fic: friends, lovers or nothing. // kris allen/john mayer.
Title: friends, lovers or nothing.
Summary: kris doesn't want to be at this party.
Pairing: kris allen/john mayer.
Rating: r.
Word count: 4500.
Kris doesn't want to be at this party.
There are a lot of famous people here -- he recognizes 85 percent of them, and he hasn't owned a television in over two years -- and he feels like a big nobody, standing in the corner of the room, sipping something called Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin from a champagne glass that probably costs three times as much as the Rolex he's wearing, just because Charles told him to.
And he doesn't even like champagne.
But the worst part about being at this party, the part that really sucks, is that he's here under the influence of John. He's here because three hours ago, right when he'd finished swapping his stage clothes for a pair of sweatpants, John had thrown him an insolent smirk and said, "No offense, man, but they'll kick us both off the list if you show up in that."
And Kris had stared at him blankly and asked, "What list?" and John laughed in that almost antagonizing way of his, as if he was kidding. As if it were a joke that was only half-funny.
Except it wasn't a joke. And it wasn't funny at all.
Apparently John had taken it upon himself to program the event into Kris's iPhone ("you really gotta keep up with the calendar, you'll see, it becomes a godsend once you're used to it") and Kris barely had time to shower, shave, and dress in his only clean shirt-and-tie combo before they were being whisked off the bus and into John's personal limo.
The driver called them both "sir" and passed back the key to the minibar stashed behind the front seat. This guy was the real deal.
There was a long line of people outside the -- the -- what even was this place? It looked like a swanky hotel but not quite, and John grabbed his shoulder and guided him past the line and through the entrance without so much of a nod to the brawny bouncer guys stationed out front. John started to tell him who owned the building, but they were names Kris could hardly pronounce let alone recognize, and anyway, he was interrupted halfway through by the one dark-haired actor from that Star Trek movie he'd never gotten around to seeing.
They'd gone off together, submersed themselves effortlessly into a circle of celebrities in the back of the room (including one, Kris noted with slight embarrassment, that he'd written a letter to about ten years ago, asking for an autograph, and he'd never received a reply). John had halfway gestured for him to join them, but he'd waved him off and made a beeline for the bar instead, where he'd pointed to the drink he wanted because of the sudden fear that he'd say it wrong and the bartender and everyone else would recognize that he was just a big faker.
That's how he'd ended up in the corner of the room. By himself. Busying himself with admiring the art on the walls -- he faintly recognized a painting from 10th grade art class, and he spent the good part of twenty minutes trying to remember the name -- and wondering when it'd be acceptable to duck out of there. If it ever was. Or if instead he was simply doomed to appreciating replicas of eighteenth century paintings for the entire rest of the night.
He really, really doesn't want to be at this party.
Kris keeps his eyes trained mostly away from other people, because he'd learned that holding eye contact for three seconds at a party meant you wanted to strike up a conversation. (Or, he thinks, that you wanted to have sex with them. One of those.) And he did not want to strike up a conversation.
Or have sex, for that matter.
Because, whether deserved or not, whether acknowledged or not, there was a certain expectation of the people who filled the plus-one spot, as in, Mayer-comma-John, plus one. Standing in the shadow of John Mayer was not an easy task. He was pretty sure he was expected to be intelligently witty. And overly loquacious. And maybe a little bit of a self-assured douchebag.
And the last time he checked, he was none of the above.
Thankfully, no one even attempts to approach him until shortly after three o'clock in the morning, and by that time his champagne glass is dry, though he doesn't remember finishing it, and there's an empty shotglass in his pocket, too. (It's only in his pocket because he didn't know what to do with it when he was done. Bringing it back to the bar was something he'd do in Conway, Arkansas, not at a Hollywood soiree when he was the plus-one of Mayer-comma-John.)
So he's got a nice buzz going, just enough to give him a warm, tipsy feeling in the pit of his stomach, despite the fact that he hasn't said an actual word in two hours and he's not sure he remembers how. But he feels good. He doesn't hate being here as much as he did two hours ago. And that's when a wiry guy approaches him, someone he vaguely recognizes but whose name he can't place, with curly hair and a really white smile.
"Hi," he says, leaning effortlessly against the wall.
Kris had tried leaning against the wall like that earlier, in ten different positions, but he hadn't looked nearly as effortless. Maybe it was something you learned after your second Oscar nomination, or your third platinum record. Or maybe it just wasn't meant for someone who was 5'7 on a good day and with awkwardly proportioned limbs.
The guy's still smiling at him, all straight teeth and friendly eyes. Kris remembers belatedly that when someone greets you, whether or not they're an A-list celebrity, that it's pretty standard to return the greeting. He clears his throat and it's gritty and kind of gross, but the guy doesn't even flinch.
"Hi," Kris returns.
So far so good.
The guy's eyebrows lift in amusement -- Kris isn't sure why, all he'd done was said hello -- and he reaches out a hand for him to shake, thumb pressed up against the pulse point in Kris's wrist when he loosely grabs his fingers. "I'm Mika," he says, and he's got a faint British accent, which Kris hadn't realized at first.
"Oh," Kris says, and then, after a beat, "Oh! Mika. Yeah. I know you."
Mika drops his hand and fixes him with an inquisitive look.
"I mean," Kris clarifies quickly, "I know of you. My -- Adam Lambert, do you -- he's -- he was a big fan of yours. Is. I think. I mean, we haven't really talked about you lately -- or about anything, really, we're both so busy -- not just, not about you -- I mean, he's -- We were on American Idol together?"
He stops and takes a deep breath, kind of mortified. Either he'd drank more champagne than he realized, or he was really out-of-touch with his people skills. Maybe that's what happened when you rode around on a bus with John Mayer for two months. He was so used to letting John do all the talking that he'd practically forgotten how to formulate sentences on his own.
Mika, however, looks amused. So that's a plus.
"American Idol," he repeats, as if he's only vaguely familiar with it. As if it wasn't one of the biggest reality shows in the world. "I think I've seen it -- did you win?"
Kris ducks his head down and shrugs. Two and a half years and it's still weird to talk about. "Yeah. I mean, well. Yeah, I did."
"Congratulations," Mika says. His lips are still quirked into a smile, and Kris forces a grin.
"Oh," he says. "Well. Thanks."
Mika straightens and pushes a loose curl away from his face, but he keeps his eyes trained on Kris the entire time. "I've been watching you," he says suddenly, and for reasons unknown to Kris, a blush spreads across the back of his neck, and his ears feel unnaturally warm. "You look like you're having a blast."
Kris wonders just how obvious his fake art admiration had been. And how long it'd gone on for. He imagines there'll be tabloids written about the party tomorrow: Famous People Throw Hollywood Bash. Kris Allen Makes Friends With Walls.
He feels like a pretty giant loser right about now.
"I don't -- I mean, it's not that bad --"
There's a sudden motion and Kris doesn't mean to step closer to Mika, but somehow he is, and it takes him a long second to realize that, oh, Mika's doing the stepping.
"I was thinking," he says, "if you don't want to be here, then maybe we could --"
Kris has never been more grateful to see John Mayer in his entire life. (That's not true. There was the time he offered to let him open for him on tour. And the night of the first show. And the time he joined him on stage and played an amazing solo during Alright With Me, when Kris's guitar string broke mid-song, and John never did explain why he knew how to play it.) He materializes out of thin air, like he somehow always does, and interjects himself into the conversation as if it was totally polite.
"Kristopher," he says, sliding an easy arm around him. Kris feels short around most guys. He feels tiny next to John. "Are we behaving?"
"Hey John," Mika says casually. There's suddenly a lot more distance between them. "You know Kris?"
"Do I know --" John looks almost insulted at the question, which, Kris thinks, is really nice of him. "Do I know Kris? Of course I know Kris. We go way back. We spend every waking moment together. We spend most sleeping moments together, too, come to think of it."
Mika looks at Kris blankly.
"I'm opening for him on tour," he explains.
"Opening," John repeats, the perfect amount of scoff in his voice. "Kid's practically a headliner. During my set the other night two hundred girls started screaming bring Kris back out!"
Though he's pretty sure that's totally fabricated, it's still really flattering, coming from John and all. But he does have the decency to look embarrassed. But he also wants to live up to his plus-one status, and so he shoots back, jokingly, "I thought you had the ability to tune out anyone that wasn't screaming your name."
John looks overjoyed. Kris doesn't get smart with him often. "Or moaning," he amends, and then he thumps Kris on the back. "That's my boy."
Mika looks completely bored by this entire conversation by now, and he disengages himself, taking a generous step away. "Well," he says, glancing pointedly at his watch. "I better get going. Nice meeting you, Kris. Always nice to see you, John."
"Charmed," John says, in a mock British accent, and every reason that Kris is totally grateful for going on tour with John Mayer comes rushing right back.
Mika forces a stiff smiles at them and then disappears, gets swallowed up by an entirely new crowd. They both watch him walk away, silent, and then John tightens his grip on Kris's neck.
"Well," he says. "I'm ready to head back. How about you?"
Kris swivels his gaze to the wall they're leaning against, the painting from earlier looming just overhead; Execution of the Rebels, he thinks suddenly, and he's pleased with himself for remembering. "Yeah," he says, tearing his eyes away and instead looking over at John. "Yeah, I'm good."
//
The limo driver's parked outside, right where they'd left him. But that was four hours ago. Kris can't help but worry that he'd been out there the entire time.
"John," he whispers, but it's an exaggerated sort of whisper. The buzzed kind. The kind where it's not really a whisper at all. "Hey. John."
"Yeah?"
"You didn't make Marvin stay here, did you?"
John casts him a weird look. "Who the hell is Marvin?"
"Your limo driver," Kris says slowly. He had mentioned being on staff for -- what, at least a year now? He wasn't exactly a new hire.
But John looks truly mystified. "You know his name?"
"Well. Yeah. He introduced himself to me." Kris stares at him, head tilted just so slightly to the side. "You were there."
John's chuckling now, settling his hand down on Kris's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "You're unbelievable, Allen," he says, and he says it like he means it. "You have nice embedded in your bones."
Kris squirms uncomfortably, but not because of John's hand on his arm. That, actually, feels kind of good. It's just the -- being called nice thing. He's not being nice. He's just being himself.
"After all this," John continues, and he gestures towards the city, the limo, the party they'd just left. His eyes are shining, but it's not the kind Kris is used to. It's not like right before he's about to tell a joke, when his forehead crinkles and his lips quirk to the side, just barely noticeable, and it's not like when he's writing music, taking steady breaths through his nose. It's a new look. And, Kris thinks, it's meant completely and totally just for him.
"After all this," he repeats. "Money, and fame, and the most beautiful women you could ever want knocking down your door... You're still a kid from Arkansas."
A faint blush spreasd its way across Kris's neck. He hadn't known how transparent he was. "I'll always be a kid from Arkansas," he admits.
John smiles and guides him towards the limo, the hand still warm against his back. "I know."
//
They have to be back to the tour bus by noon tomorrow. Kris and his band have their own separate bus, but more often than not, he ends up riding on John's. It's usually more interesting, which he's grateful for when they're stuck on the bus for hours upon hours, but at times -- "because I'm a huge diva and demand it," John jokes -- it can be more peaceful and quiet, too.
But until noon, because they've only got a short drive to the next stop, they're put up in one of the nicest hotels Kris has ever been in, on something like the 368th floor, with two bedroom suites and a walk-out patio that overlooks the entire city.
John leans against him in the elevator on the way up, like it's totally normal for him to be pressed up against another guy. Kris's side feels warm where John's hipbone is rutting against it.
"I'm beat," Kris announces, because there's a mirror on the ceiling, and saying something is better than standing there and staring at his own reflection.
John looks at him, and Kris glances away.
"Some party," he finishes hastily, watching the floor numbers flicker higher and higher. "Thanks for taking me, man."
"You sound like you're turning in, Allen," John says, eyebrows raising. "We haven't even hit the after party yet."
"After party? Where's the after party?"
The elevator dings. John straightens, unwinds his arm from Kris's shoulders, and gives him a tiny nudge in the back.
"My room," he says, and pushes him towards the door.
//
John calls most of his shindigs "Mayerparties." He's sort of egotistical that way. (Kris would never have said this to his face, except for the fact that John knows it. He uses the word cocky on a daily basis -- though not always, uh, properly.)
This is not a Mayerparty. There is no one here except for John and Kris. Kris and John. There is no surplus of alcohol in the corner of the room. (In fact, it takes John a whole five minutes to figure out how to work the locked minibar below the entertainment center.) There are no scantily-clad women or paparazzi at the doorstep or drunk guys stumbling around and making rude gestures.
It's just them and a hotel suite. Kris isn't sure what to do with himself.
"Sit down, Allen, you're making me nervous," John says, so Kris does that. He perches on the armrest of the leather couch and rubs his sweaty palms against his dress pants, trying to be discreet about it. He remembers the sweatpants he'd left pooled on the floor of the bus six hours ago and wishes he was wearing those instead.
Except John's not even looking. He's busy making mixed drinks in the kitchenette, spoon clinking against glass every few seconds, followed by experimental sips. "Vodka or rum?" he calls, over his shoulder.
Kris doesn't want to drink. His head's already a little achey from what he had at the party. But he knows better than to voice his complaints to John. "Rum," he returns, without much enthusiasm.
John carries out two glasses. "I thought you'd say that," he says with a smirk, pressing one of them into Kris's hand. "And if you didn't -- well, oh well."
"Thanks." Kris takes a tiny drink and tries hard not to make a face. It's really, really strong. Typical.
"So, Kristopher." John drops down onto the couch beside Kris, his shoulder an even match for Kris's hip. He takes a long pull of his drink and doesn't bother resituating. "Tell me something I don't know."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Surely there are some skeletons in the closet. No one is that good all the time."
There's a glass chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, expensive and glitzy and completely useless. Kris stares at it in contemplation. DOES he have skeletons in his closet? He can't think of any. He's a really terrible celebrity. He would never want a flashy chandelier in his hotel room. He's never slept with groupies. He didn't floss before bed last night, but that's hardly scandalous.
"Oh my God," John says, after five seconds of silence. "You really are that good, aren't you? You've never done anything controversial in your life."
When laid out that plainly, Kris just feels lame. "I've done controversial things before," he defends himself, but it's pretty weak.
John challenges him with a stare. "Name one thing."
"I've..." Kris rubs at the back of his neck. "I've, um." He glances down and then has a sudden flash of inspiration. It's not something he usually talks about, but he wants to prove he's not as cornbread as John thinks he is.
"I've kissed a guy," he says, and John's eyes immediately widen.
"Really."
Except now Kris just feels uncomfortable. Why did he say that? What was he trying to prove? "Really," he confirms. "Just once. But. Yeah."
When he can bring himself to look at John, despite how red his ears are, John's got a weird look on his face. He's sort of staring at Kris, but in a thoughtful way. His throat is working, when he swallows, and Kris's eyes are drawn there.
John sets his glass down carefully and then peels Kris's from his hand, until they're both safe on the floor. Kris feels weird without it, and his hand opens and closes without something to hold onto. "Come here," John says quietly, his hand wrapping around Kris's shoulder, and with one small tug Kris falls forward, away from the armrest and halfway into John's lap.
"Oh," Kris says.
So at least now he understands.
"You know," John says, and one hand slides down to Kris's leg, pulls it smoothly over his lap, and Kris's body has no choice but to follow after. "When I saw Mika talking to you at the party, I thought, poor Kris. Better go save him. Guy's always preying on the cute ones. But now -- now, I guess, I could've been interrupting something." He pauses thoughtfully, and Kris has to stop himself from squirming again. Squirming would mean almost certainly rubbing up against John in a way that... that wouldn't be good right now.
(Or, Kris thinks. Would it?)
John looks at him meaningfully. "Was I interrupting something?"
"No," Kris says, way too quickly. His heart is pounding hard against his chest. He thinks John can probably feel it through his shirt. "Definitely not."
"Good." John's mouth curves into a smirk, and his hand slips beneath the hem of Kris's shirt, presses warm against the small of his back.
Kris sucks in a breath. "Why is that good?"
"Because." John leans in, dangerously close, lips hovering just outside Kris's ear. He suppresses a shiver and lets his eyes fluttered shut when John's fingers begin to rub a circle into his skin. "We wouldn't be here right now otherwise, right? We wouldn't be doing... this."
Before Kris has time to ask what exactly this is, John's gripping him by the collar and pulling him forward. Their lips crash together in a kiss that's -- that's frantic and desperate, with John taking complete control. And even though it takes a second for him to catch on, to realize that this is actually happening, to kiss him back, Kris isn't surprised at all.
John pulls back and redirects his mouth to the hollow of Kris's throat, biting more than kissing, and Kris lets out a whimper that he didn't he know was capable of.
"John --" he tries, because this could be a terrible, terrible idea. They have two months left on tour. Two months on a crowded bus.
But then John unbuttons his shirt with expert hands, and suddenly it seems like the best idea in the whole entire world.
Kris gets pushed backwards on the couch, armrest digging into his back, with John straddling his waist now, before he even sees it coming. John's controlling, borderline greedy, but Kris can't help but think that it's actually really, really hot.
He lets Kris's shirt hang off his shoulders, exposing his chest to John's fingers and mouth, and he scrapes blunt fingernails and bites a trail from one collarbone to the other.
"This is cool, right?" John asks, shucking his own shirt to the side, and Kris licks his lips and looks for far longer than necessary. His shoulders are broad and his chest is taut, and it's not like Kris has never seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never under these circumstances.
"Yeah," Kris says, swallowing hard. And then he draws him in for another dizzying kiss.
John pulls back and works his zipper down, shoves his pants to his knees with one effortless gesture. He runs his knuckles lightly across Kris's cheek, more caring than frenzied, like it was before. "Hey," he says quietly. "Could you --?"
Kris has never done this before. He climbs down, off the couch, and settles carefully between John's knees.
John moans appreciatively and Kris strokes him through his boxers with a hesitant hand, biting down hard on his lower lip, and tries to figure out how to go about this. He's been on the receiving end of this plenty of times. It doesn't make him any more comfortable.
"God." John's head rolls back and he lifts his hips off the couch, pressing into Kris's hand. "That's good, Allen. Use your... use your mouth?"
He thinks John Mayer's the only guy in the world who could make that request and Kris wouldn't laugh at them. He's pretty sure he can't say no. He's also pretty sure he doesn't want to.
So he tucks his fingers into the waistband of John's boxers and works them down to his ankles. He runs his hands over John's bare legs and leans in, presses a chaste kiss to the inside of his thigh.
"Yeah," John says, sighing happily, and he tangles his fingers through Kris's hair, tightens his grip at his neck, and guides his head forward. It's not the most amazing experience in the world, but he's kneeling on carpeted floor, John's hand rough and callused against his skin, and, he thinks, it's not bad.
Not bad at all.
//
Kris's overpriced Rolex starts beeping at eleven o'clock the next morning. He groans and rubs groggily at his eyes, the hotel sheets pooling around his waist. It takes him a long moment to realize he's wearing nothing but his boxers, which isn't that unusual. It takes him even longer to realize he's not alone in the bed, which definitely is.
John's passed out beside him, the blankets dipping just low enough to reveal -- well, nothing Kris hadn't seen the night before. He takes deep, even breaths when he sleeps, and he takes up far more than his share of the bed.
But Kris can't complain. He wasn't sure they'd end up in the same room at the end of the night, let alone under the same blankets.
He prods John lightly in the back, but he barely stirs. "John," he whispers, sucking in his breath and hoping against all hope that this wasn't about to turn overbearingly awkward. They hadn't discussed specifics the night before. They hadn't brought up the morning after.
John finally rouses, when Kris says his name for the fifth time, and he blinks awake, slowly, lazily. "What time is it?" he asks, voice clogged with sleep.
"We have to be at the bus in an hour. I thought -- you might want to shower first, and --"
A giant yawn erupts from John's mouth and he lifts his arms over his head and stretches. The sheets flutter downwards, almost carelessly. Kris adverts his eyes.
"That's probably a good idea," John says. He sits up and swings his legs over his side of the bed, pushing his hair away from his face.
Kris follows suit, eyes searching the floor for his clothing. Most of it's still discarded on the floor by the couch. But his pants are only a few feet away from the bed. A silence falls over the room, but Kris can't tell if it's the comfortable kind, or the kind that suggests he leave immediately, escape down the hall to his own untouched room. He doesn't know what to say. Do they pretend this didn't happen? Is this something they're both going to regret?
"So last night was fun," John says suddenly.
Kris lets out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.
John tugs on his boxers and then stands, circles around the bed, and hovers in front of Kris. "We should do it again sometime," he says with a smirk, and then he leans in and presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of Kris's mouth.
For a second, Kris forgets how to work his throat. But then he swallows hard and nods, once. "Yeah," he breathes.
"Good." John ghosts his hand across Kris's shoulder, slight and intimate, and then turns and heads for the bathroom. He pauses and looks back, chin over his shoulder, eyes meeting Kris's in an understanding way. "See you at the bus?"
Kris nods again, this time with a little more enthusiasm. "Yeah," he agrees, clutching at the sheets. "See you there."
John disappears into the bathroom. Kris sits for a bit longer, listening as the shower runs, and then John starts singing, smooth and low, and it takes him a minute to realize he's singing the chorus of Before We Come Undone. He grins stupidly and starts collecting his clothes.
This next leg of the tour, he thinks, is going to be even more amazing than the first.
And he didn't even know that was possible.
Summary: kris doesn't want to be at this party.
Pairing: kris allen/john mayer.
Rating: r.
Word count: 4500.
Kris doesn't want to be at this party.
There are a lot of famous people here -- he recognizes 85 percent of them, and he hasn't owned a television in over two years -- and he feels like a big nobody, standing in the corner of the room, sipping something called Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin from a champagne glass that probably costs three times as much as the Rolex he's wearing, just because Charles told him to.
And he doesn't even like champagne.
But the worst part about being at this party, the part that really sucks, is that he's here under the influence of John. He's here because three hours ago, right when he'd finished swapping his stage clothes for a pair of sweatpants, John had thrown him an insolent smirk and said, "No offense, man, but they'll kick us both off the list if you show up in that."
And Kris had stared at him blankly and asked, "What list?" and John laughed in that almost antagonizing way of his, as if he was kidding. As if it were a joke that was only half-funny.
Except it wasn't a joke. And it wasn't funny at all.
Apparently John had taken it upon himself to program the event into Kris's iPhone ("you really gotta keep up with the calendar, you'll see, it becomes a godsend once you're used to it") and Kris barely had time to shower, shave, and dress in his only clean shirt-and-tie combo before they were being whisked off the bus and into John's personal limo.
The driver called them both "sir" and passed back the key to the minibar stashed behind the front seat. This guy was the real deal.
There was a long line of people outside the -- the -- what even was this place? It looked like a swanky hotel but not quite, and John grabbed his shoulder and guided him past the line and through the entrance without so much of a nod to the brawny bouncer guys stationed out front. John started to tell him who owned the building, but they were names Kris could hardly pronounce let alone recognize, and anyway, he was interrupted halfway through by the one dark-haired actor from that Star Trek movie he'd never gotten around to seeing.
They'd gone off together, submersed themselves effortlessly into a circle of celebrities in the back of the room (including one, Kris noted with slight embarrassment, that he'd written a letter to about ten years ago, asking for an autograph, and he'd never received a reply). John had halfway gestured for him to join them, but he'd waved him off and made a beeline for the bar instead, where he'd pointed to the drink he wanted because of the sudden fear that he'd say it wrong and the bartender and everyone else would recognize that he was just a big faker.
That's how he'd ended up in the corner of the room. By himself. Busying himself with admiring the art on the walls -- he faintly recognized a painting from 10th grade art class, and he spent the good part of twenty minutes trying to remember the name -- and wondering when it'd be acceptable to duck out of there. If it ever was. Or if instead he was simply doomed to appreciating replicas of eighteenth century paintings for the entire rest of the night.
He really, really doesn't want to be at this party.
Kris keeps his eyes trained mostly away from other people, because he'd learned that holding eye contact for three seconds at a party meant you wanted to strike up a conversation. (Or, he thinks, that you wanted to have sex with them. One of those.) And he did not want to strike up a conversation.
Or have sex, for that matter.
Because, whether deserved or not, whether acknowledged or not, there was a certain expectation of the people who filled the plus-one spot, as in, Mayer-comma-John, plus one. Standing in the shadow of John Mayer was not an easy task. He was pretty sure he was expected to be intelligently witty. And overly loquacious. And maybe a little bit of a self-assured douchebag.
And the last time he checked, he was none of the above.
Thankfully, no one even attempts to approach him until shortly after three o'clock in the morning, and by that time his champagne glass is dry, though he doesn't remember finishing it, and there's an empty shotglass in his pocket, too. (It's only in his pocket because he didn't know what to do with it when he was done. Bringing it back to the bar was something he'd do in Conway, Arkansas, not at a Hollywood soiree when he was the plus-one of Mayer-comma-John.)
So he's got a nice buzz going, just enough to give him a warm, tipsy feeling in the pit of his stomach, despite the fact that he hasn't said an actual word in two hours and he's not sure he remembers how. But he feels good. He doesn't hate being here as much as he did two hours ago. And that's when a wiry guy approaches him, someone he vaguely recognizes but whose name he can't place, with curly hair and a really white smile.
"Hi," he says, leaning effortlessly against the wall.
Kris had tried leaning against the wall like that earlier, in ten different positions, but he hadn't looked nearly as effortless. Maybe it was something you learned after your second Oscar nomination, or your third platinum record. Or maybe it just wasn't meant for someone who was 5'7 on a good day and with awkwardly proportioned limbs.
The guy's still smiling at him, all straight teeth and friendly eyes. Kris remembers belatedly that when someone greets you, whether or not they're an A-list celebrity, that it's pretty standard to return the greeting. He clears his throat and it's gritty and kind of gross, but the guy doesn't even flinch.
"Hi," Kris returns.
So far so good.
The guy's eyebrows lift in amusement -- Kris isn't sure why, all he'd done was said hello -- and he reaches out a hand for him to shake, thumb pressed up against the pulse point in Kris's wrist when he loosely grabs his fingers. "I'm Mika," he says, and he's got a faint British accent, which Kris hadn't realized at first.
"Oh," Kris says, and then, after a beat, "Oh! Mika. Yeah. I know you."
Mika drops his hand and fixes him with an inquisitive look.
"I mean," Kris clarifies quickly, "I know of you. My -- Adam Lambert, do you -- he's -- he was a big fan of yours. Is. I think. I mean, we haven't really talked about you lately -- or about anything, really, we're both so busy -- not just, not about you -- I mean, he's -- We were on American Idol together?"
He stops and takes a deep breath, kind of mortified. Either he'd drank more champagne than he realized, or he was really out-of-touch with his people skills. Maybe that's what happened when you rode around on a bus with John Mayer for two months. He was so used to letting John do all the talking that he'd practically forgotten how to formulate sentences on his own.
Mika, however, looks amused. So that's a plus.
"American Idol," he repeats, as if he's only vaguely familiar with it. As if it wasn't one of the biggest reality shows in the world. "I think I've seen it -- did you win?"
Kris ducks his head down and shrugs. Two and a half years and it's still weird to talk about. "Yeah. I mean, well. Yeah, I did."
"Congratulations," Mika says. His lips are still quirked into a smile, and Kris forces a grin.
"Oh," he says. "Well. Thanks."
Mika straightens and pushes a loose curl away from his face, but he keeps his eyes trained on Kris the entire time. "I've been watching you," he says suddenly, and for reasons unknown to Kris, a blush spreads across the back of his neck, and his ears feel unnaturally warm. "You look like you're having a blast."
Kris wonders just how obvious his fake art admiration had been. And how long it'd gone on for. He imagines there'll be tabloids written about the party tomorrow: Famous People Throw Hollywood Bash. Kris Allen Makes Friends With Walls.
He feels like a pretty giant loser right about now.
"I don't -- I mean, it's not that bad --"
There's a sudden motion and Kris doesn't mean to step closer to Mika, but somehow he is, and it takes him a long second to realize that, oh, Mika's doing the stepping.
"I was thinking," he says, "if you don't want to be here, then maybe we could --"
Kris has never been more grateful to see John Mayer in his entire life. (That's not true. There was the time he offered to let him open for him on tour. And the night of the first show. And the time he joined him on stage and played an amazing solo during Alright With Me, when Kris's guitar string broke mid-song, and John never did explain why he knew how to play it.) He materializes out of thin air, like he somehow always does, and interjects himself into the conversation as if it was totally polite.
"Kristopher," he says, sliding an easy arm around him. Kris feels short around most guys. He feels tiny next to John. "Are we behaving?"
"Hey John," Mika says casually. There's suddenly a lot more distance between them. "You know Kris?"
"Do I know --" John looks almost insulted at the question, which, Kris thinks, is really nice of him. "Do I know Kris? Of course I know Kris. We go way back. We spend every waking moment together. We spend most sleeping moments together, too, come to think of it."
Mika looks at Kris blankly.
"I'm opening for him on tour," he explains.
"Opening," John repeats, the perfect amount of scoff in his voice. "Kid's practically a headliner. During my set the other night two hundred girls started screaming bring Kris back out!"
Though he's pretty sure that's totally fabricated, it's still really flattering, coming from John and all. But he does have the decency to look embarrassed. But he also wants to live up to his plus-one status, and so he shoots back, jokingly, "I thought you had the ability to tune out anyone that wasn't screaming your name."
John looks overjoyed. Kris doesn't get smart with him often. "Or moaning," he amends, and then he thumps Kris on the back. "That's my boy."
Mika looks completely bored by this entire conversation by now, and he disengages himself, taking a generous step away. "Well," he says, glancing pointedly at his watch. "I better get going. Nice meeting you, Kris. Always nice to see you, John."
"Charmed," John says, in a mock British accent, and every reason that Kris is totally grateful for going on tour with John Mayer comes rushing right back.
Mika forces a stiff smiles at them and then disappears, gets swallowed up by an entirely new crowd. They both watch him walk away, silent, and then John tightens his grip on Kris's neck.
"Well," he says. "I'm ready to head back. How about you?"
Kris swivels his gaze to the wall they're leaning against, the painting from earlier looming just overhead; Execution of the Rebels, he thinks suddenly, and he's pleased with himself for remembering. "Yeah," he says, tearing his eyes away and instead looking over at John. "Yeah, I'm good."
//
The limo driver's parked outside, right where they'd left him. But that was four hours ago. Kris can't help but worry that he'd been out there the entire time.
"John," he whispers, but it's an exaggerated sort of whisper. The buzzed kind. The kind where it's not really a whisper at all. "Hey. John."
"Yeah?"
"You didn't make Marvin stay here, did you?"
John casts him a weird look. "Who the hell is Marvin?"
"Your limo driver," Kris says slowly. He had mentioned being on staff for -- what, at least a year now? He wasn't exactly a new hire.
But John looks truly mystified. "You know his name?"
"Well. Yeah. He introduced himself to me." Kris stares at him, head tilted just so slightly to the side. "You were there."
John's chuckling now, settling his hand down on Kris's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "You're unbelievable, Allen," he says, and he says it like he means it. "You have nice embedded in your bones."
Kris squirms uncomfortably, but not because of John's hand on his arm. That, actually, feels kind of good. It's just the -- being called nice thing. He's not being nice. He's just being himself.
"After all this," John continues, and he gestures towards the city, the limo, the party they'd just left. His eyes are shining, but it's not the kind Kris is used to. It's not like right before he's about to tell a joke, when his forehead crinkles and his lips quirk to the side, just barely noticeable, and it's not like when he's writing music, taking steady breaths through his nose. It's a new look. And, Kris thinks, it's meant completely and totally just for him.
"After all this," he repeats. "Money, and fame, and the most beautiful women you could ever want knocking down your door... You're still a kid from Arkansas."
A faint blush spreasd its way across Kris's neck. He hadn't known how transparent he was. "I'll always be a kid from Arkansas," he admits.
John smiles and guides him towards the limo, the hand still warm against his back. "I know."
//
They have to be back to the tour bus by noon tomorrow. Kris and his band have their own separate bus, but more often than not, he ends up riding on John's. It's usually more interesting, which he's grateful for when they're stuck on the bus for hours upon hours, but at times -- "because I'm a huge diva and demand it," John jokes -- it can be more peaceful and quiet, too.
But until noon, because they've only got a short drive to the next stop, they're put up in one of the nicest hotels Kris has ever been in, on something like the 368th floor, with two bedroom suites and a walk-out patio that overlooks the entire city.
John leans against him in the elevator on the way up, like it's totally normal for him to be pressed up against another guy. Kris's side feels warm where John's hipbone is rutting against it.
"I'm beat," Kris announces, because there's a mirror on the ceiling, and saying something is better than standing there and staring at his own reflection.
John looks at him, and Kris glances away.
"Some party," he finishes hastily, watching the floor numbers flicker higher and higher. "Thanks for taking me, man."
"You sound like you're turning in, Allen," John says, eyebrows raising. "We haven't even hit the after party yet."
"After party? Where's the after party?"
The elevator dings. John straightens, unwinds his arm from Kris's shoulders, and gives him a tiny nudge in the back.
"My room," he says, and pushes him towards the door.
//
John calls most of his shindigs "Mayerparties." He's sort of egotistical that way. (Kris would never have said this to his face, except for the fact that John knows it. He uses the word cocky on a daily basis -- though not always, uh, properly.)
This is not a Mayerparty. There is no one here except for John and Kris. Kris and John. There is no surplus of alcohol in the corner of the room. (In fact, it takes John a whole five minutes to figure out how to work the locked minibar below the entertainment center.) There are no scantily-clad women or paparazzi at the doorstep or drunk guys stumbling around and making rude gestures.
It's just them and a hotel suite. Kris isn't sure what to do with himself.
"Sit down, Allen, you're making me nervous," John says, so Kris does that. He perches on the armrest of the leather couch and rubs his sweaty palms against his dress pants, trying to be discreet about it. He remembers the sweatpants he'd left pooled on the floor of the bus six hours ago and wishes he was wearing those instead.
Except John's not even looking. He's busy making mixed drinks in the kitchenette, spoon clinking against glass every few seconds, followed by experimental sips. "Vodka or rum?" he calls, over his shoulder.
Kris doesn't want to drink. His head's already a little achey from what he had at the party. But he knows better than to voice his complaints to John. "Rum," he returns, without much enthusiasm.
John carries out two glasses. "I thought you'd say that," he says with a smirk, pressing one of them into Kris's hand. "And if you didn't -- well, oh well."
"Thanks." Kris takes a tiny drink and tries hard not to make a face. It's really, really strong. Typical.
"So, Kristopher." John drops down onto the couch beside Kris, his shoulder an even match for Kris's hip. He takes a long pull of his drink and doesn't bother resituating. "Tell me something I don't know."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Surely there are some skeletons in the closet. No one is that good all the time."
There's a glass chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, expensive and glitzy and completely useless. Kris stares at it in contemplation. DOES he have skeletons in his closet? He can't think of any. He's a really terrible celebrity. He would never want a flashy chandelier in his hotel room. He's never slept with groupies. He didn't floss before bed last night, but that's hardly scandalous.
"Oh my God," John says, after five seconds of silence. "You really are that good, aren't you? You've never done anything controversial in your life."
When laid out that plainly, Kris just feels lame. "I've done controversial things before," he defends himself, but it's pretty weak.
John challenges him with a stare. "Name one thing."
"I've..." Kris rubs at the back of his neck. "I've, um." He glances down and then has a sudden flash of inspiration. It's not something he usually talks about, but he wants to prove he's not as cornbread as John thinks he is.
"I've kissed a guy," he says, and John's eyes immediately widen.
"Really."
Except now Kris just feels uncomfortable. Why did he say that? What was he trying to prove? "Really," he confirms. "Just once. But. Yeah."
When he can bring himself to look at John, despite how red his ears are, John's got a weird look on his face. He's sort of staring at Kris, but in a thoughtful way. His throat is working, when he swallows, and Kris's eyes are drawn there.
John sets his glass down carefully and then peels Kris's from his hand, until they're both safe on the floor. Kris feels weird without it, and his hand opens and closes without something to hold onto. "Come here," John says quietly, his hand wrapping around Kris's shoulder, and with one small tug Kris falls forward, away from the armrest and halfway into John's lap.
"Oh," Kris says.
So at least now he understands.
"You know," John says, and one hand slides down to Kris's leg, pulls it smoothly over his lap, and Kris's body has no choice but to follow after. "When I saw Mika talking to you at the party, I thought, poor Kris. Better go save him. Guy's always preying on the cute ones. But now -- now, I guess, I could've been interrupting something." He pauses thoughtfully, and Kris has to stop himself from squirming again. Squirming would mean almost certainly rubbing up against John in a way that... that wouldn't be good right now.
(Or, Kris thinks. Would it?)
John looks at him meaningfully. "Was I interrupting something?"
"No," Kris says, way too quickly. His heart is pounding hard against his chest. He thinks John can probably feel it through his shirt. "Definitely not."
"Good." John's mouth curves into a smirk, and his hand slips beneath the hem of Kris's shirt, presses warm against the small of his back.
Kris sucks in a breath. "Why is that good?"
"Because." John leans in, dangerously close, lips hovering just outside Kris's ear. He suppresses a shiver and lets his eyes fluttered shut when John's fingers begin to rub a circle into his skin. "We wouldn't be here right now otherwise, right? We wouldn't be doing... this."
Before Kris has time to ask what exactly this is, John's gripping him by the collar and pulling him forward. Their lips crash together in a kiss that's -- that's frantic and desperate, with John taking complete control. And even though it takes a second for him to catch on, to realize that this is actually happening, to kiss him back, Kris isn't surprised at all.
John pulls back and redirects his mouth to the hollow of Kris's throat, biting more than kissing, and Kris lets out a whimper that he didn't he know was capable of.
"John --" he tries, because this could be a terrible, terrible idea. They have two months left on tour. Two months on a crowded bus.
But then John unbuttons his shirt with expert hands, and suddenly it seems like the best idea in the whole entire world.
Kris gets pushed backwards on the couch, armrest digging into his back, with John straddling his waist now, before he even sees it coming. John's controlling, borderline greedy, but Kris can't help but think that it's actually really, really hot.
He lets Kris's shirt hang off his shoulders, exposing his chest to John's fingers and mouth, and he scrapes blunt fingernails and bites a trail from one collarbone to the other.
"This is cool, right?" John asks, shucking his own shirt to the side, and Kris licks his lips and looks for far longer than necessary. His shoulders are broad and his chest is taut, and it's not like Kris has never seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never under these circumstances.
"Yeah," Kris says, swallowing hard. And then he draws him in for another dizzying kiss.
John pulls back and works his zipper down, shoves his pants to his knees with one effortless gesture. He runs his knuckles lightly across Kris's cheek, more caring than frenzied, like it was before. "Hey," he says quietly. "Could you --?"
Kris has never done this before. He climbs down, off the couch, and settles carefully between John's knees.
John moans appreciatively and Kris strokes him through his boxers with a hesitant hand, biting down hard on his lower lip, and tries to figure out how to go about this. He's been on the receiving end of this plenty of times. It doesn't make him any more comfortable.
"God." John's head rolls back and he lifts his hips off the couch, pressing into Kris's hand. "That's good, Allen. Use your... use your mouth?"
He thinks John Mayer's the only guy in the world who could make that request and Kris wouldn't laugh at them. He's pretty sure he can't say no. He's also pretty sure he doesn't want to.
So he tucks his fingers into the waistband of John's boxers and works them down to his ankles. He runs his hands over John's bare legs and leans in, presses a chaste kiss to the inside of his thigh.
"Yeah," John says, sighing happily, and he tangles his fingers through Kris's hair, tightens his grip at his neck, and guides his head forward. It's not the most amazing experience in the world, but he's kneeling on carpeted floor, John's hand rough and callused against his skin, and, he thinks, it's not bad.
Not bad at all.
//
Kris's overpriced Rolex starts beeping at eleven o'clock the next morning. He groans and rubs groggily at his eyes, the hotel sheets pooling around his waist. It takes him a long moment to realize he's wearing nothing but his boxers, which isn't that unusual. It takes him even longer to realize he's not alone in the bed, which definitely is.
John's passed out beside him, the blankets dipping just low enough to reveal -- well, nothing Kris hadn't seen the night before. He takes deep, even breaths when he sleeps, and he takes up far more than his share of the bed.
But Kris can't complain. He wasn't sure they'd end up in the same room at the end of the night, let alone under the same blankets.
He prods John lightly in the back, but he barely stirs. "John," he whispers, sucking in his breath and hoping against all hope that this wasn't about to turn overbearingly awkward. They hadn't discussed specifics the night before. They hadn't brought up the morning after.
John finally rouses, when Kris says his name for the fifth time, and he blinks awake, slowly, lazily. "What time is it?" he asks, voice clogged with sleep.
"We have to be at the bus in an hour. I thought -- you might want to shower first, and --"
A giant yawn erupts from John's mouth and he lifts his arms over his head and stretches. The sheets flutter downwards, almost carelessly. Kris adverts his eyes.
"That's probably a good idea," John says. He sits up and swings his legs over his side of the bed, pushing his hair away from his face.
Kris follows suit, eyes searching the floor for his clothing. Most of it's still discarded on the floor by the couch. But his pants are only a few feet away from the bed. A silence falls over the room, but Kris can't tell if it's the comfortable kind, or the kind that suggests he leave immediately, escape down the hall to his own untouched room. He doesn't know what to say. Do they pretend this didn't happen? Is this something they're both going to regret?
"So last night was fun," John says suddenly.
Kris lets out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.
John tugs on his boxers and then stands, circles around the bed, and hovers in front of Kris. "We should do it again sometime," he says with a smirk, and then he leans in and presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of Kris's mouth.
For a second, Kris forgets how to work his throat. But then he swallows hard and nods, once. "Yeah," he breathes.
"Good." John ghosts his hand across Kris's shoulder, slight and intimate, and then turns and heads for the bathroom. He pauses and looks back, chin over his shoulder, eyes meeting Kris's in an understanding way. "See you at the bus?"
Kris nods again, this time with a little more enthusiasm. "Yeah," he agrees, clutching at the sheets. "See you there."
John disappears into the bathroom. Kris sits for a bit longer, listening as the shower runs, and then John starts singing, smooth and low, and it takes him a minute to realize he's singing the chorus of Before We Come Undone. He grins stupidly and starts collecting his clothes.
This next leg of the tour, he thinks, is going to be even more amazing than the first.
And he didn't even know that was possible.