls, but there's one distraction too many tonight for me to appreciate him or care. Lil notices my silence immediately and elbows me in the ribs teasingly.
"Well, hun? Whatcha think? Hot, right?"
I'll play the game. It's amusing for everyone and maybe it'll help take my mind off things. I grab a shot and put it to my lips, winking at her as I tilt it back. It's equal parts volatile, lip-puckering, disgusting and exactly what I need right now. Lil and Allison lean into each other in laughter as Matt cheers me on. Perhaps I can make it through this evening after all...
Kris' gaze is on the waiter, too. He scratches the side of his neck, his expression blank before turning to me and smiling. I close my eyes and take another shot, willing the alcohol to wash the burning in my chest to my stomach proper. It's working but not fast enough. Thank God I can hold my booze.
Like magic, he's gone when my vision returns. Maybe the tequila's working better than I thought. Matt is seated across the table, his eyes vicariously scanning the double-sided, laminated menu in baby blue. This is how it should be, I think, friends to the very end. Fuck the competition. I wouldn't trade them for anything.
"What's it gonna be, Matt?" I shout across the noisy din.
"Nachos, nachos!" A busty brunette leans between Anoop and Matt, giving them both a good eyeful as her tight, black halter top barely keeps her breasts in check. They whistle appreciatively as she grins and sets down another round of shots.
"What about you, dude?"
I shrug. "Not hungry. Mexican food doesn't sit well with me," I lie. I need to get smashed now and fast and food is going to interfere with that process.
"Aww fuck that!" Anoop throws the menu into the center of the table. "You're having nachos too unless you want a date with the toilet bowl in the morning!"
Puking my brains out would be a welcome distraction at this point. "Bring it on!" I challenge as I consume my third round in about as many minutes. Anoop and Matt pound their fists on the table and point at me, laughing. My skin feels a bit tingly and the lights are more difused than I recall them being when we arrived. It's only a start, but at least I can spend my last few moments sober knowing that the alcohol is solely at fault tonight. Yes, just the tequila...
I'm wracking my brain for a conversation starter with Danny next to me; my booze-infused shortlist comes up with dead wife, religion, eyewear and I smartly reject them all, settling instead on discussing the difficulties of next week's Disco theme. Except Danny is sitting at the other side of the table, two beers in his hand and Kris is settling down where Danny once was. I hate this magnetism bullshit.
"Yo Kris, catch," Danny nonchalantly tosses Kris a beer. His aim is sloppy and the bronze bottle is tilting neck over base towards my head. My eyes widen and I hunch my shoulders to brace for the impact...
A hand -- smooth, strong and long-fingered -- catches the projectile. His wrist is inches from my nose and I get a good look at the multiple bracelets adorned there. I don't know if they mean anything, but I remind myself to never let Kris pester me about my fashion choices again. He's got on as much jewelry as I do.
"Don't kill my friend, please," Kris gently teases before popping the top easily with his thumb and taking a swig. He turns to me, flashing his perfect small smile.
"What did you order me?"
"Tequila con tequila. Knock yourself out." I push two glasses in his direction, trying to stare at the decorations strewn about the walls.
"Food." Kris picks up a fork and pokes me in the arm. "Hungry."
I give up, brandishing a knife and fighting back lamely with him like a four year old. "Apparently there are nachos to be had, courtesy 'Noop-dawg."
"Sweeeet." Kris' beer is almost drained and the previous waitress sets another before him. He's too caught up in conversation with Matt to notice that her rack's about to make an exit for center stage. As she walks away, I hear Allison moan and exclaim "What's a girl need to do to get herself a set of those?!" Lil backs her up with a fierce nod, and Allison shoves weakily against her, giggling. "Oh please. Your name may be Lil Rounds bu--"
"Don't even go there, girl!" Lil has a hand clamped over Allison's mouth but Allison's tears of laughter are very visible. I'm barely containing myself too when suddenly there's a hand on my thigh.
What the fuck is this?! I try to keep myself in check as I force my attention on the girls and casually place my hand under the table. I go to push the intruder away when it drops a scrap of paper in my palm and quickly retreats. The food is starting to arrive and as a disproportionately large platter of nachos is placed before me, I unfold the note and take a glance down.
There's a phone number on it.
I'm barely holding my frustration in as I turn to Kris, seething, my voice straining between grated teeth. "Kris, what the hell...?"
"Waiter's number!" he enthusiastically replies. "Said you were cute. Call him."
Everyone around the table is quiet then and staring at the two of us. "Dude, seriously...? Kris, you asked him?" Allison's voice is in a register I never fathomed she had, based on her singing.
Kris just shrugs and cracks the second beer open. "Sure, why not? Oh, and he said to give you his number too..." He produces a second slip of paper and reaches out towards her. Everyone's eyes are bulging out of their sockets. Allison, just as shocked, reaches for it when Kris deftly withdraws his hand. "Aww, come oooon!" She squeals in frustration.
"Not a chance, little sis." Kris puts extra emphasis on our pet name for her as he plucks a nacho from the corner of my plate and takes a bite, chewing briefly before adding. "You're lucky your mother allows you to even come here unattended. Let's not ruin a good thing."
We all let out a collective sigh of relief but Allison, ever the charmer, gets up from her seat and strides the distance between her and Kris in three long steps. "Oh Kris, I love you... thanks for always protecting me..." She wraps her arms around him and plants a kiss on his cheek, a motion that leaves everyone howling in laughter and me slightly jealous. Kris just rolls his eyes at the obvious ploy and pops another nacho into his mouth, extending his arm far beyond Allison's reach when she makes a sudden grab for the note once more. He shoves it into his jeans pocket and the matter is settled as Allison sulks back to her chair, Anoop patting her gently on the head.
The skit has eased my mood somewhat, and my stomach growls, begging for something other than liquid fire to ease the pain. As I grab for a chip, my hand brushes across Kris'. The alcohol has really hit its stride, and the physical contact feels like an electrical shock to my very core. I recoil violently from his touch and even Lil drops her conversation to stare at me awkwardly.
"I'm sor-- err, yeah." Kris scratches the side of his neck again, that unusual quirk I've yet to pin down. "Go ahead."
Ok, I've fulfilled my obligation. "Adios, muchachos. It's been a long day and I need my beauty rest." I grin as they boo and hiss but no one makes to further restrain me. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I make a hasty, wobbly retreat for the door and nudge it open with my shoulder. Outside, the air is cool and refreshing, though appropriately stagnant for downtown L.A. It's unstifled and open and for the first time I feel like I'm taking a real breath in an hour. The cool nightime fills my lungs, burning crisp. Along with my stomach, burning for nourishment; my skin, alit and crackling from too much booze; my chest, engulfed by too much of him.
It's all burning, burning, burning.
I make for the streetside to thumb a taxi when Kris exits the restaurant, catching up with me quickly. "Adam, are you alright?" He inquires as he reaches for my shoulder. It's going to be a major mistake if I feel his touch again, so I erraticly turn away from him, bumping into a street sign and leaning against it for support. Kris looks thoroughly upset.
"You're pissed."
I chortle at the irony of his comment. "If you mean 'drunk', then sure."
He sighs. "Fair enough. You're drunk. And pissed."
"Am not," I haughtily reply. "I'm tired and it's time I went ho--"
"You're mad because I got you that waiter's number."
I clench and unclench the fist at my side. Like a true friend, Kris was only trying to help, to let me unwind during these constant weeks of stress, but I was too far removed from sobriety to acknowledge that and too frustrated by the delicate balance of our friendship to let him know what was really stressing me out.
"If I need a piece of ass I can get it myself, alright?! And I'm not going to associate with some pervert who's out chasing underaged girls!" I should end it here, but my mouth is spewing diarrhea of its own accord now. "Instead of worrying about me, why don't you pay attention to your own marriage?! Katy came all this way, shouldn't you be at some motel taking care of your urges?!"
That last sentence comes out all wrong. I bite down on my tongue, hoping Kris doesn't read into it more than necessary. He takes in my verbal tirade blankly, hands crossed across his chest, before roughly reaching into his pocket and pulling out Allison's note and pushing it with surprising force against my chest. My fall backwards is braced by my grip on the sign as I spin sloppily around it. When I glare at him, all he does is gesture towards the wadded piece of paper. I unfold it.
There's nothing inside.
"It was a joke, man. She's our little sis. I would of knocked the guy on his ass!" Kris' face is scrunched in pain and anger, a gesture which somehow looks adorable on him. I shuffle my feet in place, staring at the empty scrap for several seconds before tossing it to the curb.
"Your jokes suck." We're both staring at each other, neither willing to back down. Finally I roll my eyes and throw my hands in the air. "I'm going home."
"Fine." Kris hails a cab and it pulls abruptly to a halt at the curb. The driver jumps in his seat as I open the door with a bit more force than is necessary, and before I can get a foot inside Kris is pushing roughly at me from behind. The charm is totally lost now that I've thoroughly infuriated him, and I wonder if it'd be for the best if Kris knocked me out with a square punch to the jaw when we got home. It'd never happen, but I wish for it. An end to this madness.
As Kris shuts the door behind him and gives the driver directions for the mansion, I hear his Italian accent ring out. "Hey, you're the Idol boys! Oh my God, I never get celebrities like this. Hey, would you sing that 'Ring of Fire'? The fare will be fr--"
"Drive." Kris slams the privacy window shut, and I quickly fade from consciousness, sinking into the sticky vinyl seats.
---
It's 2AM and I'm lurched over the toilet, spilling my guts. I admire the fact that's it mostly colorless, having consumed practically nothing all day, but the respite is brief before my stomach karate kicks me again, signalling Round Four. The crash of the front door and a lazy parade of footsteps up the stairs signals everyone's return. The sounds diminish as they break off to their respective rooms in the mansion, but one set approaches quietly for the room Kris and I share. I've been making a fool of myself all evening -- the backstage restroom, the restaurant, the curb -- and I've no desire to add violent bathroom purging to the list.
"Go away!" I weakly shout. My voice is thick and hoarse, my throat raw from a mixture of singing, screaming and vomiting.
"Adam..." The voice is slightly higher, coarser, and decidedly not Kris'. Danny steps into the bathroom.
"Ugh, Danny..."
He lets out a slight, inappropriate giggle. Leave it to Danny to find humor in the oddest situations. I like him for it.
"You're a mess. 'Noop told you to eat something..." He grabs a hand towel from a nearby rack and turns the faucet on, steam rising from the basin as he soaks it in scalding hot water. He wrings it and out and offers it to me with his familiar goofy grin. I like him for that, too.
"Thanks..." The battle with my innards appears to be over, and I wipe my face. The heat feels good on my cold, numb skin, but the green and white checkered floor sends my vision into spirals. Danny places a hand under my elbow and I concentrate on the wall, patternless and visually less threatening.
"Need a hand up?"
"Nah, I'm... let me just sit... here..." The words come out weakly, and I realize I'm not exactly sure where here is. "... here... for a minute."
Danny is still grinning as he leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his wide chest. "Kris called me after you guys got back. Apparently you were passed out cold in the taxi, so he carried you inside and put you to bed."
"How altruistic of him," I mutter darkly, rubbing at my arms. Goosebumps are interlaced with the numerous small freckles on my skin, and I become abruptly aware that I am missing my shirt. "My clothes...?"
Danny's look turns sour. "I guess, uh..." His arms fall from his chest and his hands land in his lap. "I guess when you got up here, you made... a bit of a mess?"
I'm so utterly embarassed that I turn my gaze away, afraid to show my face, though it's possible Danny doesn't notice given how pale I've become. "Looks like I owe someone an apology."
"I think Kris understands," Danny sighs. He reaches down and lifts me up by the elbow; the sudden movement sends my vision loopy again, and I brace against the counter for support. "You need some water or you'll get sick." He reaches for a cup and fills it from the tap, offering. I wave it off weakly.
"I'll get some downstairs, thanks. California tap's an express lane to kidney stones by 30."
Danny giggles again, amused by my lame joke. I pray for his benefit that he believes it. "Suit yourself. I'm off to bed!" He salutes me, that everlasting grin plastered on his face, and leaves. The trip from the bathroom to the bedroom is slow and deliberate, one foot in front of the other. The room has stopped spinning but a dull ache has developed at the base of my neck, the beginnings of a splitting headache that will have me reeling come sunrise. I grab the bottle of aspirin on my bedside table and try to pop two back, but my mouth is as dry as cotton and they just stick to the back of my throat helplessly. My eyes adjust to the pale moonlight shining through the balcony windows, an entire wall paned in glass, as I gag from the bitterness of the pills and spit them into my hand.
Kris isn't here. If I was him, I wouldn't be here either. Maybe he claimed one of the open rooms... I don't like thinking about that possibility. I miss Megan, Scott, Alexis... and I'd miss those late night chats with Kris. Those quiet, random evenings with the guitar. Others would call those moments "pointless", but I couldn't -- I had been deemed the household picker-upper, yet had shared more of my insecurities and concerns with Kris than anyone else here. And he; calm, composed and relaxed, had more introspection and refined opinion than I had ever dared to believe.
I tip-toe across the hallway and down the stairs, nearly falling on my ass as the plush rug at the base slips beneath my feet. I'm briefly amused by how little china there is in a mansion for thirteen as I pour water from the refrigerator. It's too cold for my condition and my stomach growls from the intrusion, and I mentally remind it that it'll thank me in the morning. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and I start to notice all the minute details of the living room, things I'd never pick up on when we're all sprawled out on the floor, on couches, laughing at a movie on the massive entertainment center pushed again the far wall. Someone's left their cell phone on the coffee table; it's pulsing a faint red with missed calls, text messages. There's a plate on the arm of the nearest loveseat, littered with the remnants of pie crust.
Across the hall, there's a faint light beaming beneath the door to the lounge.
After all the excitement, I can't fathom who'd still be awake at this hour. There's no sound coming from the room, and as I push the door open gently, the blinding crimson walls flood my vision. I rub my eyes, watering over with exhaustion, and rest my finger on the light switch when I notice a twisted occupant on the black sofa.
Kris has passed out in mid-play, his Takamine slung casually over his hip, legs crossed and perched on top of the guitar case.
It'd be so easy to just flip the lights and be done for the evening, but my feet are shuffling of their own accord, softly scraping across the coarse gray carpet. I feel guilty being this close to him, examining him without his consent, a precious statue on display for me and me alone. Kris' chest rises and falls with his soundless breathing. A faint trace of shadow can be seen on his face, running from his chiselled jawline to his graceful neck, somehow an appropriate tribute to the long, arduous day that's come to an end. His dark eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones in response to a dream I wish I could see.
But it's not mine. So I won't intrude.
I try to gently dislodge the guitar from Kris' grip but something in his subconscious binds him to it, a small, desperate whimper escaping his lips as he pulls back. The position looks uncomfortable and he's going to have dead arms come morning.
But that's not mine. So I won't take.
A smile slowly crosses my face. Seeing him like this, so serene and at peace, I wonder how I could ever stay mad at him. I'm ashamed of myself for causing him grief, and I tell myself I could lock away my confusion and desire if he could remain like this, naive and free, forever. I tell myself that, but my hand, trembling, reaches slowly for his face.
"I want to touch you." My voice cracks, faltering at the end as the emotions well to the surface. But I can't close the final distance, those last few inches that separate us.
Because he's not mine. So I won't hope.
A red cashmere throw is draped haphazardly on the arm of the adjacent sofa. Desperate for a physical distraction, I grab it and drape it across him, the thin material hugging his frame, enveloping him in safety. Kris lets out a soft hmmm and relaxes further into the cushions, his posture shifting out and his arms relaxing more closely to his side. It's a small payment for the hell I put him through earlier tonight, but I'm unsure if I can give him more without breaking the bridge we've so carefully built. And maybe, I postulate, therein lies the solution -- to burn this bridge to ashes, destroy the foundation, and run away. But I won't do that, and I realize that it's not for fear of what might happen to me.
On the other side of the sofa lies a sheet of paper, curled slightly at the edges from hours of handling. Written on it in black ink are Kris' unmistakable chicken scratches, and I vaguely decipher them through the lure of sleep as the lyrics for his performance. The entire song is written out, odd line breaks inserted without regard to verse or chorus, as if distacted in thought during the transfer. But in the bottom corner, a section has been repeated, small letters this time in blue, the entire block circled:
you have suffered enough
and warred with yourself
it's time that you won
Title: Honest Intentions
Fandom/Pairing: Kris Allen/Adam Lambert
Rating: PG-13, for language
Summary: Sometimes, refusing help and needing help go hand-in-hand.
Notes: First fanfic I've ever written, how embarrassing! Inspired by this picture of Kris lounging with his guitar. If you like what you read, please let me know. There will be more.
Disclaimer: This is a profitless work of fiction, and is in no way associated with American Idol or its contestants.
"It's good news."
We're all screaming and running then, and between the crazy strobbing lights that signal Matt's safety and my blurry eyes, I can barely see a damn thing. Everyone's screaming congratulations but it's lost in the deafening roar of the audience and the blarring music. In the mad dash Lil trips in her heels and almost eats the stage, and suddenly I'm laughing and choking and crying all at the same time. The emotion is too much, all of us huddled around Matt protectively in a group hug, and I forget for a moment exactly where I am, and then realize that I don't care, because I don't want to be anywhere else except here. Even Ryan is looking overwhelmed by the action, and as usual Paula is bouncing out of her seat, breasts barely contained by her sleek black dress and screaming things that, could I hear them, would make sense in the here and now, but we'd all be laughing about two hours later.
I don't hear the show close and it's only when the stadium has been half exited, fans still screaming and atwitter, that I realize we're still in a huddle. Paula is yanking on Matt's arm like a kid begging in a candy store, and we eventually release him to his fate, in which he'll be questioned for hours by the media. Even now as we spread in different directions, each of us is having mics shoved in our faces when all I'd like to do at this moment is collect myself. I overhear Danny talking about how proud he is of Matt and glad that he's here; Allison is discussing her family and, in her awkward teenage phrasing, explains how all the contestants have become her siblings. I myself have been rushed with six reporters at once, and I do my best to answer their numerous questions, but then Anoop is beating some crazy rhythm on my shoulders and pushing me towards the backstage photo-op.
It's so much quieter here, and as the photographer asks for us all to gather around Matt once more, we start grinning again, the after-effects of the Judge's Save hitting us on the rebound. I'm hovering in the back, my arms around Lil and crossed between Anoop's towards Matt, but this time feels different. The initial high has worn off and I'm aware of everyone so close together, our joy connected as one, but my thoughts focus on the smaller presence in front of me:
Kris' back is really warm.
We're told to lean in for a more "supportive" stance. Kris is bent so far into Matt, his chin resting on his shoulder, that his rear is cushioned up against my lap. It's an uncomfortable position, in more ways than one. I concentrate on my breathing and smile for the camera as it clicks away, trying to live in the moment, attempting to push the thoughts to the farthest reaches of my mind but ultimately achieving only a tiny shove. The photographer is laughing along and tells us that he wants to see a more casual, fun group now. After all the drama of tonight, I could use some fun. And it's so easy and effortless with these people--
Except no, because now Kris is standing upright, his hair brushing past my cheek, his weight pressed against me, and I can feel every contour of his back against my stomach. My tongue gets stuck in my throat and I give a tiny cough, gulping for oxygen as Kris turns his head minutely in my direction before facing the cameras again. This is Matt's night and I should be happy but all I can do to keep sane is glance nervously out the corner of my eye as a production assistant casually shuffles papers on her clipboard. I'm listing the colors of the paper. Blue. White. Green. Yellow. Yellow. Pink. It works about as well as counting sheep at night; utterly useless at moments of need.
Thankfully the session is brief and as the lighting comes down, I pull away, pushing my hair behind my ears and making a beeline for the restroom. It's blissfully empty inside, except the silence leaves me alone in my thoughts, so I turn on the water and plant my hands on the counter, arms locked, staring in the mirror. I need to have a meeting with myself, a long therapy session for my psyche, away from the pressure and the camaraderie, and I sadly realize that this is possibly the only place to do that.
Being in theater for years has taught me to be painfully aware of the emotional state of those around me. You have to shed physical boundaries. But one thing I never learned was how to deal with too much at once.
Kris is too much at once. He's my best friend in this competition and we've reached that level of awareness; that level where we're side-by-side in everything. There's no discussion or motioning to join, it happens of its own accord and if I tried to move away, if I had that kind of willpower, he'd just follow. I don't blame him for it, and I want to not blame myself, but this polarity is always going to have a different context for me than for him. I don't know if I like Kris as I've liked past boyfriends, acquaintances, one night stands, but having him around conjures up old memories that both excite and frustrate me.
I'm too deep in my own examination that I don't hear the door quietly swing open, the pause in stride as Kris stands at the doorway, curious, before he closes the distance and places a hand on my shoulder.
"Hey, are you ok?"
His touch is a shock to my system and I jolt upright. Kris is staring at me with genuine concern and I make to wash my hands. I shiver slightly and wish it was just the ice-cold water that was making me do so.
"Umm." I can't get out more than that, so I just leave it as is.
Kris removes his hand and scratches the back of his neck. "After Extra we're going out to celebrate, so..."
"Yeah. I, uh..." I turn the water off and search desperately for the paper towels, but can't seem to find them. Kris is looking over his shoulder at the dispenser. I move to get past him but then he is moving in the same direction. We lamely dance around each other for a while before Kris turns and grabs a towel, offering it to me. By this point I'm so far gone that I reach past him and grab my own. His expression is slightly amused as he folds the towel neatly and places it on the top of the dispenser. Of course he wouldn't throw it away.
"I think I'll pass. Tonight's been great and Matt's awesome, but I'm tired an--"
I make a move for the door when Kris grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls. It's that gravity thing again.
"Not a chance," he chuckles lightly. "I've heard you sneak into our room at like three in the morning. Since when did you follow the curfew? Come on, party animal."
'No, seriously, I'm not feeling well." It's the truth, but I decide to exaggerate the situation by recalling Megan. "Remember Megan and her flu? Let's not have a repeat."
"Um, err..." Kris shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "You need some help back? You shouldn't be left alone in the house." He's grinning now. "I've seen the way the housekeeping lady stares at you."
Staying home alone with Kris was not going to be an option. He was surprisingly analytical, particularly at the end of results night, and would want do discuss everything from Jennifer Hudson's earpiece problem to how many "I <3 Adam" signs he counted in the audience (last week it was twelve, he told me). The whole time he would strum his guitar and hum to himself, that rich tenor timbre, until eventually Katy would call from her layover. Always the gentlemen, Kris would step outside onto the balcony for privacy, but I could hear him through the glass saying how happy he was that she flew to L.A. every week and how much he loved her. It was mushy and saccharine and very, very suitable for the two recently-married lovebirds.
After that, he'd strip down to his boxers and go to the bathroom to wash his face. Kris' body was like something you'd see in an anatomy textbook; perfectly proportioned and lightly muscled, it was hard to not admire. His skin was smooth, fair and unblemished, a fact that made me secretly jealous -- it took a lot of makeup to look this good, a fact which Kris still finds amusing. Kris always ended the night with some introspective question, like "Where do you see yourself in ten years?" That particular question had been easy to answer -- having always been an entertainer, there would surely be options for me once the show was over. Kris' answer was far more guarded, and when he mentioned that his prospects would depend on how far he made it in the show, the conversation tapered to silence. His unease struck me dumbfounded, and before I could find words to assure him, Kris switched off his bedside lamp and fell asleep.
So that option was out the window. I plastered on a faint smile and turned to face him.
"I suppose a celebration is in order. Just not too long, alright? We've got a heavy schedule tomorrow."
Kris was grinning ear to ear then. "That's the Adam I know!" And before I could protest further, Kris' hand was solid against my back, pushing me out into the corridor. Fight or Flight Mode kicked in then, and I weakly protested with my body that if I was ever going to survive the next two hours, I would have to relax and dismiss these distractions.
---
We're shuttled in two black SUVs that pull up to a chaotic Mexican restaurant, per Matt's request. Matt, Danny, Anoop and Lil all pile out towards the entrance and immediately a swarm engulfs them, arms grabbing for them as the bodyguards silently form a ring and push the onlookers back. Fans have started circling our vehicle too, and two more guards clear the left side of the car and motion for the driver to pull around to the side lot.
Allison is giggling hysterically. "This is awesome! Oh my God, how are we gonna get inside?!" She cheerfully latches on to my arm, and I can't help but turn on the theatrics.
"Fear not, bonita. Zorro will keep you safe!" I waggle my eyebrows and Allison is to the point of choking on her laughter.
The door swings wide open to an earsplitting roar as Allison steps out, myself close behind. As I wave at the crowd, I realize we're short one person. I duck my head back inside the vehicle.
Kris is frozen halfway across the seats, staring out at the crowd in tense fear. He starts to shrink back against the leather seats, appearing ten times smaller than he already is.
"Kris, man, let's go."
"I... I don't know, maybe this wasn't the best id--"
I roll my eyes then, exasperated by his anxiety. If Kris was going to be America's next Idol, he would need to get over his fear of carnivorous, rabid fans now. "Bullshit, you dragged me here, and now you get to suffer with me." I offer him my hand and my most heartfelt smile. When Kris doesn't budge, I pull him by the leg out into the nightlife, and the crowd erupts. Kris' face is pale, paler than that time when Ryan first faked him into believing he was in the Bottom Three.
"If you don't keep up, you'll be left behind!" I tease, as we're slowly escorted towards the restaurant. Kris grabs my last two fingers and I break the contact to take his whole hand, squeezing tightly. The effect is instantaneous -- Kris relaxes, his color returns, and he's goofily waving to the crowd.
Inside, the restaurant is busy but settled. Guards are posted everywhere and it's obvious that the establishment was called prior to our arrival to ensure no nonsense would take place. The decor is typical border-town trash, with neon colors and cerveza banners and sombreros strung about the ceiling. Some odd combination of mariachi and rap is pounding in the background. The open kitchen in the back is working at the speed of light and the aroma of spices and mole hit my nostrils. The bartender has a line of shots on the counter and is furiously pouring.
The party has started without us as Matt and Lil slam back tequila while Danny and Anoop hoot in approval. Anoop spies us from the table and cups his hands around his mouth, hollaring.
"Hey, about time, Three Caballeros!"
Allison is still giddy with excitement and twirls with one hand on her head as she makes her way across the expansive dining room. I'm waving casually to our friends when Kris suddenly jumps onto my back, light but nonetheless shocking, and wraps one arm around my neck and chest while the other one throws the horns into the air. Everyone in the restaurant bursts into laughter and applause.
Well, this is a fine way to start the evening, my mind cries out. Kris' full weight is hunched over me and I can feel his whole body melding to mine, his abdominal muscles fluttering lightly against me as he holds on while I trudge across the floor. Kris chuckles in his good-natured fashion and then leans over, his lips barely grazing my ear as he whispers,
Thanks for the help back there.
Total time from arrival to complete meltdown: three minutes. Nice job. I unceremoniously dump Kris into the closest chair and take a seat next to Lil on the other side of our round table. On her other side sits Allison; the two are gabbing at full speed about the waiter on the opposite end of the dining room. I yawn and throw my arms casually in the air while I take a peek over my shoulder -- he's tall and wirey, with short blonde locks and high cheekbones. Normally I'd join in on my approval with the girls, but there's one distraction too many tonight for me to appreciate him or care. Lil notices my silence immediately and elbows me in the ribs teasingly.
"Well, hun? Whatcha think? Hot, right?"
I'll play the game. It's amusing for everyone and maybe it'll help take my mind off things. I grab a shot and put it to my lips, winking at her as I tilt it back. It's equal parts volatile, lip-puckering, disgusting and exactly what I need right now. Lil and Allison lean into each other in laughter as Matt cheers me on. Perhaps I can make it through this evening after all...
Kris' gaze is on the waiter, too. He scratches the side of his neck, his expression blank before turning to me and smiling. I close my eyes and take another shot, willing the alcohol to wash the burning in my chest to my stomach proper. It's working but not fast enough. Thank God I can hold my booze.
Like magic, he's gone when my vision returns. Maybe the tequila's working better than I thought. Matt is seated across the table, his eyes vicariously scanning the double-sided, laminated menu in baby blue. This is how it should be, I think, friends to the very end. Fuck the competition. I wouldn't trade them for anything.
"What's it gonna be, Matt?" I shout across the noisy din.
"Nachos, nachos!" A busty brunette leans between Anoop and Matt, giving them both a good eyeful as her tight, black halter top barely keeps her breasts in check. They whistle appreciatively as she grins and sets down another round of shots.
"What about you, dude?"
I shrug. "Not hungry. Mexican food doesn't sit well with me," I lie. I need to get smashed now and fast and food is going to interfere with that process.
"Aww fuck that!" Anoop throws the menu into the center of the table. "You're having nachos too unless you want a date with the toilet bowl in the morning!"
Puking my brains out would be a welcome distraction at this point. "Bring it on!" I challenge as I consume my third round in about as many minutes. Anoop and Matt pound their fists on the table and point at me, laughing. My skin feels a bit tingly and the lights are more difused than I recall them being when we arrived. It's only a start, but at least I can spend my last few moments sober knowing that the alcohol is solely at fault tonight. Yes, just the tequila...
I'm wracking my brain for a conversation starter with Danny next to me; my booze-infused shortlist comes up with dead wife, religion, eyewear and I smartly reject them all, settling instead on discussing the difficulties of next week's Disco theme. Except Danny is sitting at the other side of the table, two beers in his hand and Kris is settling down where Danny once was. I hate this magnetism bullshit.
"Yo Kris, catch," Danny nonchalantly tosses Kris a beer. His aim is sloppy and the bronze bottle is tilting neck over base towards my head. My eyes widen and I hunch my shoulders to brace for the impact...
A hand -- smooth, strong and long-fingered -- catches the projectile. His wrist is inches from my nose and I get a good look at the multiple bracelets adorned there. I don't know if they mean anything, but I remind myself to never let Kris pester me about my fashion choices again. He's got on as much jewelry as I do.
"Don't kill my friend, please," Kris gently teases before popping the top easily with his thumb and taking a swig. He turns to me, flashing his perfect small smile.
"What did you order me?"
"Tequila con tequila. Knock yourself out." I push two glasses in his direction, trying to stare at the decorations strewn about the walls.
"Food." Kris picks up a fork and pokes me in the arm. "Hungry."
I give up, brandishing a knife and fighting back lamely with him like a four year old. "Apparently there are nachos to be had, courtesy 'Noop-dawg."
"Sweeeet." Kris' beer is almost drained and the previous waitress sets another before him. He's too caught up in conversation with Matt to notice that her rack's about to make an exit for center stage. As she walks away, I hear Allison moan and exclaim "What's a girl need to do to get herself a set of those?!" Lil backs her up with a fierce nod, and Allison shoves weakily against her, giggling. "Oh please. Your name may be Lil Rounds bu--"
"Don't even go there, girl!" Lil has a hand clamped over Allison's mouth but Allison's tears of laughter are very visible. I'm barely containing myself too when suddenly there's a hand on my thigh.
What the fuck is this?! I try to keep myself in check as I force my attention on the girls and casually place my hand under the table. I go to push the intruder away when it drops a scrap of paper in my palm and quickly retreats. The food is starting to arrive and as a disproportionately large platter of nachos is placed before me, I unfold the note and take a glance down.
There's a phone number on it.
I'm barely holding my frustration in as I turn to Kris, seething, my voice straining between grated teeth. "Kris, what the hell...?"
"Waiter's number!" he enthusiastically replies. "Said you were cute. Call him."
Everyone around the table is quiet then and staring at the two of us. "Dude, seriously...? Kris, you asked him?" Allison's voice is in a register I never fathomed she had, based on her singing.
Kris just shrugs and cracks the second beer open. "Sure, why not? Oh, and he said to give you his number too..." He produces a second slip of paper and reaches out towards her. Everyone's eyes are bulging out of their sockets. Allison, just as shocked, reaches for it when Kris deftly withdraws his hand. "Aww, come oooon!" She squeals in frustration.
"Not a chance, little sis." Kris puts extra emphasis on our pet name for her as he plucks a nacho from the corner of my plate and takes a bite, chewing briefly before adding. "You're lucky your mother allows you to even come here unattended. Let's not ruin a good thing."
We all let out a collective sigh of relief but Allison, ever the charmer, gets up from her seat and strides the distance between her and Kris in three long steps. "Oh Kris, I love you... thanks for always protecting me..." She wraps her arms around him and plants a kiss on his cheek, a motion that leaves everyone howling in laughter and me slightly jealous. Kris just rolls his eyes at the obvious ploy and pops another nacho into his mouth, extending his arm far beyond Allison's reach when she makes a sudden grab for the note once more. He shoves it into his jeans pocket and the matter is settled as Allison sulks back to her chair, Anoop patting her gently on the head.
The skit has eased my mood somewhat, and my stomach growls, begging for something other than liquid fire to ease the pain. As I grab for a chip, my hand brushes across Kris'. The alcohol has really hit its stride, and the physical contact feels like an electrical shock to my very core. I recoil violently from his touch and even Lil drops her conversation to stare at me awkwardly.
"I'm sor-- err, yeah." Kris scratches the side of his neck again, that unusual quirk I've yet to pin down. "Go ahead."
Ok, I've fulfilled my obligation. "Adios, muchachos. It's been a long day and I need my beauty rest." I grin as they boo and hiss but no one makes to further restrain me. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I make a hasty, wobbly retreat for the door and nudge it open with my shoulder. Outside, the air is cool and refreshing, though appropriately stagnant for downtown L.A. It's unstifled and open and for the first time I feel like I'm taking a real breath in an hour. The cool nightime fills my lungs, burning crisp. Along with my stomach, burning for nourishment; my skin, alit and crackling from too much booze; my chest, engulfed by too much of him.
It's all burning, burning, burning.
I make for the streetside to thumb a taxi when Kris exits the restaurant, catching up with me quickly. "Adam, are you alright?" He inquires as he reaches for my shoulder. It's going to be a major mistake if I feel his touch again, so I erraticly turn away from him, bumping into a street sign and leaning against it for support. Kris looks thoroughly upset.
"You're pissed."
I chortle at the irony of his comment. "If you mean 'drunk', then sure."
He sighs. "Fair enough. You're drunk. And pissed."
"Am not," I haughtily reply. "I'm tired and it's time I went ho--"
"You're mad because I got you that waiter's number."
I clench and unclench the fist at my side. Like a true friend, Kris was only trying to help, to let me unwind during these constant weeks of stress, but I was too far removed from sobriety to acknowledge that and too frustrated by the delicate balance of our friendship to let him know what was really stressing me out.
"If I need a piece of ass I can get it myself, alright?! And I'm not going to associate with some pervert who's out chasing underaged girls!" I should end it here, but my mouth is spewing diarrhea of its own accord now. "Instead of worrying about me, why don't you pay attention to your own marriage?! Katy came all this way, shouldn't you be at some motel taking care of your urges?!"
That last sentence comes out all wrong. I bite down on my tongue, hoping Kris doesn't read into it more than necessary. He takes in my verbal tirade blankly, hands crossed across his chest, before roughly reaching into his pocket and pulling out Allison's note and pushing it with surprising force against my chest. My fall backwards is braced by my grip on the sign as I spin sloppily around it. When I glare at him, all he does is gesture towards the wadded piece of paper. I unfold it.
There's nothing inside.
"It was a joke, man. She's our little sis. I would of knocked the guy on his ass!" Kris' face is scrunched in pain and anger, a gesture which somehow looks adorable on him. I shuffle my feet in place, staring at the empty scrap for several seconds before tossing it to the curb.
"Your jokes suck." We're both staring at each other, neither willing to back down. Finally I roll my eyes and throw my hands in the air. "I'm going home."
"Fine." Kris hails a cab and it pulls abruptly to a halt at the curb. The driver jumps in his seat as I open the door with a bit more force than is necessary, and before I can get a foot inside Kris is pushing roughly at me from behind. The charm is totally lost now that I've thoroughly infuriated him, and I wonder if it'd be for the best if Kris knocked me out with a square punch to the jaw when we got home. It'd never happen, but I wish for it. An end to this madness.
As Kris shuts the door behind him and gives the driver directions for the mansion, I hear his Italian accent ring out. "Hey, you're the Idol boys! Oh my God, I never get celebrities like this. Hey, would you sing that 'Ring of Fire'? The fare will be fr--"
"Drive." Kris slams the privacy window shut, and I quickly fade from consciousness, sinking into the sticky vinyl seats.
---
It's 2AM and I'm lurched over the toilet, spilling my guts. I admire the fact that's it mostly colorless, having consumed practically nothing all day, but the respite is brief before my stomach karate kicks me again, signalling Round Four. The crash of the front door and a lazy parade of footsteps up the stairs signals everyone's return. The sounds diminish as they break off to their respective rooms in the mansion, but one set approaches quietly for the room Kris and I share. I've been making a fool of myself all evening -- the backstage restroom, the restaurant, the curb -- and I've no desire to add violent bathroom purging to the list.
"Go away!" I weakly shout. My voice is thick and hoarse, my throat raw from a mixture of singing, screaming and vomiting.
"Adam..." The voice is slightly higher, coarser, and decidedly not Kris'. Danny steps into the bathroom.
"Ugh, Danny..."
He lets out a slight, inappropriate giggle. Leave it to Danny to find humor in the oddest situations. I like him for it.
"You're a mess. 'Noop told you to eat something..." He grabs a hand towel from a nearby rack and turns the faucet on, steam rising from the basin as he soaks it in scalding hot water. He wrings it and out and offers it to me with his familiar goofy grin. I like him for that, too.
"Thanks..." The battle with my innards appears to be over, and I wipe my face. The heat feels good on my cold, numb skin, but the green and white checkered floor sends my vision into spirals. Danny places a hand under my elbow and I concentrate on the wall, patternless and visually less threatening.
"Need a hand up?"
"Nah, I'm... let me just sit... here..." The words come out weakly, and I realize I'm not exactly sure where here is. "... here... for a minute."
Danny is still grinning as he leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his wide chest. "Kris called me after you guys got back. Apparently you were passed out cold in the taxi, so he carried you inside and put you to bed."
"How altruistic of him," I mutter darkly, rubbing at my arms. Goosebumps are interlaced with the numerous small freckles on my skin, and I become abruptly aware that I am missing my shirt. "My clothes...?"
Danny's look turns sour. "I guess, uh..." His arms fall from his chest and his hands land in his lap. "I guess when you got up here, you made... a bit of a mess?"
I'm so utterly embarassed that I turn my gaze away, afraid to show my face, though it's possible Danny doesn't notice given how pale I've become. "Looks like I owe someone an apology."
"I think Kris understands," Danny sighs. He reaches down and lifts me up by the elbow; the sudden movement sends my vision loopy again, and I brace against the counter for support. "You need some water or you'll get sick." He reaches for a cup and fills it from the tap, offering. I wave it off weakly.
"I'll get some downstairs, thanks. California tap's an express lane to kidney stones by 30."
Danny giggles again, amused by my lame joke. I pray for his benefit that he believes it. "Suit yourself. I'm off to bed!" He salutes me, that everlasting grin plastered on his face, and leaves. The trip from the bathroom to the bedroom is slow and deliberate, one foot in front of the other. The room has stopped spinning but a dull ache has developed at the base of my neck, the beginnings of a splitting headache that will have me reeling come sunrise. I grab the bottle of aspirin on my bedside table and try to pop two back, but my mouth is as dry as cotton and they just stick to the back of my throat helplessly. My eyes adjust to the pale moonlight shining through the balcony windows, an entire wall paned in glass, as I gag from the bitterness of the pills and spit them into my hand.
Kris isn't here. If I was him, I wouldn't be here either. Maybe he claimed one of the open rooms... I don't like thinking about that possibility. I miss Megan, Scott, Alexis... and I'd miss those late night chats with Kris. Those quiet, random evenings with the guitar. Others would call those moments "pointless", but I couldn't -- I had been deemed the household picker-upper, yet had shared more of my insecurities and concerns with Kris than anyone else here. And he; calm, composed and relaxed, had more introspection and refined opinion than I had ever dared to believe.
I tip-toe across the hallway and down the stairs, nearly falling on my ass as the plush rug at the base slips beneath my feet. I'm briefly amused by how little china there is in a mansion for thirteen as I pour water from the refrigerator. It's too cold for my condition and my stomach growls from the intrusion, and I mentally remind it that it'll thank me in the morning. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and I start to notice all the minute details of the living room, things I'd never pick up on when we're all sprawled out on the floor, on couches, laughing at a movie on the massive entertainment center pushed again the far wall. Someone's left their cell phone on the coffee table; it's pulsing a faint red with missed calls, text messages. There's a plate on the arm of the nearest loveseat, littered with the remnants of pie crust.
Across the hall, there's a faint light beaming beneath the door to the lounge.
After all the excitement, I can't fathom who'd still be awake at this hour. There's no sound coming from the room, and as I push the door open gently, the blinding crimson walls flood my vision. I rub my eyes, watering over with exhaustion, and rest my finger on the light switch when I notice a twisted occupant on the black sofa.
Kris has passed out in mid-play, his Takamine slung casually over his hip, legs crossed and perched on top of the guitar case.
It'd be so easy to just flip the lights and be done for the evening, but my feet are shuffling of their own accord, softly scraping across the coarse gray carpet. I feel guilty being this close to him, examining him without his consent, a precious statue on display for me and me alone. Kris' chest rises and falls with his soundless breathing. A faint trace of shadow can be seen on his face, running from his chiselled jawline to his graceful neck, somehow an appropriate tribute to the long, arduous day that's come to an end. His dark eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones in response to a dream I wish I could see.
But it's not mine. So I won't intrude.
I try to gently dislodge the guitar from Kris' grip but something in his subconscious binds him to it, a small, desperate whimper escaping his lips as he pulls back. The position looks uncomfortable and he's going to have dead arms come morning.
But that's not mine. So I won't take.
A smile slowly crosses my face. Seeing him like this, so serene and at peace, I wonder how I could ever stay mad at him. I'm ashamed of myself for causing him grief, and I tell myself I could lock away my confusion and desire if he could remain like this, naive and free, forever. I tell myself that, but my hand, trembling, reaches slowly for his face.
"I want to touch you." My voice cracks, faltering at the end as the emotions well to the surface. But I can't close the final distance, those last few inches that separate us.
Because he's not mine. So I won't hope.
A red cashmere throw is draped haphazardly on the arm of the adjacent sofa. Desperate for a physical distraction, I grab it and drape it across him, the thin material hugging his frame, enveloping him in safety. Kris lets out a soft hmmm and relaxes further into the cushions, his posture shifting out and his arms relaxing more closely to his side. It's a small payment for the hell I put him through earlier tonight, but I'm unsure if I can give him more without breaking the bridge we've so carefully built. And maybe, I postulate, therein lies the solution -- to burn this bridge to ashes, destroy the foundation, and run away. But I won't do that, and I realize that it's not for fear of what might happen to me.
On the other side of the sofa lies a sheet of paper, curled slightly at the edges from hours of handling. Written on it in black ink are Kris' unmistakable chicken scratches, and I vaguely decipher them through the lure of sleep as the lyrics for his performance. The entire song is written out, odd line breaks inserted without regard to verse or chorus, as if distacted in thought during the transfer. But in the bottom corner, a section has been repeated, small letters this time in blue, the entire block circled:
you have suffered enough
and warred with yourself
it's time that you won