PART I: Over My Shoulder (Running Away)
Over My Shoulder (Running Away)
23,583 words, PG-15
Adam/Kris
Kris watches the small black beetle edge along the bottom of the wall, slow little steps; every so often the beetle will try to climb up the wall, and every time it attempts this, it falls. His boss is droning on in the background, annoyed at the person who broke two cups and didn't wipe the benches properly. (This was Linda.) Kris twirls slightly in his bar stool, wondering how he is going to manage to finish his math and history homework, as well as his English assignment, all in one night. Kris's shift at Starbucks had actually finished half an hour ago, but his boss - David - made everyone sit and listen to him repeating himself over and over, constantly talking about 'teamwork and consistency' and how they were all 'slack and careless people'. (Kris actually knows for a fact that he is the most hygienic, clean and efficient employee at Starbucks, but David has always concentrated on the negative.)
The beetle is getting a bit closer to Kris, and it is bigger than Kris thought. It’s quite gross, actually, as though the beetle is bloated. Kris sighs loudly, hissing through his teeth, and everyone turns to look at him, including David. He manages to quickly turn it into a relatively passable cough, and once the attention has been diverted from him, Kris goes back to staring at the beetle, which has, apparently, gone. (God, even the beetle has left.)
It's pissing Kris off, being at work this much later than he needs to be. It's like a chain reaction: Kris gets home later than he should, spends longer than he would on homework, practices his guitar for too long and then goes to bed too late, which means he's tired and really quite grumpy the next day. Kris wouldn't be pissed now had he had a proper night's sleep yesterday.
He sighs again (quieter this time) and picks at the knee of his jeans; it's just really frustrating. Kris hates sitting here, and it's not as though the pay is worth it. David isn't that nice, his fellow employees are mostly older than him, slack off constantly and are all actually really irritating; honestly, fuck the benefits. And Linda doesn't know how to wipe down a fucking bench - Kris knows this because usually he will re-wipe it after Linda. In all honesty, this job is a serious waste of time, but really, it's not as though he has anything else to do - except his homework.
But even though Starbucks can really piss Kris off, it gives him a place to go, to feel as though he can belong somewhere. It's easy for him, really.
Kris looks up at David, and it sounds as though he is nearly finished because he is now talking about 'respect, pride and dignity', which is how he typically ends his rants.
-
Kris doesn't finish his history and math homework, so both teachers bitch his ear off, and this puts him in a worse mood than before. (Kris got a late night’s sleep again. He is as pissed as hell, and not having breakfast is not helping. He is now tired, grumpy and hungry.)
At lunch, Kris finds a lonely wall somewhere, kicks off his shoes and sighs. He hasn't brought his iPod with him today, and apparently the only food he thought to bring was a packet of peanuts. And he has no money.
Kris really knows how to infuriate himself. He scrunches his toes, trying to release his anger into squeezing them, but in the end it really hurts his left calf muscle, which in turn makes his headache worse. Kris closes his eyes and actually feels like crying. He rests his head on the wall, finding comfort in the darkness behind his eyelids; the blackness soothing, calming him, making his breathing slow down, dissipating his anger a little. He breathes and he breathes and he breathes - until someone taps his shoulder.
His breathing stops and his eyes snap open, squinting at this invasive person.
"Hi," a female voice says, and Kris bangs his head against the wall, forcing himself to inhale. "Uh, you look kind of lonely here..."
"Oh. Really?"
Kris stares at this girl. He doesn't know her, hasn't ever seen her before - but then again, he doesn't often see a lot of girls (or guys, for that matter).
"Uh, yeah. So I was wondering… do you want some food?" The girl sits across from him, close to where his legs are extended.
Kris raises an eyebrow and frowns, "Um... huh?"
"You don't look like you have anything to eat and I have an apple and a sandwich -"
"What type?"
"Chicken salad. You can have it if you like."
Kris leans forward and takes it from her small hand. "This is the best thing that has happened to me all day." He takes a huge bite, and sits back, chewing contentedly.
“So, are you doing anything after school?” The girl tilts her head to the side, her incredibly long hair touching his shin. (Kris has honestly never seen hair that long...)
“Well - I’m kind of busy -”
Her face closes off slightly, and Kris sighs. “I’m sorry, it’s just that - I am quite busy, and now isn’t a very good time for me to be doing much.”
She gives him a grim little smile and then stands to leave. “Enjoy your sandwich.”
“Hey - but…”
She just shakes her head. “See you,” she says, and with that, she is gone.
In retrospect, it probably would have been wise for Kris to try and get to know that girl, make friends with her - considering his lack of them. But Kris doesn’t really want to be wise.
He sighs (again?) - he’ll have aged like fifty years before the day is over - and eats more of his sandwich. He thinks about attempting his English project, but really, Kris can’t find the motivation. He's failing in almost every subject already.
And it's almost as though there is no point even trying to catch up with his schoolwork, because he is so far behind... it just seems so futile. Kris doesn't like being a failure at seventeen, he doesn't want to be a disappointment; he doesn't want to eventually be a twenty-something guy with nothing, nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one at all, but what is he supposed to do? It's like trying to win a race to which there is already a winner; it seems like there is just no point.
---
His shift at Starbucks once again drips into his evening like a slow trickle of poison; killing and ruining everything it touches.
At the end of David’s rant Kris is left to lock up - David was too impatient to wait for the place to get busy again, so he just closed early (and most likely docked it from their pay). When everyone has left, Kris decides to make himself the weirdest, most disgusting coffee he can think of, with about a ton of different syrups and powders and about three different types of milk. After he has made it, he sits close to the door and stares out of the window.
It's still relatively early; the sun has nearly set and the sky is an odd purple color, and it's almost as though, while Kris is drinking his coffee and just being a small human being, it's almost as though he can feel his life slipping a little from his fingertips, fraying at the edges, breaking and tearing as he grasps for it. It scares him that at such a young age he can be worrying so much, wanting to shrink back and just let life pass for awhile. It scares Kris that he only has one real love: his love for music, because what is he meant to do with that?
Kris checks his phone, and the sun has now set. He should really get home. He shivers out of his dark patch and dumps his coffee into the bin. He looks around, and, you know, it's the same.
He'll be back here tomorrow.
---
The girl is back the next day, holding out a tuna-fish on rye for him. Her hair is on top of her head in an incredibly lopsided knot, and her eyelashes are red and a little clumped in the corners.
"You're not eating again," is all she says, and then sits down across from him.
"Um, yeah?" He takes the sandwich from her, and unwraps it slowly, almost cautiously, peeling the cling-film gradually away.
"Do you get hungry?"
Kris is confused. Why is this girl even here? Kris never expressed any interest in wanting her to sit with him; can't she tell that he likes being alone? But, he just can’t think of - ah! It was the sandwich. He looks down at it in dismay; he can't give it back now, he's unwrapped it. God, he can be an idiot. He likes being a social pariah; he doesn't need girls giving him sandwiches.
"No, not really."
"Lucky you." She pauses for a while, looking out into the space behind Kris. "What's your name?"
Kris breathes sharply through his nose - is she serious? "Kris."
She repeats it after him, a slow taste of the word. After a few moments, she says, "Aren't you going to ask what my name is?"
Oh, god; this makes head hurt. "What's your name?"
"Ebony."
Kris nods, pressing his lips together. "Cool."
"Mmmm, thank you." She smiles dreamily.
Kris leans back against the wall, and stares at this girl. Ebony has her legs tucked somewhat awkwardly beneath her and her legs are covered in flared jeans, bell-bottoms if you will. (This is really a week of firsts for Kris. Flared jeans?) She's wearing a flowy-type top, that is very tight-fitting in the chest area and it flows in a very outward kind of way. It has some kind of paisley pattern on it, too. Kris reaches her face, and her lips are almost glistening with red lipstick and her top knot does truly look as though it might fall off her head at any moment. Now, Kris thinks, maybe on anyone else, this ensemble wouldn't really click, but the fact that this girl is so perfectly small and pretty - the clothes have no choice but to work.
"Do you get lonely, Kris?"
This statement bubbles through his thoughts rather abruptly, and Kris doesn't really know how to answer it. His first instinctual thought is no, he doesn't, but if Kris really thinks about it, he actually kind of does.
His loneliness isn't an apparent thing, it's not even necessarily an emotional need that Kris thinks about at all; it's more of an awareness that he doesn't come across very often, sometimes it just hits him with a sudden realization, out of nowhere, and that is when it is most poignant to him.
Kris doesn't really know how he became so friendless; it was more of a developing situation over the years. He had his few friends in elementary school, but as he went through junior high, he found himself in increasing amounts of solitude; his small group of friends slowly dwindled to none. And at first, Kris never really noticed it that much, because his love for his guitar and all things music really covered up for his lack of actual people very believably. But it's very hard to not notice when you have no friends; it becomes very apparent once you have nobody to hang out with after class, or in the weekends, or after school - anytime, really.
But it's not just Kris's lack of (perhaps?) personality, or people skills or whatever it is that keeps him far away from people, it was his discovery of being bisexual that was probably the main cause of his alienation from people. He never told anyone; it wasn't as though he had been shunned, or anything like that, no. It was his realization of what bisexuality is, and what that meant to him, and how it made Kris Kris. Because it didn’t just know what bisexuality is; it was coming to terms with what actually made him feel that way, and how it was different to any other discovery of himself.
Kris had a small friendship with a guy at fourteen, around two years ago. He wasn't close to him, particularly, but there was something so specific that Kris couldn't quite pinpoint about this guy that made him different from any other. And there's a huge difference between thinking about something and having it actually come to realization, come to life. It took Kris two months to even discern that there was a rather large contrast between his relationship with this guy and how he felt towards any other boy.
And to begin with, it was almost odd. He had spent so long just yearning for something from this guy, and not knowing what that emotion or need was; it was such a relief to accept in his mind that there was such a feeling and that it had a name. He had a crush on this guy, and god, it was so hard, so fragile to walk past the guy every day and know that he would never, could never have him. And it was certainly an interesting awareness to realize that he could love both women and men; interesting in the way that he was thinking wow, this is real and this is me. It had been very liberating for himself; coming to terms with his being bisexual was very surreal. It wasn't so much that it was hard to believe that he could like and love and want to kiss boys and girls; it was more that it was so new for him, so refreshing and almost a relief to be able to put a name to that feeling. It's not so necessary now for Kris to label himself bisexual, but at fourteen, it was quite scary for him in a way, and being able to give that part of him a title was very comforting to him - it gave himself a very strong presence of safety. Yes, he could say to himself, I am bisexual, and he could relish in the fact that he was allowed to feel this way.
So yes, to Kris it’s a very strong possibility that his bisexuality did alienate himself slightly from others, but only from his own doing, and also because he was a little scared of his emotions toward others. He had still been figuring himself out; as he is now, really.
There is something about Ebony's voice that really makes Kris think before he answers, and to actually answer it rather honestly, as opposed to brushing it off, pushing it aside like he would do usually.
"Well...I guess I do, occasionally."
Ebony looks up at him, and catches his gaze in an almost unnerving stare... Kris kind of feels the need to look away. She nods her head in a slow, jerky movement. "Yeah... I kind of thought so."
Ebony tilts her head up into the sky, exposing her softly pale neck, and stays silent for a while, just quietly breathing with her eyes closed. The sun is bright, and Kris is content to watch the clouds move by. He sees the white make pictures in the air: first he sees an upside-down record player, then a dress, a house, a pig... it goes on and on, really.
"I've got to go."
Ebony startles Kris with her sudden words, and she smoothly stands, dusting off her jeans. Kris nods in acknowledgement, and she continues, "Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow..." She gives him a little smile, a brief sweep of the lips, then turns and walks away.
Kris knocks his head back against the wall and sighs. Honestly, he thinks, he couldn’t actually get lonelier.
---
While Kris was still processing his newfound sexuality, at fifteen he also got the biggest, most obsessive crush on a guy at his school.
It wasn’t just a small passing of a crush, either; he has it still to this day. At fifteen, a boy called Adam Lambert stole his heart, and it doesn’t look to Kris as though he’ll be getting it back anytime soon; how can you give something to someone you don’t even know?
Kris remembers seeing Adam for the first time. Adam had transferred high schools, and the year began with him new at the school, both of them in their sophomore year. And to be honest, Adam had completely figuratively swept Kris off his feet the moment he had seen him.
At this point in Kris’s life, he was at that stage of seeing boys in a new light… no boy had yet made Kris shy and flustered and generally a hot blushing mess, in that crush-type way, but the moment he had seen Adam, he was rendered to a complete frenzy, in no way he had ever been before, with a guy or girl. Kris’s body temperature had gone psychotic - completely high, then totally dropped; his heart had began freaking out in an unnatural way, and every nerve in his body unravelled and felt so raw and broken, jarring through his body and setting Kris on fire. It was as though his whole body was simply straining towards this person, to be touching him, to feel them against his own inexperienced and vulnerable skin. Kris was in a whole other realm.
And it wasn’t just the purely physical side to Adam that Kris liked; there was something about the way he occupied the space he stood in, something in the way he was holding himself, the way he was standing and looking around. It was as though there was a confident sensibility in him, but he looked so brooding and almost nervous and just so open to anything - that is what really made Kris lose it inside. In the many times Kris has repeated the scene in his head (and believe him, it was a lot), he has realized that it wasn’t so much confidence that Adam possessed; it was more of a cold, almost harsh hostility that came from him.
And that day had been the beginning of his nonsensical, unrequited, unknown crush… and Kris was mostly happy with that.
I’m sitting across from you
I’m dreaming of the things I do
I don’t speak, you don’t know me at all
The sunset is lighting Kris’s knee orange, and he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed with his guitar in his lap. It’s nearly six-thirty, and for a reason Kris doesn’t quite know, he doesn’t really feel like playing his guitar, or even writing any music. Today it seems as though he has even less resolve than usual. He had put on an old Beatles’ record before, but that didn’t do anything but distract him. He is hopelessly stuck.
His reflection stares up at him from the smooth dark brown glossiness of his guitar, and he can suddenly hear heavy footsteps banging on the stairway. It’s almost as though Kris can smell his father before he walks through the door, but the moment he stumbles loudly into Kris’s room - Kris is reminded of the difference between reality and imagination.
The thick scent of alcohol steals through the air, almost violently in how it travels. The scent drags around Kris, hanging, pressing into him, and confining his breathing space. From the doorway, his father glares savagely at him with his straining bloodshot eyes, his skin clammy and sickly pale.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks through clenched teeth, his mouth curling into a snarl. His words run into one another, but he somehow manages to enunciate each word, to make sure Kris understands every single one.
Kris doesn’t answer, and instead he just stares at his father; the man with graying hair, whose twisted face turns him ugly, who is staring at him with more contempt than Kris believes is possible for one person to hold.
“You haven’t done the fucking washing, and when I cleaned your sister’s grave; the flowers from yesterday were still there. Why the fuck haven’t you done it?”
Kris feels like resting his head against the wall and waiting for this to pass, but it won’t; the scent of alcohol is getting stronger in his nostrils, becoming even more suffocating as his father moves closer and closer to him.
There are so many things Kris would like to say right now, like the flowers are perfectly fine and she’s dead; stop talking as though she would care and as though she is alive and you’re scaring me, but Kris would never dare to - never ever dare to.
“Why can’t you do the two fucking things that I ask of you? The two things that I ask of you? Why do you always fuck up?”
Kris looks at his father’s jeans, and they are slipping a little from his hips; Kris tries to ignore his father, and concentrates on everything but his father’s face: the carpet with the weird green mark, his old analogue camera tucked away in the corner, the whiteness of his father’s socks, how his shirt cuts at the collar, how Kris’s own jeans are becoming rather threadbare. Anything but his father.
And he doesn’t see it coming. He just doesn’t see it coming. He should be used to it by now, but every time it happens, it shocks him more and more - he is never ready for it: the swing of his father’s moving arm colliding with his cheek, the hardness of the knock against his bone, the way he can almost feel his skin bruising, how his father’s arm moves up his head - smacking him in the temple, making his vision go blurry and dark momentarily.
“You don’t get it, do you?” his father shouts into his ear. “You just don’t fucking get it.”
That night Kris dreams of his mother and his dead sister, Melanie. It is as though they are lying in his bed beside him.
***
It’s slightly odd, his mind tells him, how fast Dylan is driving. The trees are shooting past them, like willowy ghosts of a bullet, the rapid blur contrasting with the lamplights; the dark, almost translucent murkiness of the tree’s shadows a little reminiscent of spilt blood from a gunshot wound…
It’s frightening him, this crazy speed of the car. Dylan is never this careless when driving. Adam trusts him with his life and he has never felt scared with Dylan - until now.
He feels drowsy, ethereal, almost vaporous - it’s as though he is about to fly right out of this speeding car, or even with it.
And suddenly, it’s not just the trees that are rushing past the car - he sees the opalescent trickle of the ocean, he sees the miles and miles of barren desert-land, the rustic orange clay colour of the ground; he sees a tiny mint-green oasis pass him by, a flock of bright white birds swarm around the car and it’s as though he is travelling through -
“Adam! Jesus, Adam!”
Somebody is snapping their fingers in his ear, and Adam blinks his way out of his reverie. He rubs at his eyes and recognises Dylan staring at him with an exasperated, incredibly pissed-off expression.
“Get the fuck up! Your film has been ready for about ten minutes. Go!”
It takes Adam a few seconds to decipher what Dylan means by film, but then he remembers: he’s getting his film developed, and Dylan had come to pick it up with him.
At the counter Adam pays for his photos, relishing in the heaviness of the package between his fingertips, the way it weighs down his left hand slightly. It’s exciting, because this roll of film has been a long time coming - it’s taken him longer than usual to earn the money to pay for the development.
Dylan had become less and less interested the more and more Adam had talked to him about this particular film. Dylan couldn’t really care less about Adam’s photography and this recent discovery of new film had bored him even more, but Adam just hadn’t been able to get past how spectacular this particular film stock and his camera were - and he had to tell someone. His camera was his father’s, from when he was a child, and it produces the most amazing grainy, dreamy shots ever - completely saturated in the brightest, almost psychedelic vivid color Adam has ever seen in a photo.
So that is why, after Adam has thanked the shop assistant, he is not really too surprised to find Dylan gone; Adam had probably scared him off with his excitement for a few minutes - or, you know, it could be longer. He never really knows with Dylan. Usually it’s around this time that Dylan disappears to buy a coffee or a Coke - something with copious amounts of caffeine in it.
Adam sits back down at the bench they were waiting on before. He resists taking out his photos, wanting to wait for a place nicer than the mall to look at them. It’s a ritual for him; something between him and the art he has created. And really, any place is nicer than the mall.
Someone plops down beside Adam, and he knows it’s Dylan; this is confirmed when he places a hot cardboard cup of - presumably - coffee between his thighs.
“You get all of them?” Dylan asks, nodding at the package of photos in Adam’s hand.
“Hopefully. Is this -”
“Double-shot? Yup.” He pops the p sound and semi-smiles at Adam; it’s a grimace, really. “Come on - let’s go.”
Once they are sitting in Dylan’s car, an old rusty red BMW, Dylan points to Adam’s photos. “Can I see?”
And this is part of Adam’s ritual. Dylan is always the first person to see his photos, even before Adam - no matter what. Dylan has always, always been uninterested in Adam’s photos, and he hates the whole process: using film, having to wait to finish the whole roll to see any of the photos, waiting an hour - or sometimes days - to see the finished product. But he will always have a look at the photos when they have been developed. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t really like photography, or that he is very indifferent to the fact that Adam loves it; he just likes to look. And so he does.
Adam passes Dylan the package and takes a long sip of his mocha, accidentally scalding the roof of his mouth. He watches Dylan look at the photos, with Dylan’s wide, thick bangs drooping down over his face, his neck bent, concentrating. Adam can see the roots of Dylan’s natural dusky blond color growing beneath the rest of his wavy light brown hair; he can see the stray threads poking out from the collar of Dylan’s navy t-shirt, the small stain by his shoulder, the ripped knees of his jeans and the scuffed toes of his Doc Martens.
Adam loves seeing these parts of Dylan - the parts of him that others would call ‘flaws’ - because they remind Adam that even Dylan isn’t perfect, even though it can seem as though he is. Adam is conscious of everything about himself, even more so in the last few years - ever since his freshman year. Everything about himself he second guesses. Maybe his necklace looks stupid, or perhaps his jeans make him look fat, or maybe he really is just fat (that’s what Dylan tells him) or possibly his black hair looks really oddly unnatural. There is always something. It makes Adam uncomfortable when he sees himself next to Dylan.
“Hey, this one is kinda nice.” He passes Adam a small photo: a double-exposed shot of a silhouette; it could be either himself or Dylan, he can’t actually tell, nor can he remember taking it.
“Mmmm, yeah. I like that one.” Adam yawns, and tries to hide it behind his hand - Dylan hates him being tired, or showing any signs of fatigue.
Dylan flicks his knee, “You sleepy, or something?”
“A little; it’s nothing really.”
“Really.”
Dylan raises his eyebrows in a disbelieving expression, putting the photo away. Dylan hands him back his photos and his knuckles brushing alongside Adam’s, his black glossy fingernails bright against his slim, pale hands, his skin peppered with splotches of acrylic colour. “I have to finish a painting for my art course - it’s due tomorrow, and it’ll take me a while to do, so let’s go.”
***
“I’m sorry to say that I had to let Linda go on Friday.”
Kris is sitting at Starbucks, his Sunday morning shift about to begin. He is so tired he can barely keep his eyes from closing, so instead he rests his head in his arms.
David continues speaking. “She was proving to be incredibly terrible at her job, and - well, the details aren’t exactly any of your business. But, we do have our new employee replacing her beginning today - whenever he gets here. This was a complete last minute and so - ah, here he is.”
“Sorry; the traffic was bad.”
The next words David says pass right through Kris. He doesn’t need to look up to see who is standing there, who the new person is; Kris could recognize that voice anywhere. His heart skips a beat - the new barista at Starbucks is Adam Lambert.
Kris forces himself to lift his head, and he finds that Adam is occupying the space next to David. He is dressed rather simply today; just in plain black jeans and a tattered dark gray t-shirt. (He looks even more beautiful than Kris has ever seen him, though.)
He is surveying them all, taking a long look at each person, and when Adam gets to Kris, Kris ducks his head down - far too nervous to even look at him.
“This is Adam, everybody. Adam, this is Hannah, Jack, Nick, Mia and Kris.” David points to each of them as he introduces them, “We’re a rather small Starbucks, so we only have four other baristas who you’ll eventually meet.”
He keeps his head stooped low, and David continues after a dramatic pause. “I’ve done my best to train Adam on such short notice, but we needed a new barista as soon as we could get one, so I haven’t been able to complete his training. Hannah, you will need to finish this during his shifts, and if you need any extra help, Adam, I will assist after shifts. Adam has worked at another Starbucks elsewhere, so he does know the basics. Everybody else, help him if he needs it.” David claps his hands together; a short, sharp bang. “We’ll open now.”
-
Kris watches Adam walk slowly to a table, delivering two lattes he just made. So far, it has been one of the hardest days of Kris’s life. Adam hasn’t said a single word to him, or even acknowledged him in any way for the whole time he has been here. Kris is also pretty sure he hasn’t been breathing properly since Adam walked into the room, and it’s now twelve o’clock. He’ll probably have had a heart attack by the end of the day.
Once Adam is back behind the counter, David sends them both off to a table in a small corner for a “quick ten minute break”.
It’s embarrassingly awkward for a few minutes. Kris has no clue what to say to Adam, and he doesn’t want to sound pathetic, so he stays silent.
“We go to the same school, right? You’re in my English class.”
Adam’s voice shocks him, and Kris flinches ever so slightly. This is the first time Adam has ever spoken to him. “Yeah, I am. Same Algebra class, too.”
Adam nods, looking down at his glass of water, his hand gripping tightly around the bottom of it. Kris can see the smudges of eyeliner clumping a little in the corners of Adam’s eyes and it stains his skin in the corners.
“How long have you been working here for?”
“About two years.”
“Huh. That’s quite long.” He lifts his gaze to Kris’s, and just looks at him for a while, his expression almost entirely unreadable. Kris is immensely intimidated by the intensity of Adam - his whole being is daunting to Kris. He has never been in such close proximity to Adam before, and it’s affecting him incredibly.
“Well - I should get back.” Adam stands abruptly, jarring the table, and it sloshes the water in Kris’s glass.
He watches Adam walk back over to the counter, his walk fast and harsh, and Kris is left feeling deserted and unsure of himself; it’s as though he has been plunged into a numbingly cold orb and he’s totally alone.
-
Kris and Ebony are sitting together at lunch the next day at school, leaning against a wall. They’re sharing a turkey sandwich, and while he is chewing, Kris works up the courage to ask her something.
“Ebony, do you know much about Adam? You know, Adam Lambert. He’s in our year.”
“Well - no, not really. I don’t know him. But I’ve heard that he used to sing a lot - like, all the time, at his old school; he’s amazing apparently.” She pauses and looks slightly hesitant. “I don’t keep up with rumors, you know that, but I have heard a few things about him - but they could be just that. And I don’t want to spread little white lies.” She looks up at him from under her short bangs, an ordeal Kris heard all about half an hour ago, an incident involving a blackout, a bathroom and scissors, apparently. “If you really want to know, ask someone else.”
Kris wrinkles his nose at that suggestion and leans back. “You know, he has a job where I work. He was hired last week.”
“Oh, really? That’s nice.” She hums a little song under her breath, and places a fig beside his knee. “We have a tree at home.” Her humming gets a tiny bit louder, and then it moves into a quiet whistle.
Kris breaks the fig in half and is beginning to eat it, the fruit soft in his mouth, when Ebony stops whistling and says, “One thing I do know… he loves photography. I always see him with a camera. I’ve seen some of his photos, too - we’re in the same photography class… but he’s so private with them, and he barely shows anyone, ever. I only got a brief glance, but they were gorgeous from what I saw.”
“Oh.” Kris thinks over this. Adam likes photography - maybe he can work with that… he owns a camera; it’s somewhere in his room. That’s something, right?
“Thanks, Ebony.”
“Sure. There’s another fig, if you would like it.” She smiles at him kindly, and Kris accepts the fig.
---
Kris is having his lunch break at Starbucks, eating at a small table on the sidewalk while listening to his iPod. The sun is hot against his back, and somebody taps his shoulder.
“Can I sit here?”
Kris looks up to see Adam standing next to his table with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Yeah, sure.” Adam’s hip brushes Kris’s arm as he moves to sit across from him. “Pretty busy in there, huh?”
“It really is.” Adam sips on his coffee, and Kris sits tensely - his spine is stiff and he bites his lip, waiting for Adam to say something else. Why is Adam here? This isn’t a normal fixation and it’s confusing Kris. Moments pass by while Kris sits, and he taps his foot on the asphalt.
“Who’re you listening to?”
“Jeff Buckley.”
Adam picks up his iPod and has a look through it, his finger scrolling slowly and his eyes creasing slightly in concentration.
“You want an ear bud?” Kris pulls one out, and Adam nods.
“Thanks.” He pauses for a few seconds after putting the ear bud in, just listening. “This is one of my favorites by him.”
They’re listening to Eternal Life, and Adam tilts his head back with his eyes closed. The sun shines onto his face, making him look almost ethereal, magical. Adam’s hands are wrapped tightly around his coffee, and Kris sees his black polish chipped over his fingernails; his nails are short and ripped, as though they have been bitten. Kris looks down at his own fingers and sees the difference between their hands. One is beautiful, the other ugly. Kris’s hands, in his opinion, are short and thick, too compact, while Adam’s are long and slim, with freckles lightly dusting the backs of them - really beautiful.
Adam opens his eyes as Kris is staring at him, his eyes wide and so very blue. “Hi.”
“Hello.”
Adam blinks a little. “I really like this song.”
“Yeah, you’ve said.” Kris smiles at him, a small not-quite smile, and Adam sits there, looking strangely mystified before standing up, the ear piece falling from his ear.
“I’ve got to go; my shift ended a while back.”
He leaves Kris looking at his retreating back, feeling uncertainty like never before - that was too fast the way he just left, and he feels as though this moment has happened before.
Part II
23,583 words, PG-15
Adam/Kris
Kris watches the small black beetle edge along the bottom of the wall, slow little steps; every so often the beetle will try to climb up the wall, and every time it attempts this, it falls. His boss is droning on in the background, annoyed at the person who broke two cups and didn't wipe the benches properly. (This was Linda.) Kris twirls slightly in his bar stool, wondering how he is going to manage to finish his math and history homework, as well as his English assignment, all in one night. Kris's shift at Starbucks had actually finished half an hour ago, but his boss - David - made everyone sit and listen to him repeating himself over and over, constantly talking about 'teamwork and consistency' and how they were all 'slack and careless people'. (Kris actually knows for a fact that he is the most hygienic, clean and efficient employee at Starbucks, but David has always concentrated on the negative.)
The beetle is getting a bit closer to Kris, and it is bigger than Kris thought. It’s quite gross, actually, as though the beetle is bloated. Kris sighs loudly, hissing through his teeth, and everyone turns to look at him, including David. He manages to quickly turn it into a relatively passable cough, and once the attention has been diverted from him, Kris goes back to staring at the beetle, which has, apparently, gone. (God, even the beetle has left.)
It's pissing Kris off, being at work this much later than he needs to be. It's like a chain reaction: Kris gets home later than he should, spends longer than he would on homework, practices his guitar for too long and then goes to bed too late, which means he's tired and really quite grumpy the next day. Kris wouldn't be pissed now had he had a proper night's sleep yesterday.
He sighs again (quieter this time) and picks at the knee of his jeans; it's just really frustrating. Kris hates sitting here, and it's not as though the pay is worth it. David isn't that nice, his fellow employees are mostly older than him, slack off constantly and are all actually really irritating; honestly, fuck the benefits. And Linda doesn't know how to wipe down a fucking bench - Kris knows this because usually he will re-wipe it after Linda. In all honesty, this job is a serious waste of time, but really, it's not as though he has anything else to do - except his homework.
But even though Starbucks can really piss Kris off, it gives him a place to go, to feel as though he can belong somewhere. It's easy for him, really.
Kris looks up at David, and it sounds as though he is nearly finished because he is now talking about 'respect, pride and dignity', which is how he typically ends his rants.
-
Kris doesn't finish his history and math homework, so both teachers bitch his ear off, and this puts him in a worse mood than before. (Kris got a late night’s sleep again. He is as pissed as hell, and not having breakfast is not helping. He is now tired, grumpy and hungry.)
At lunch, Kris finds a lonely wall somewhere, kicks off his shoes and sighs. He hasn't brought his iPod with him today, and apparently the only food he thought to bring was a packet of peanuts. And he has no money.
Kris really knows how to infuriate himself. He scrunches his toes, trying to release his anger into squeezing them, but in the end it really hurts his left calf muscle, which in turn makes his headache worse. Kris closes his eyes and actually feels like crying. He rests his head on the wall, finding comfort in the darkness behind his eyelids; the blackness soothing, calming him, making his breathing slow down, dissipating his anger a little. He breathes and he breathes and he breathes - until someone taps his shoulder.
His breathing stops and his eyes snap open, squinting at this invasive person.
"Hi," a female voice says, and Kris bangs his head against the wall, forcing himself to inhale. "Uh, you look kind of lonely here..."
"Oh. Really?"
Kris stares at this girl. He doesn't know her, hasn't ever seen her before - but then again, he doesn't often see a lot of girls (or guys, for that matter).
"Uh, yeah. So I was wondering… do you want some food?" The girl sits across from him, close to where his legs are extended.
Kris raises an eyebrow and frowns, "Um... huh?"
"You don't look like you have anything to eat and I have an apple and a sandwich -"
"What type?"
"Chicken salad. You can have it if you like."
Kris leans forward and takes it from her small hand. "This is the best thing that has happened to me all day." He takes a huge bite, and sits back, chewing contentedly.
“So, are you doing anything after school?” The girl tilts her head to the side, her incredibly long hair touching his shin. (Kris has honestly never seen hair that long...)
“Well - I’m kind of busy -”
Her face closes off slightly, and Kris sighs. “I’m sorry, it’s just that - I am quite busy, and now isn’t a very good time for me to be doing much.”
She gives him a grim little smile and then stands to leave. “Enjoy your sandwich.”
“Hey - but…”
She just shakes her head. “See you,” she says, and with that, she is gone.
In retrospect, it probably would have been wise for Kris to try and get to know that girl, make friends with her - considering his lack of them. But Kris doesn’t really want to be wise.
He sighs (again?) - he’ll have aged like fifty years before the day is over - and eats more of his sandwich. He thinks about attempting his English project, but really, Kris can’t find the motivation. He's failing in almost every subject already.
And it's almost as though there is no point even trying to catch up with his schoolwork, because he is so far behind... it just seems so futile. Kris doesn't like being a failure at seventeen, he doesn't want to be a disappointment; he doesn't want to eventually be a twenty-something guy with nothing, nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one at all, but what is he supposed to do? It's like trying to win a race to which there is already a winner; it seems like there is just no point.
---
His shift at Starbucks once again drips into his evening like a slow trickle of poison; killing and ruining everything it touches.
At the end of David’s rant Kris is left to lock up - David was too impatient to wait for the place to get busy again, so he just closed early (and most likely docked it from their pay). When everyone has left, Kris decides to make himself the weirdest, most disgusting coffee he can think of, with about a ton of different syrups and powders and about three different types of milk. After he has made it, he sits close to the door and stares out of the window.
It's still relatively early; the sun has nearly set and the sky is an odd purple color, and it's almost as though, while Kris is drinking his coffee and just being a small human being, it's almost as though he can feel his life slipping a little from his fingertips, fraying at the edges, breaking and tearing as he grasps for it. It scares him that at such a young age he can be worrying so much, wanting to shrink back and just let life pass for awhile. It scares Kris that he only has one real love: his love for music, because what is he meant to do with that?
Kris checks his phone, and the sun has now set. He should really get home. He shivers out of his dark patch and dumps his coffee into the bin. He looks around, and, you know, it's the same.
He'll be back here tomorrow.
---
The girl is back the next day, holding out a tuna-fish on rye for him. Her hair is on top of her head in an incredibly lopsided knot, and her eyelashes are red and a little clumped in the corners.
"You're not eating again," is all she says, and then sits down across from him.
"Um, yeah?" He takes the sandwich from her, and unwraps it slowly, almost cautiously, peeling the cling-film gradually away.
"Do you get hungry?"
Kris is confused. Why is this girl even here? Kris never expressed any interest in wanting her to sit with him; can't she tell that he likes being alone? But, he just can’t think of - ah! It was the sandwich. He looks down at it in dismay; he can't give it back now, he's unwrapped it. God, he can be an idiot. He likes being a social pariah; he doesn't need girls giving him sandwiches.
"No, not really."
"Lucky you." She pauses for a while, looking out into the space behind Kris. "What's your name?"
Kris breathes sharply through his nose - is she serious? "Kris."
She repeats it after him, a slow taste of the word. After a few moments, she says, "Aren't you going to ask what my name is?"
Oh, god; this makes head hurt. "What's your name?"
"Ebony."
Kris nods, pressing his lips together. "Cool."
"Mmmm, thank you." She smiles dreamily.
Kris leans back against the wall, and stares at this girl. Ebony has her legs tucked somewhat awkwardly beneath her and her legs are covered in flared jeans, bell-bottoms if you will. (This is really a week of firsts for Kris. Flared jeans?) She's wearing a flowy-type top, that is very tight-fitting in the chest area and it flows in a very outward kind of way. It has some kind of paisley pattern on it, too. Kris reaches her face, and her lips are almost glistening with red lipstick and her top knot does truly look as though it might fall off her head at any moment. Now, Kris thinks, maybe on anyone else, this ensemble wouldn't really click, but the fact that this girl is so perfectly small and pretty - the clothes have no choice but to work.
"Do you get lonely, Kris?"
This statement bubbles through his thoughts rather abruptly, and Kris doesn't really know how to answer it. His first instinctual thought is no, he doesn't, but if Kris really thinks about it, he actually kind of does.
His loneliness isn't an apparent thing, it's not even necessarily an emotional need that Kris thinks about at all; it's more of an awareness that he doesn't come across very often, sometimes it just hits him with a sudden realization, out of nowhere, and that is when it is most poignant to him.
Kris doesn't really know how he became so friendless; it was more of a developing situation over the years. He had his few friends in elementary school, but as he went through junior high, he found himself in increasing amounts of solitude; his small group of friends slowly dwindled to none. And at first, Kris never really noticed it that much, because his love for his guitar and all things music really covered up for his lack of actual people very believably. But it's very hard to not notice when you have no friends; it becomes very apparent once you have nobody to hang out with after class, or in the weekends, or after school - anytime, really.
But it's not just Kris's lack of (perhaps?) personality, or people skills or whatever it is that keeps him far away from people, it was his discovery of being bisexual that was probably the main cause of his alienation from people. He never told anyone; it wasn't as though he had been shunned, or anything like that, no. It was his realization of what bisexuality is, and what that meant to him, and how it made Kris Kris. Because it didn’t just know what bisexuality is; it was coming to terms with what actually made him feel that way, and how it was different to any other discovery of himself.
Kris had a small friendship with a guy at fourteen, around two years ago. He wasn't close to him, particularly, but there was something so specific that Kris couldn't quite pinpoint about this guy that made him different from any other. And there's a huge difference between thinking about something and having it actually come to realization, come to life. It took Kris two months to even discern that there was a rather large contrast between his relationship with this guy and how he felt towards any other boy.
And to begin with, it was almost odd. He had spent so long just yearning for something from this guy, and not knowing what that emotion or need was; it was such a relief to accept in his mind that there was such a feeling and that it had a name. He had a crush on this guy, and god, it was so hard, so fragile to walk past the guy every day and know that he would never, could never have him. And it was certainly an interesting awareness to realize that he could love both women and men; interesting in the way that he was thinking wow, this is real and this is me. It had been very liberating for himself; coming to terms with his being bisexual was very surreal. It wasn't so much that it was hard to believe that he could like and love and want to kiss boys and girls; it was more that it was so new for him, so refreshing and almost a relief to be able to put a name to that feeling. It's not so necessary now for Kris to label himself bisexual, but at fourteen, it was quite scary for him in a way, and being able to give that part of him a title was very comforting to him - it gave himself a very strong presence of safety. Yes, he could say to himself, I am bisexual, and he could relish in the fact that he was allowed to feel this way.
So yes, to Kris it’s a very strong possibility that his bisexuality did alienate himself slightly from others, but only from his own doing, and also because he was a little scared of his emotions toward others. He had still been figuring himself out; as he is now, really.
There is something about Ebony's voice that really makes Kris think before he answers, and to actually answer it rather honestly, as opposed to brushing it off, pushing it aside like he would do usually.
"Well...I guess I do, occasionally."
Ebony looks up at him, and catches his gaze in an almost unnerving stare... Kris kind of feels the need to look away. She nods her head in a slow, jerky movement. "Yeah... I kind of thought so."
Ebony tilts her head up into the sky, exposing her softly pale neck, and stays silent for a while, just quietly breathing with her eyes closed. The sun is bright, and Kris is content to watch the clouds move by. He sees the white make pictures in the air: first he sees an upside-down record player, then a dress, a house, a pig... it goes on and on, really.
"I've got to go."
Ebony startles Kris with her sudden words, and she smoothly stands, dusting off her jeans. Kris nods in acknowledgement, and she continues, "Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow..." She gives him a little smile, a brief sweep of the lips, then turns and walks away.
Kris knocks his head back against the wall and sighs. Honestly, he thinks, he couldn’t actually get lonelier.
---
While Kris was still processing his newfound sexuality, at fifteen he also got the biggest, most obsessive crush on a guy at his school.
It wasn’t just a small passing of a crush, either; he has it still to this day. At fifteen, a boy called Adam Lambert stole his heart, and it doesn’t look to Kris as though he’ll be getting it back anytime soon; how can you give something to someone you don’t even know?
Kris remembers seeing Adam for the first time. Adam had transferred high schools, and the year began with him new at the school, both of them in their sophomore year. And to be honest, Adam had completely figuratively swept Kris off his feet the moment he had seen him.
At this point in Kris’s life, he was at that stage of seeing boys in a new light… no boy had yet made Kris shy and flustered and generally a hot blushing mess, in that crush-type way, but the moment he had seen Adam, he was rendered to a complete frenzy, in no way he had ever been before, with a guy or girl. Kris’s body temperature had gone psychotic - completely high, then totally dropped; his heart had began freaking out in an unnatural way, and every nerve in his body unravelled and felt so raw and broken, jarring through his body and setting Kris on fire. It was as though his whole body was simply straining towards this person, to be touching him, to feel them against his own inexperienced and vulnerable skin. Kris was in a whole other realm.
And it wasn’t just the purely physical side to Adam that Kris liked; there was something about the way he occupied the space he stood in, something in the way he was holding himself, the way he was standing and looking around. It was as though there was a confident sensibility in him, but he looked so brooding and almost nervous and just so open to anything - that is what really made Kris lose it inside. In the many times Kris has repeated the scene in his head (and believe him, it was a lot), he has realized that it wasn’t so much confidence that Adam possessed; it was more of a cold, almost harsh hostility that came from him.
And that day had been the beginning of his nonsensical, unrequited, unknown crush… and Kris was mostly happy with that.
I’m sitting across from you
I’m dreaming of the things I do
I don’t speak, you don’t know me at all
The sunset is lighting Kris’s knee orange, and he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed with his guitar in his lap. It’s nearly six-thirty, and for a reason Kris doesn’t quite know, he doesn’t really feel like playing his guitar, or even writing any music. Today it seems as though he has even less resolve than usual. He had put on an old Beatles’ record before, but that didn’t do anything but distract him. He is hopelessly stuck.
His reflection stares up at him from the smooth dark brown glossiness of his guitar, and he can suddenly hear heavy footsteps banging on the stairway. It’s almost as though Kris can smell his father before he walks through the door, but the moment he stumbles loudly into Kris’s room - Kris is reminded of the difference between reality and imagination.
The thick scent of alcohol steals through the air, almost violently in how it travels. The scent drags around Kris, hanging, pressing into him, and confining his breathing space. From the doorway, his father glares savagely at him with his straining bloodshot eyes, his skin clammy and sickly pale.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks through clenched teeth, his mouth curling into a snarl. His words run into one another, but he somehow manages to enunciate each word, to make sure Kris understands every single one.
Kris doesn’t answer, and instead he just stares at his father; the man with graying hair, whose twisted face turns him ugly, who is staring at him with more contempt than Kris believes is possible for one person to hold.
“You haven’t done the fucking washing, and when I cleaned your sister’s grave; the flowers from yesterday were still there. Why the fuck haven’t you done it?”
Kris feels like resting his head against the wall and waiting for this to pass, but it won’t; the scent of alcohol is getting stronger in his nostrils, becoming even more suffocating as his father moves closer and closer to him.
There are so many things Kris would like to say right now, like the flowers are perfectly fine and she’s dead; stop talking as though she would care and as though she is alive and you’re scaring me, but Kris would never dare to - never ever dare to.
“Why can’t you do the two fucking things that I ask of you? The two things that I ask of you? Why do you always fuck up?”
Kris looks at his father’s jeans, and they are slipping a little from his hips; Kris tries to ignore his father, and concentrates on everything but his father’s face: the carpet with the weird green mark, his old analogue camera tucked away in the corner, the whiteness of his father’s socks, how his shirt cuts at the collar, how Kris’s own jeans are becoming rather threadbare. Anything but his father.
And he doesn’t see it coming. He just doesn’t see it coming. He should be used to it by now, but every time it happens, it shocks him more and more - he is never ready for it: the swing of his father’s moving arm colliding with his cheek, the hardness of the knock against his bone, the way he can almost feel his skin bruising, how his father’s arm moves up his head - smacking him in the temple, making his vision go blurry and dark momentarily.
“You don’t get it, do you?” his father shouts into his ear. “You just don’t fucking get it.”
That night Kris dreams of his mother and his dead sister, Melanie. It is as though they are lying in his bed beside him.
***
It’s slightly odd, his mind tells him, how fast Dylan is driving. The trees are shooting past them, like willowy ghosts of a bullet, the rapid blur contrasting with the lamplights; the dark, almost translucent murkiness of the tree’s shadows a little reminiscent of spilt blood from a gunshot wound…
It’s frightening him, this crazy speed of the car. Dylan is never this careless when driving. Adam trusts him with his life and he has never felt scared with Dylan - until now.
He feels drowsy, ethereal, almost vaporous - it’s as though he is about to fly right out of this speeding car, or even with it.
And suddenly, it’s not just the trees that are rushing past the car - he sees the opalescent trickle of the ocean, he sees the miles and miles of barren desert-land, the rustic orange clay colour of the ground; he sees a tiny mint-green oasis pass him by, a flock of bright white birds swarm around the car and it’s as though he is travelling through -
“Adam! Jesus, Adam!”
Somebody is snapping their fingers in his ear, and Adam blinks his way out of his reverie. He rubs at his eyes and recognises Dylan staring at him with an exasperated, incredibly pissed-off expression.
“Get the fuck up! Your film has been ready for about ten minutes. Go!”
It takes Adam a few seconds to decipher what Dylan means by film, but then he remembers: he’s getting his film developed, and Dylan had come to pick it up with him.
At the counter Adam pays for his photos, relishing in the heaviness of the package between his fingertips, the way it weighs down his left hand slightly. It’s exciting, because this roll of film has been a long time coming - it’s taken him longer than usual to earn the money to pay for the development.
Dylan had become less and less interested the more and more Adam had talked to him about this particular film. Dylan couldn’t really care less about Adam’s photography and this recent discovery of new film had bored him even more, but Adam just hadn’t been able to get past how spectacular this particular film stock and his camera were - and he had to tell someone. His camera was his father’s, from when he was a child, and it produces the most amazing grainy, dreamy shots ever - completely saturated in the brightest, almost psychedelic vivid color Adam has ever seen in a photo.
So that is why, after Adam has thanked the shop assistant, he is not really too surprised to find Dylan gone; Adam had probably scared him off with his excitement for a few minutes - or, you know, it could be longer. He never really knows with Dylan. Usually it’s around this time that Dylan disappears to buy a coffee or a Coke - something with copious amounts of caffeine in it.
Adam sits back down at the bench they were waiting on before. He resists taking out his photos, wanting to wait for a place nicer than the mall to look at them. It’s a ritual for him; something between him and the art he has created. And really, any place is nicer than the mall.
Someone plops down beside Adam, and he knows it’s Dylan; this is confirmed when he places a hot cardboard cup of - presumably - coffee between his thighs.
“You get all of them?” Dylan asks, nodding at the package of photos in Adam’s hand.
“Hopefully. Is this -”
“Double-shot? Yup.” He pops the p sound and semi-smiles at Adam; it’s a grimace, really. “Come on - let’s go.”
Once they are sitting in Dylan’s car, an old rusty red BMW, Dylan points to Adam’s photos. “Can I see?”
And this is part of Adam’s ritual. Dylan is always the first person to see his photos, even before Adam - no matter what. Dylan has always, always been uninterested in Adam’s photos, and he hates the whole process: using film, having to wait to finish the whole roll to see any of the photos, waiting an hour - or sometimes days - to see the finished product. But he will always have a look at the photos when they have been developed. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t really like photography, or that he is very indifferent to the fact that Adam loves it; he just likes to look. And so he does.
Adam passes Dylan the package and takes a long sip of his mocha, accidentally scalding the roof of his mouth. He watches Dylan look at the photos, with Dylan’s wide, thick bangs drooping down over his face, his neck bent, concentrating. Adam can see the roots of Dylan’s natural dusky blond color growing beneath the rest of his wavy light brown hair; he can see the stray threads poking out from the collar of Dylan’s navy t-shirt, the small stain by his shoulder, the ripped knees of his jeans and the scuffed toes of his Doc Martens.
Adam loves seeing these parts of Dylan - the parts of him that others would call ‘flaws’ - because they remind Adam that even Dylan isn’t perfect, even though it can seem as though he is. Adam is conscious of everything about himself, even more so in the last few years - ever since his freshman year. Everything about himself he second guesses. Maybe his necklace looks stupid, or perhaps his jeans make him look fat, or maybe he really is just fat (that’s what Dylan tells him) or possibly his black hair looks really oddly unnatural. There is always something. It makes Adam uncomfortable when he sees himself next to Dylan.
“Hey, this one is kinda nice.” He passes Adam a small photo: a double-exposed shot of a silhouette; it could be either himself or Dylan, he can’t actually tell, nor can he remember taking it.
“Mmmm, yeah. I like that one.” Adam yawns, and tries to hide it behind his hand - Dylan hates him being tired, or showing any signs of fatigue.
Dylan flicks his knee, “You sleepy, or something?”
“A little; it’s nothing really.”
“Really.”
Dylan raises his eyebrows in a disbelieving expression, putting the photo away. Dylan hands him back his photos and his knuckles brushing alongside Adam’s, his black glossy fingernails bright against his slim, pale hands, his skin peppered with splotches of acrylic colour. “I have to finish a painting for my art course - it’s due tomorrow, and it’ll take me a while to do, so let’s go.”
***
“I’m sorry to say that I had to let Linda go on Friday.”
Kris is sitting at Starbucks, his Sunday morning shift about to begin. He is so tired he can barely keep his eyes from closing, so instead he rests his head in his arms.
David continues speaking. “She was proving to be incredibly terrible at her job, and - well, the details aren’t exactly any of your business. But, we do have our new employee replacing her beginning today - whenever he gets here. This was a complete last minute and so - ah, here he is.”
“Sorry; the traffic was bad.”
The next words David says pass right through Kris. He doesn’t need to look up to see who is standing there, who the new person is; Kris could recognize that voice anywhere. His heart skips a beat - the new barista at Starbucks is Adam Lambert.
Kris forces himself to lift his head, and he finds that Adam is occupying the space next to David. He is dressed rather simply today; just in plain black jeans and a tattered dark gray t-shirt. (He looks even more beautiful than Kris has ever seen him, though.)
He is surveying them all, taking a long look at each person, and when Adam gets to Kris, Kris ducks his head down - far too nervous to even look at him.
“This is Adam, everybody. Adam, this is Hannah, Jack, Nick, Mia and Kris.” David points to each of them as he introduces them, “We’re a rather small Starbucks, so we only have four other baristas who you’ll eventually meet.”
He keeps his head stooped low, and David continues after a dramatic pause. “I’ve done my best to train Adam on such short notice, but we needed a new barista as soon as we could get one, so I haven’t been able to complete his training. Hannah, you will need to finish this during his shifts, and if you need any extra help, Adam, I will assist after shifts. Adam has worked at another Starbucks elsewhere, so he does know the basics. Everybody else, help him if he needs it.” David claps his hands together; a short, sharp bang. “We’ll open now.”
-
Kris watches Adam walk slowly to a table, delivering two lattes he just made. So far, it has been one of the hardest days of Kris’s life. Adam hasn’t said a single word to him, or even acknowledged him in any way for the whole time he has been here. Kris is also pretty sure he hasn’t been breathing properly since Adam walked into the room, and it’s now twelve o’clock. He’ll probably have had a heart attack by the end of the day.
Once Adam is back behind the counter, David sends them both off to a table in a small corner for a “quick ten minute break”.
It’s embarrassingly awkward for a few minutes. Kris has no clue what to say to Adam, and he doesn’t want to sound pathetic, so he stays silent.
“We go to the same school, right? You’re in my English class.”
Adam’s voice shocks him, and Kris flinches ever so slightly. This is the first time Adam has ever spoken to him. “Yeah, I am. Same Algebra class, too.”
Adam nods, looking down at his glass of water, his hand gripping tightly around the bottom of it. Kris can see the smudges of eyeliner clumping a little in the corners of Adam’s eyes and it stains his skin in the corners.
“How long have you been working here for?”
“About two years.”
“Huh. That’s quite long.” He lifts his gaze to Kris’s, and just looks at him for a while, his expression almost entirely unreadable. Kris is immensely intimidated by the intensity of Adam - his whole being is daunting to Kris. He has never been in such close proximity to Adam before, and it’s affecting him incredibly.
“Well - I should get back.” Adam stands abruptly, jarring the table, and it sloshes the water in Kris’s glass.
He watches Adam walk back over to the counter, his walk fast and harsh, and Kris is left feeling deserted and unsure of himself; it’s as though he has been plunged into a numbingly cold orb and he’s totally alone.
-
Kris and Ebony are sitting together at lunch the next day at school, leaning against a wall. They’re sharing a turkey sandwich, and while he is chewing, Kris works up the courage to ask her something.
“Ebony, do you know much about Adam? You know, Adam Lambert. He’s in our year.”
“Well - no, not really. I don’t know him. But I’ve heard that he used to sing a lot - like, all the time, at his old school; he’s amazing apparently.” She pauses and looks slightly hesitant. “I don’t keep up with rumors, you know that, but I have heard a few things about him - but they could be just that. And I don’t want to spread little white lies.” She looks up at him from under her short bangs, an ordeal Kris heard all about half an hour ago, an incident involving a blackout, a bathroom and scissors, apparently. “If you really want to know, ask someone else.”
Kris wrinkles his nose at that suggestion and leans back. “You know, he has a job where I work. He was hired last week.”
“Oh, really? That’s nice.” She hums a little song under her breath, and places a fig beside his knee. “We have a tree at home.” Her humming gets a tiny bit louder, and then it moves into a quiet whistle.
Kris breaks the fig in half and is beginning to eat it, the fruit soft in his mouth, when Ebony stops whistling and says, “One thing I do know… he loves photography. I always see him with a camera. I’ve seen some of his photos, too - we’re in the same photography class… but he’s so private with them, and he barely shows anyone, ever. I only got a brief glance, but they were gorgeous from what I saw.”
“Oh.” Kris thinks over this. Adam likes photography - maybe he can work with that… he owns a camera; it’s somewhere in his room. That’s something, right?
“Thanks, Ebony.”
“Sure. There’s another fig, if you would like it.” She smiles at him kindly, and Kris accepts the fig.
---
Kris is having his lunch break at Starbucks, eating at a small table on the sidewalk while listening to his iPod. The sun is hot against his back, and somebody taps his shoulder.
“Can I sit here?”
Kris looks up to see Adam standing next to his table with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Yeah, sure.” Adam’s hip brushes Kris’s arm as he moves to sit across from him. “Pretty busy in there, huh?”
“It really is.” Adam sips on his coffee, and Kris sits tensely - his spine is stiff and he bites his lip, waiting for Adam to say something else. Why is Adam here? This isn’t a normal fixation and it’s confusing Kris. Moments pass by while Kris sits, and he taps his foot on the asphalt.
“Who’re you listening to?”
“Jeff Buckley.”
Adam picks up his iPod and has a look through it, his finger scrolling slowly and his eyes creasing slightly in concentration.
“You want an ear bud?” Kris pulls one out, and Adam nods.
“Thanks.” He pauses for a few seconds after putting the ear bud in, just listening. “This is one of my favorites by him.”
They’re listening to Eternal Life, and Adam tilts his head back with his eyes closed. The sun shines onto his face, making him look almost ethereal, magical. Adam’s hands are wrapped tightly around his coffee, and Kris sees his black polish chipped over his fingernails; his nails are short and ripped, as though they have been bitten. Kris looks down at his own fingers and sees the difference between their hands. One is beautiful, the other ugly. Kris’s hands, in his opinion, are short and thick, too compact, while Adam’s are long and slim, with freckles lightly dusting the backs of them - really beautiful.
Adam opens his eyes as Kris is staring at him, his eyes wide and so very blue. “Hi.”
“Hello.”
Adam blinks a little. “I really like this song.”
“Yeah, you’ve said.” Kris smiles at him, a small not-quite smile, and Adam sits there, looking strangely mystified before standing up, the ear piece falling from his ear.
“I’ve got to go; my shift ended a while back.”
He leaves Kris looking at his retreating back, feeling uncertainty like never before - that was too fast the way he just left, and he feels as though this moment has happened before.
Part II