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Exactly one year – to the day – that Kris’s divorce is finalized, he gets an invitation in the mail.
His assistant interrupts a meeting with his tour manager to hand it to him, her eyes wide, jittering around the room like she can hardly contain herself.
“It’s from Gaga,” she hisses at him, slapping him on the shoulder as he opens it. “Gaga!”
“That is ridiculous,” Kris replies, scoffing. “Why would Gaga send me – oh.”
It’s an embossed invitation to dinner, stamped with the Haus of Gaga logo, outlined in what Kris suspects is real gold. On the back is a silhouette of a woman’s profile, flashes of green shocked through the lines of the hair.
“Tomorrow night!” Carli shrieks. “I’ll clear your schedule!”
“Wait,” Kris says, because this makes no sense. “This has to be a mistake, I’ve never even met her before, why would she – “
“Who the fuck cares,” Carli interrupts. “It’s Gaga, now go find something to wear.” Then she stops, phone halfway to her ear. “On second thought, don’t, I’ll pick out your clothes. You just go home and wait.”
“Um,” says Kris.
“I will call your mother,” Carli threatens.
Kris glares at her as hard as he can, but she’s already on the phone, so it’s kind of like he’s not even there.
The sensation is not new.
--
Kris has many, many questions. Number one on his mind is, what the fuck is happening, but nobody pays any attention when he asks that so he gives up eventually.
“What should I call her?” is the next one. “Lady? Miss Gaga?”
“Her real name is Stefani,” Carli tells him. “But don’t call her that unless she gives you permission. Actually, you probably shouldn’t address her by name until you’re sure it’s okay.”
“It’s like I’m meeting the pope,” Kris grumbles.
“The pope would be easier. Stop fussing!” Carli slaps his hand. “You look hot, so don’t fuck it up by pulling at your clothes like a fourth grader.”
“It itches!”
“Cry me a river.” Carli glares at him fiercely, waving one manicured finger in his face. “Now listen. I know you don’t think of yourself as a famous person, but news flash, non-famous people don’t get invited to things by Lady Gaga, so do me a favor and pretend you’re a normal celebrity, just for tonight, okay?” Huffing, she slaps his hands away from his face. “And don’t mess with your hair. The hair is perfect, okay? And she’s sending a limo for you, so for the love of God, don’t do the thing where you offer to pay for gas. That’s so incredibly – ugh. Just don’t.”
“Gas is expensive,” Kris protests.
“She won like, a billion Grammys last year,” Carli retorts. “I think she can afford it.”
Kris thinks, that doesn’t mean that offering isn’t polite, but refrains from saying it. She’s got the crazy eyes – he’s not stupid.
A large, large man knocks on the door at quarter to seven exactly. His arm muscles bulge through his uniform, and he introduces himself as Mr. Lucy.
“Mr. Allen,” he greets. “The limo is right outside.”
Carli, hiding in the coat room in the foyer, gestures at him excitedly. “It’s purple!” she mouths, eyebrows disappearing into her hair.
What is, Kris wonders, and steps outside. Oh, the limo. Of course, why didn’t he think of that.
The interior is made entirely out of black leather – the seats, the ceiling, the floor, the wet bar stocked with every brand of liquor imaginable – everything. Kris sits gingerly on the seat and blinks stupidly at the tiny gemstones lining the window controls. Are those real, he thinks, and swallows to hold back a hysterical giggle.
He wants to call Adam, so badly. He can imagine his reaction, can imagine how he wouldn’t believe it at first, Kris would have to take a picture of the male/female symbols engraved on the skylight to convince him. Then he’d freak out, and demand details, and probably rant about why it wasn’t him who got the invitation, and basically distract Kris from the most surreal experience of his entire life, which considering that in the last five years he has not only won the most popular reality show in the country but also attended a party hosted by Brad Bell, that’s pretty fucking surreal.
He and Adam aren’t speaking, though. Not since the incident, but Kris isn’t allowed to mope about that tonight. Carli told him so.
Fine, Kris thinks, and pours himself a fifth of vodka. Let’s be a celebrity, and leans back to enjoy the ride.
--
Gaga’s house, which isn’t really a house but more like a mansion or an estate, or not even that, but some other kind of word that hasn’t been invented yet, is set back on the very outskirts of LA, with a long winding driveway that takes fifteen minutes to drive down.
Kris is ushered through the gigantic front doors and led into a foyer that kind of reminds him of a tour of Versailles he went on with Katy once. Only – colorful, because everywhere he looks there’s something clamoring for his attention: a twisted metal statue next to the front door that looks a bit like a naked woman, maybe, or possibly a giraffe, an abstract painting on the wall that probably cost millions of dollars, glittery light fixtures that look like the spiky bomb things on Mario Brothers, a rug with spiral patterns sewn in with silver thread.
The living room – or, what Kris thinks is the living room, because there are…couch-like objects in it – has a white vinyl player sitting on a low, marble table. Sign ‘o the Times is playing on low, and Kris grins a little, feeling slightly more comfortable, for some reason.
The player itself is like none Kris has ever seen before – the base of it is curved, so it looks like a flattened U, but the bottom is straight so that it sits flatly on the table. The turntable is off-center, and the needle lifts out of the base at a slightly crooked angle. There’s a speaker attached that looks a bit like an old, horn-type phonograph speaker, with little tendrils of black that filter down the side.
“I designed that myself,” Kris hears. “Do you like it?”
Kris turns, and there she is. She’s wearing a grey dress and her hair is curled slightly, pulled into a twist on the back of her head. She looks relatively tame compared to what he’d been expecting.
“Yes,” he replies, and clears his throat reflexively. “It’s…really fantastic, actually.”
She smiles, and walks over slowly, hands tucked behind her back almost demurely. “I love vinyl,” she says dreamily. “There’s just something about the process that’s different from a CD or an iPod.” She stops the needle and flips the record off of the turntable, slipping it into a plastic cover. “Every once in awhile it’s nice to indulge.”
“I…know exactly what you mean,” Kris replies. “Everyone tells me I’m crazy to go to all the trouble.”
She grins, turning to face him. “Well, you and I know better. Eh?”
“Yeah.” Rubbing at the back of his neck, Kris suddenly feels incredibly out of place again. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you. By the way.”
Her grin widens and she reaches out with both hands, taking a hold of his wrist. “Likewise,” she says. “Kris Allen. I like your new album a lot.”
“Thank you,” Kris replies, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.
“You didn’t think I would?” She shrugs before he can answer. “I did. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you,” he repeats, a little shell-shocked. “That’s – yeah. Thank you.”
She shrugs again, tilting her face downward slightly. “Are you hungry?” she asks suddenly. “I ordered Chinese, I hope that’s okay.”
“You…ordered Chinese?”
“Oh, I don’t cook,” she says, pulling him along, still holding him by the wrist. “And I have this girl who sometimes makes stuff for me, but she’s visiting her parents in Toronto. And my sister’s in Miami right now.”
“Chinese is fine,” Kris says dumbly.
“Good. I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. The dining room is being renovated.” She gestures with her chin, peering at him over one bare shoulder. “Is that okay? I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Kris says automatically. “It’s really okay, though.” He laughs suddenly, the sound echoing off the walls. “Oh my God, it’s okay.”
She grins. “Wonderful,” she replies, bright and cheerful. “Follow me.”
--
The surreal feeling manages to subside slightly, as Kris sits at a wooden table in the corner of the gigantic kitchen, working his way through a carton of chow mein as Gaga sits cross-legged in the chair beside him, nibbling on her third egg roll.
“It’s so bad,” she tells him. “These are my favorite thing in the world to eat. Oh, you have to stop me, I have no willpower.”
Kris nudges the carton away with his chopsticks, grinning. “I’m the same way with that crab and lobster dip they sell at D’Agastino’s. I can eat the whole thing in one sitting.”
“Tour food,” she says, gesturing with her egg roll and nodding. “I go through like ten boxes of Triscuits a week.”
Kris laughs delightedly. “Ritz with cheese. I used to eat M&Ms but there’s the whole staying thin thing now.”
She reaches for a carton of cashew chicken, looking over at him sideways. “I think you look fine just the way you are.”
Kris swallows a little thickly. “Uh, thanks?”
She grins a little. “Do you always look so surprised, all the time? Or is it because of me?”
“Well.” He debates for half a second before answering. “You. Honestly.”
She laughs loudly, throwing her head back. “Am I that scary?”
“No!” Kris takes a bite and chews, considering. “This isn’t exactly…what I was expecting,” he replies thoughtfully, after a few moments. “I’ve never met you before, I’ve only seen pictures and your music videos, so I was sort of thinking – “
“Girls in rhinestone leotards and half-naked male models?” Gaga grins predatorily. “Oh, that was last weekend.”
Kris laughs abruptly, nearly choking on a mouthful of noodles. “Oh, of course.”
Gaga shrugs again, poking at the pile of food on her plate. She almost looks shy, if Kris could ever believe that she could be shy about anything. “I just thought you were cute, you know. And I’ve only ever heard good things about you. I figured it’d be nice to meet you, and – well, I didn’t think you’d mind low-key.”
“I don’t mind,” Kris says quickly. “Definitely not.”
“Well that’s good,” she replies. “So you want a tour, after we finish? My house is ridiculous and you will either love it to death or faint in horror.”
“Bring it on,” Kris says.
--
The house is ridiculous. There are two rooms for all her shoes.
“I have a lot of shoes,” she says in defense. Kris just grins and promises himself to never tease Adam about his closet ever again.
The thought of Adam makes him falter a little bit, enough that Gaga notices.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “It’s just – Adam would die if he could see me right now.”
She doesn’t reply, just nods and smiles at him a little mysteriously.
They sip on vodka and walk through the rooms leisurely, chatting as she explains who designed this and who made that. The names are all meaningless to Kris, but she doesn’t seem to mind all that much if he doesn’t keep up.
She’s very easy to talk to, yet another thing to add to his list of surprises. She’s funny, too, in a kind of understated way, and incredibly sharp. She gives him advice about how to handle the handlers from Jive, and talks easily about her own record deal. Her understanding of the business is more in-depth than any other artist Kris has ever dealt with before.
By the time they make it through the entire house the sky outside is dark, and when Kris checks his phone, he isn’t surprised to see a billion texts from Carli, along with a bunch of missed calls.
“Curfew?” she asks.
“My own,” he replies. “I should get going, I don’t wanna take up any more of your time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, and smiles prettily. “I invited you, remember?”
She makes him take the Chinese leftovers, and at the door, she gives him a hug and snaps a picture of them with her phone.
“To new friends,” she murmurs, and kisses him on the cheek.
“Absolutely,” he says back, and means it.
On the limo ride back, Kris collapses on the leather and laughs hysterically for fifteen minutes straight. Then he lowers the partition and asks Mr. Lucy to turn on some music, and they sing along to the radio the entire way home.
--
“So,” Carli says, the next morning. “You’re dating her.”
“No, I’m not,” Kris replies, though it hadn’t been a question exactly.
“No, I know that,” she says impatiently, and flips on his television. “I mean, you’re dating her. Apparently.”
A snapshot of Gaga’s Twitter page is on E! News, and Kris drops his toast on the floor. “Oh,” he says dumbly, and Carli sighs dramatically.
“Go check,” she says tiredly, and starts tapping on her phone maniacally.
Kris logs onto his laptop with a mixed sense of both dread and anticipation, and sighs at the sight of his overflowing inbox.
He skips it and goes straight to Twitter, loading Gaga’s page before daring to tackle his @ replies. There are two from the night before – one, the picture she’d snapped of them with her phone with the caption, southern boys do it better, and then one directly to him:
@KrisAllen thanks for the company, we should do it again
He laughs loudly, then sneaks a look back into the kitchen and hits reply.
@ladygaga definitely. Thanks for the egg rolls.
He waits one minute, then two, and then he hears, “God fucking damn you, Kris! I will chop you up and feed you to my dogs!”
Kris laughs and goes to tackle his inbox. That should last him all day.
--
Over the course of the next five hours, Kris is called by, pretty much, every single person he has ever met in his life.
He spends a full hour on the phone calming down his publicist, who sounds torn between undying hatred for springing this on her with no warning and hysterical glee.
“Could you maybe do this again a little closer to your tour, possibly?” she asks, and he sighs loudly. “Okay, never mind, never mind. Just don’t tweet again until I say it’s okay. I mean it!”
Katy leaves him a voicemail – they haven’t quite worked their way up to live conversations yet – sputtering something nonsensical and asking six or seven questions that never quite get finished because she’s talking so fast. She ends with a frantic “text me!” but sounds amused and excited rather than angry or hurt, so that’s a relief. And his mother calls to ask him to get her an autograph.
He doesn’t hear from Adam – not that he was expecting to, in all reality, but he can’t deny that his first thought upon seeing Gaga’s tweets – and the ensuing assumptions and gravity-defying leaps to conclusions made by the esteemed anchors of E! News – was a reaction, at the very least. Jealousy is too much to hope for, but a text maybe?
He does hear from Adam’s friends, though. Even friends he’s never met. Hell, he gets an email from one of his ex-boyfriends who, Kris is fairly sure, Adam hasn’t heard from in years.
Brad actually has his number though, and wasn’t that a little bit of a mistake.
“I cannot believe this, Kris Allen, you are absolutely unreal.”
“Hello, Brad, been awhile, Brad, I’m fine, how are you, Brad,” Kris says dryly.
“Shut the hell up. This conversation will be on my terms, thank you.” Kris hears a crash on the other end of the line, and Brad curses loudly. “Fucking whatever, okay, okay. Tell me everything immediately and if you leave anything out I will never speak to you again.”
“Well,” Kris starts slowly. “I went to her place, and we had Chinese.”
“Shut up, no, you didn’t! Okay, what else?”
“She gave me a tour. And…we talked.”
“You talked,” Brad repeated flatly.
“She’s nice.”
“Nice.” Brad huffs loudly. “How did I know I would get this from you?”
Kris chuckles. “What were you expecting, exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know, awed excitement, hysterical amazement, incoherent babbling? You’re such a guy.”
“I think you say that to me every time we talk.”
“Well.” Brad makes a dismissive noise and moves on. “What was she wearing?”
“Uh, a grey dress. And sandals, and this metal bracelet that laced up her arm like boot laces.” Kris shrugs. “And…that’s it. She looked pretty normal, actually.”
“Oh man,” moans Brad. “This would happen to you. And it would happen like this. Jesus.”
“Sorry.”
“Whatev. Are you really dating now? That’s what everyone’s saying.”
“No,” Kris says patiently. “You should really stop reading Oh No They Didn’t.”
“Oh, it’s in the Enquirer, too,” Brad informs him. “On the website, anyway. And who knows where else by tomorrow. Congrats, Kris, you’ve officially become bigger than Rihanna’s new boyfriend.”
“Lucky me.” Kris swallows, and takes a deep breath. “So, have you heard from…”
“Adam?” Brad’s voice is very gentle, which makes Kris wince rather spectacularly. “Uh – well.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“He was the one who told me about it, actually.” Brad pauses hesitantly. “He’s…kind of pissed.”
“Not pissed enough to actually talk to me, or anything,” Kris says immediately.
“Have you tried calling him?”
“Yeah, about a million times in the last month,” Kris says bitterly. “I got the hint, eventually.”
“He does this thing, hon,” Brad says insistently, “where he gets all wrapped up in his own head and loses sight of reality a little bit. And he festers. Like a rotten egg. You have to snap him out of it.”
“How am I supposed to do that when he won’t even take my calls?” Brad hums sympathetically. “Look, I don’t wanna talk about it. I don’t want to put you in the middle.”
“In the middle of you and Adam…” Brad trails off dreamily. “Gosh, that sounds…swell.”
“Well, you’re welcome, I guess.”
“Mm. Listen, I’ll see what I can do with him. You, on the other hand, should enjoy the Gaga, because that shit is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, let me tell you.”
--
Once in a lifetime, though, seems to be a little off the mark. He gets another invitation about a week later, this time to a party.
“Is this going to be a trend?” Carli asks excitedly. “Oh, man, we’re gonna have to tell your publicist this time. If we don’t she’ll probably have a stroke, or something.”
Kris shrugs helplessly; it’s all on her, he still hasn’t got his phone back since it was confiscated the day before when he tweeted Bad Romance lyrics when Carli wasn’t looking.
Carli makes some calls and within the hour he has three different stylists rifling through his closet.
They give him outfit options. That depend on what type of activities he will be participating in.
Kris grabs a pair of leather pants with a zipper that zips open all the way to the back side of the waist band. “What exactly do you think I’ll be doing?”
One of the stylists shrugs, while another says something in French and points at the pants and his crotch in rapid succession. Kris drops them like they’re on fire.
He manages to talk them down to a mildly less horrifying version of the outfits they’d put together, mostly by repeating “no sex! No sexe! Comprends?” until they leave him alone.
Mr. Lucy picks him up again, greeting him with a slap on the back that sends him lurching forward. He has company in the limo this time, however – a glossed, sunglassed woman who sits curled up in the corner, drinking something bright orange and staring out the window in sullen silence, and a set of twins who introduce themselves as Robbie and Bobbie, dressed in matching tuxedoes. Kris tries to keep them straight but he suspects that they’re fucking with him because unless they keep switching seats when he’s not looking, there’s no way he’s mixing them up.
“You’re Kris Allen,” the one on the right says reverently, halfway through a glass of bourbon. “Are you really dating Gaga?”
“No.” Kris gestures with his own glass. “I’m just a friend.”
The other one smirks and leans in, gesturing towards the silent woman in the corner. “So was she, and then we found her and Gaga in the – “ The woman reaches out with one dangerously sharp high heel and kicks him, cutting off the sentence, before returning to her vigil at the window. “Motherfucker!”
The other twin starts giggling, collapsing sideways into Kris’s shoulder. He has to dodge out of the way to keep from getting splashed by the glass that upends on the black leather floor.
They hear the music before they see the house, and as Mr. Lucy opens the door for them, a nearly deafening wave of sound rushes in. Kris winces as he emerges and has a short moment of incredulity before Robbie and Bobbie rush him into the house, speaking over each other rapidly, both monologues completely lost beneath the crushing bass line of the music.
Kris has lived in LA for quite awhile, and has been famous for quite awhile as well, and so parties like this one are nothing new to him. The sweaty crush of the crowd, the acrid smell of smoke and perfume, the head-rattling sound of the music and people yelling and laughing – the atmosphere is alike to a million other college parties and, later, industry functions that Kris has attended. But this party is slightly different in that there’s something a little off, everywhere he looks – and if he looks close enough, he finds things that are somehow both truly insane and incredibly charming at the same time.
Like the DJ, whose arms are covered in solid tattoos, dressed in chains and biker leather and, Kris discovers, a pair of hot pink high heels. And the man who hands Kris a drink, who is wearing a shirt made out of Vogue magazine covers. Or a woman Kris chats with for twenty minutes as she pets a monkey that sleeps peacefully inside her purse.
It’s insane, and kind of wonderful, and Adam would love it, is all Kris can think, though he hates himself a little bit.
There are a bunch of people Kris recognizes though – executives and agents, the kind of people that everyone meets and deals with on a regular basis no matter which studio you’re with. He recognizes some other musicians, too – this kid from the punk band who won a Grammy the year before, Kris can never remember his name, and Jordin Sparks, who gives him a hug, and Ke$ha, who yells something incoherent and loops a glow stick around his neck. He has a nonsensical conversation about The Supremes with a trashed John Mayer, and he spots Butch Walker standing on the stairs, talking to a drag queen with a huge yellow hat with fruit on top.
Kris has a nice buzz going, standing in the kitchen with a bunch of Beyonce’s back up dancers when he gets pulled away abruptly by a half-naked Mr. Lucy, who leads him up a flight of stairs and into a room that Kris vaguely recognizes from his tour. Kris blinks and walks inside, unsurprised to see the lady of the house standing on a balcony.
She looks positively otherworldly, wrapped in something that looks like a toga, almost, with long bell sleeves and shimmering layers of fabric draped around her shoulders artfully. Lavender flowers trail through her hair, which hangs to her waist in a glossy wave of blonde and purple.
She turns around and smiles at him a little loopily, beckoning to him with one manicured hand. “Kris! You made it.”
“Yeah.” He takes the hand she offers and lets her lead him out onto the balcony, the noise of the party floating up to greet them. “You’re up here by yourself while everyone else has fun downstairs? That’s very Gatsby of you.”
Gaga throws her head back and laughs. “That’s the coolest thing anyone’s said to me all night,” she says.
“I try.”
She smiles and sets her martini glass down on the balcony railing, turning to face him. “I just wanted to say hello.”
Kris grins. “Hello.”
“Hello.” She takes his other hand. “Plus, the hot new couple needs some alone time, don’t you think?”
Kris narrows his eyes and puts it together, rather quickly considering how drunk he is. “You did that on purpose.” She widens her eyes innocently, a glittery, purple-tinged little girl. “You did!”
“You didn’t think it’s funny? Me? And you, of all people?” She shakes his hands slightly. “No offense.”
Kris hums, faking deep thought. “I may have caused some Twitter shenanigans the last couple days.”
Gaga laughs. “I noticed that.” She drops one of his hands and grabs her martini, handing it to him delicately. “Ah, don’t worry, there’s no harm in it. Plus, my madness always has a method, remember.”
Kris studies her for a moment as she gestures for him to finish the drink, waving her nails at him impatiently. “What method, exactly?”
“That, Kris Allen, is a secret.” She winks at him and waits, eyes wide, as he finishes her drink, before taking the glass from him and tossing it carelessly into the room. “Now, come take a walk with me. If I’m Gatsby, then you’ll be Nick, and we’ll stroll around the grounds and greet the guests.”
Kris laughs, utterly charmed, as she loops her arm through his, leading him a little crookedly back down towards the party. “Gatsby had a doomed romance,” he reminds her. “Do you have a Daisy hidden somewhere?”
“My romances are never doomed,” she proclaims, before turning and looking up at him, a little slyly. “Maybe you’re more of a Gatsby then me.”
He has no time to dissect that statement before the party overwhelms him again, enveloping them both in a cloud of noise and heat. Allowing the thought to float away, Kris simply takes a deep breath and allows himself to be led into the crowd.
--
Kris doesn’t make it home until two o’clock the next afternoon. He does his best to clean the spilled vodka – and…lipstick? God, he hopes it’s lipstick – off his phone and sees fourteen texts from Carli. She’s like an overbearing mother, sometimes. Who curses a lot.
He texts her to let her know he’s alive, and immediately receives back, YOU CAD! HOW WAS THE PARTY?!?!?!?!
I woke up in a blue feather bed with space cowboy, he texts, which he thinks sums up the night quite nicely.
!!!!!!!! is all he gets back. He hopes she’s taking deep breaths.
He takes a shower and takes about half a bottle of aspirin, signs some tour stuff couriered over by Carli, eats a muffin. Calls his agent and makes lunch plans for next week, and emails his brother back. Talks to his publicist for an hour while she gushes about how he’s the best client ever, true fact, because not only is he squeaky scandal clean but he also does awesome things like hug orphans in Haiti and party with Lady Gaga, and she’s sending him a fruit basket the first thing in the morning, for real. He thinks she might be close to tears at a few points, but he gracefully doesn’t call her on it.
He eventually passes out halfway through a rerun of The Office and wakes up four hours later with a crick in his neck and his phone blinking at him angrily from the coffee table.
He’s trudging upstairs, dreaming of his non-feathery, cowboy-less bed when his phone rings merrily in his hand, the electronic ringtone stopping him mid-step.
It’s Adam’s ringtone. Kris looks at the screen and confirms; Big Fat Douchebag! yells the display, which is what Carli has changed Adam’s name in his contact list to somewhere between last month and now, and Kris proceeds to have a mini panic attack.
Answer it? He hasn’t heard from Adam in a month. They desperately need to talk. He’s been waiting for this moment with way too much anticipation. He misses the sound of Adam’s voice in an incredibly pathetic way.
Ignore it? It’s two am. He’s tired. He can make him work for it. He’s a big fat douchebag.
Kris swallows his pride and hits ‘answer.’
“Hello?” Silence. “Hello?”
Some shuffling, then, Adam’s voice. “Kris?”
“Adam.” Kris swallows and reaches out to grip the banister. “Are you there?”
“Kris.” Adam’s voice sounds muffled, almost. He mumbles something else incoherent, and Kris hears a violent tinkle of glass breaking.
“Adam. Are you drunk?”
“Psssht. No. I’m not drunk dialing you, Kristopher. That would be pathetic.”
“Right,” Kris replies dryly. “You’re just really, really tired.”
“Kris,” Adam moans, as if Kris hadn’t even spoken. “Kris, I miss you. I miss you so fucking much.”
Kris’s breath catches, and he slides down to sit on the stair he’s been frozen on. “Adam.” He has to swallow a few times to regain his composure. “I – I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“Yes you have,” Adam whines. “You’re off – you’re not here. Kris, you’re not here,” he babbles. “I don’t – what?” Kris blinks as Adam’s voice becomes even more muffled, as if Adam’s head is turned away. “Fuck you. No, fuck you!”
“Adam. Adam!”
“What? Fuck, what?”
“Where are you?” Kris asks patiently. “Is somebody there with you?”
“Yeah, Brad’s here. And this guy Joe, but he’s not – Kris, he’s not anything. I didn’t do anything with him, I swear. I just met him, and he’s cute, but he’s not – you know.”
Kris takes a deep breath, thinking, my life. “It’s okay. Adam – “
“Okay, we made out a little. But that’s it!” Adam sounds vaguely panicked, and Kris gulps down an incredulous laugh, something hot and hysterical rising in his chest.
“It’s okay, Adam. I need you to listen to me, though. Okay?”
“Okay,” says Adam, voice small.
“I need you to go to bed now, okay? Go to sleep. And in the morning, you call me back and we can talk. Okay?” Kris clenches his fist, nails digging into his palm harshly. “And you better fucking remember that part, okay? Write it down if you have to.”
“Um – “ Kris hears some shuffling, and a low voice that sounds vaguely like Brad’s. “Okay! Writing it down. See? It’s right here on my arm.”
“Uh, sure.”
“Good, good. Okay. I’m going to bed. Hey, I’m going to bed!” Adam suddenly yells, supposedly to Brad and…uh, Joe, and Kris jerks the phone away from his ear, wincing. “Fuckers.”
“Adam…” Kris trails off tiredly, about to comment with something snarky and thinking better of it.
“What? What,” Adam slurs. “I’m going to bed now. Just like you said, even though you’ve ruined Gaga for me. Ruined. Forever.” Kris hears some more shuffling, and Adam’s voice continuing, phasing in and out intermittently as Adam moves around, forgetting to keep the phone up to his face. “…blonde girls. I don’t – I hate you. Just – ugh. Really.”
“Goodnight, Adam,” Kris says firmly, unamused. “Call me tomorrow. Asshole.”
“You’re the asshole,” Adam says petulantly. “Why can’t you just – “
Kris hangs up on him and throws the phone down the stairs, standing up abruptly and stomping up the stairs to his bedroom.
Ten minutes later, he walks back down and grabs his phone, sighing in resignation.
“I am a loser,” he tells it, and sets it on the highest volume setting. “Don’t look at me like that.” The phone stares at him apathetically. “Yeah, thought so.”
--
Adam doesn’t call back.
Kris wakes up to Carli’s ringtone (Material Girl, which he hopes she never, ever discovers – but how would she, unless she called him from the same room? …on second thought, he wouldn’t put it past her) and he mutters his way through a conversation about the various meetings he’ll be dragging himself to today, paying as little attention to her as he possibly can.
He argues with himself throughout the day, telling himself that Adam’s probably not awake yet, he’s hungover, he doesn’t remember calling, he hasn’t looked at his call history yet. But by evening, Adam hasn’t called back, and Kris isn’t doing so hot at the self-delusion thing anymore.
Carli notices his dark mood and takes him out – forces him out – for Italian.
“Look, you might as well tell me,” she tells him, fork darting out and snagging a piece of his ravioli. “I’m just gonna find out anyway, eventually. One way or another.”
Kris stares at her a little incredulously, grabbing at his breadsticks protectively. “I think,” he announces, watching as she casually sips at his iced tea, “that we spend too much time together.”
Carli freezes, tilts her head, and shrugs. “My therapist thinks you’ve been using me as an emotional crutch since your wife left you.”
“You’re in therapy?” Kris asks dumbly. “And you talk about me?”
“Of course I’m in therapy, who isn’t in therapy?”
“I’m not.” Kris blinks. “And she didn’t leave me, it was a mutual decision.”
“Whatever you say.” Carli makes a waving motion with her hand, as if shooing away the subject. “Does this have anything to do with Adam?” Kris attempts to keep his face neutral, but that never works. “Ah.”
“He drunk dialed me last night.”
Carli’s mouth falls open, and she makes a somewhat unattractive sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. “I didn’t think people actually did that anymore.”
“It was so unbelievably…” Kris trails off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m still trying.”
“Well cuz you’re warm for his form, duh,” says Carli, and Kris chokes slightly. “You’re right though, this isn’t healthy. When’s the last time you even flirted with anyone?”
“Um,” says Kris.
“Exactly! You’ve been all celibate and monk-like for the past what, six months? That’s not healthy.”
“I went to a Gaga party this weekend,” Kris says defensively. “How is that monk-like?”
“I meant aside from that.” Carli pins him with her evil eyes, one eyebrow raised threateningly. “It’s not even about how much actual sex you’re having, anyway. You could be slutting it up all over LA and still thinking about Adam the whole time, which is actually worse. In a way.”
He can’t really argue with that. “I can’t just snap my fingers and get over it.”
“No, but you can make the conscious decision to start moving on,” Carli says pointedly. “Like this. He drunk called you, and I bet you were gonna try calling him back tonight when you got home. Right?”
“Maybe.” Kris fidgets. “If there was nothing good on…TV, or…anything.”
Carli stops mid-motion and stares at him. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”
He sighs. “Thank you.”
“Look, I’m only gonna say this once, because you know how I am with, like, feelings and shit.” Carli scrunches up her nose in disgust. “I like you a lot. You’re an awesome boss and a really good friend, and, um, Icareaboutyoualot.” She sighs, rolling her eyes. “And, whatever, okay, you’ve had a rough couple of years and the last thing you need to be doing is mooning over a guy who slept with you and then dumped you the next day.” She huffs, picking up her fork and avoiding his gaze. “There. We’re not discussing it any further.”
Kris grins, oddly touched. “Do we hug now?”
“Don’t push it.”
--
Carli’s take on the situation is actually incredibly logical, much like everything Carli does. It’s not like Kris didn’t already know that, it’s just – well, he’s always been a bit of an optimist.
The truth of the matter is that he’s been telling himself the whole time that there was something different about his relationship with Adam, that set it apart from any other relationship that he’s ever had – or that Adam’s ever had, for that matter. Just like how he can’t imagine ever feeling about anyone the way he felt about Katy, he can’t imagine ever wanting anyone like how he wants Adam. Kris had just assumed that it went both ways, without ever really thinking about it all that deeply.
It’s that assumption that, he is starting to realize, allowed him to spend the last month and a half plainly ignoring all the signs that Adam just wasn’t as involved in – whatever it is they have – as Kris is. If the whole horribly embarrassing rejection thing wasn’t enough, the weeks and weeks of ignored calls and emails and, even worse, the avoidance – Adam ducking away as soon as Kris walks into a party, Adam pretending not to notice him at events, Adam deflecting questions about their friendship in interviews – yeah, that’s certainly done the trick.
All that energy, time spent agonizing about how to get Adam to talk to him, all the nights he couldn’t sleep remembering how it felt to hold Adam’s body close to his, the way his voice sounded half-drunk with sleep, the scratchy slide of leather and denim against his bare skin, all for what. Kris has nothing to show for any of it but a bruised ego, an ache in his throat and a silent phone.
So, no more, he decides. He might be a Gatsby, but he will allow no more tragedy. His self-delusion ends now. And he skates on this assertion for a full week before it all shatters at his feet.
There’s some big fancy event at Simon Fuller’s estate to celebrate Idol’s newest judge switch-up, and all the show’s biggest names are heavily encouraged to attend. Kris knows Adam will be there, in a sort of detached, not-thinking-about-it sort of way, but when the time comes that he actually sees him in person, it hits him with all the force of a hurricane.
Adam looks – terrible. Kris first spots him from across the room as he negotiates himself towards the bar. He’s standing off to the side from the crowd, speaking closely to David Cook, but he looks dead on his feet, swaying slightly in place. His clothes are rumpled and his eye makeup is smudged, as if he’d fallen asleep with it on and hadn’t bothered to reapply. He’s clutching his drink with white knuckles, and in the short time that Kris watches him, he manages to chug the entire thing.
Kris feels a wave of concern and has to forcibly calm himself, turning resolutely away. He spends the next hour attempting to stay on the opposite side of the room as Adam, but this only results in Kris being hyper-aware of where he is at any given second, so it’s a bit counterproductive.
He isn’t sure exactly when Adam realizes that he’s there, but at some point he starts to feel Adam’s gaze, laser-sharp on the back of his neck. He does his best not to shift uncomfortably under the attention, but he can’t stop his cheeks from flushing every time Adam manages to catch his eye, and he knows – knows – that he’s completely transparent. As usual.
It isn’t long before Kris hears a commotion from the other side of the room, and he knows even before he turns to look that it’s Adam. How could it be anyone but Adam?
He’s embroiled in an argument with one of the guys from security, glaring venomously and stepping up in the guy’s space, the line of his shoulders rigid and tense. As Kris watches, Adam leans in and hisses something that makes the man’s face flush red with anger. Hovering behind them is Adam’s assistant, fluttering her hands and looking fairly close to a heart attack.
An impulse striking, Kris sets down his drink and follows it, barely thinking Carli’s gonna kill me before heading straight in Adam’s direction.
“…down, sir. I will remove you.”
“Oh, you’ll remove me.” Adam waves one arm dramatically, leaning in closer to the guard. “Did you hear that, Ellie? He’s going to remove me. Like a fucking couch.”
“Adam, quit it, come on – “
“Adam.” Kris watches as all three of them freeze, Ellie swiveling her head to stare at him in almost dawning horror. He feels a stab of something in-between sympathy and irritation. “Come on, we need to talk.”
Adam turns slowly to look at him, and Kris fights to keep his face blank. Face twisting into an ugly smirk, Adam narrows his eyes, taking a sharp step backwards. “No,” he says, drawing the word out so it sounds like a curse. “No, I don’t think we need to do anything.”
Kris inhales sharply, stepping forward and grabbing Adam’s arm. The bicep beneath his fingers immediately tenses, and Kris grabs on tighter, anticipating a move to pull away. “Adam, walk out of here with me.” Adam’s face twists and he opens his mouth to spit out a reply, but Kris cuts him off. “No, listen, there are thirty different cameras in here and the last thing either of us need is a scene, so let it go and come with me.” Kris pauses, feeling a flash of mingled frustration and leftover hurt. “You can blow me off if you want, but at least walk out of here with me.”
Adam rips his arm out of Kris’s grip, straightening his clothes primly. “Walk out on your own,” he says breezily and turns on his heel, striding for the door. Ellie looks at him, eyes wide, before tearing after him, ponytail flapping behind her anxiously. Muttering to himself, Kris shoots an apologetic look at the security guard – who ignores him – and ducks out of the ballroom.
He finds Adam standing in the huge driveway, leaning against a limo and smoking a cigarette. Ellie is talking rapidly on her cell phone, darting her eyes around and glaring at nothing. At his approach, she looks up at the sky briefly before moving away abruptly, climbing into the limo and snapping the door shut with an angry slam.
Kris debates the wisdom of actually continuing this encounter for about a half a second before Adam looks up and spots him, his face darkening stormily.
“Kris,” he says, voice razor-sharp. “How nice to see you.”
Anger erupts in Kris’s chest, and all thoughts of leaving it be erupt into smoke. “You never called me back.”
Adam blinks, and his mouth flattens into a thin line. “Neither did you.”
“I believe the drunk-dialing etiquette calls for the drunken one,” Kris points to Adam, that’d be you, “to take the responsibility for apologizing to their victim.”
“Victim. Right.” Adam flicks his cigarette and Kris takes a step back as it skids across the pavement at his feet, a flash of red and an acrid whiff of smoke. “Well, I apologize heartily for any pain or damage I may have caused. I certainly hope I didn’t interrupt anything.” Adam’s voice grates harshly against Kris’s ears, the cruel twist of his words making him wince.
“Okay, all right.” Kris nods jerkily, crossing his arms across his chest. “So this is how it’s gonna be?”
Adam scoffs. “What,” he bites out.
“I don’t know what your problem suddenly is,” Kris says, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounds. “But regardless of anything that happened between us, I would’ve thought you’d have a little bit more respect for our friendship.”
“Friendship,” Adam repeats, grimacing like the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Let’s not kid ourselves; we haven’t been friends in awhile,” he says. “Friends don’t fuck each other.” Kris winces, and Adam latches onto it instantly. “Or did you forget? You were all over me that night, practically begging for it – “
Kris cuts him off, face burning in humiliation. “Go to hell.”
But Adam just continues, as if Kris had never spoken. “Or maybe it was all a part of the plan. Working your way up to the big leagues.” Digging in his jacket pocket, Adam pulls out a pack of cigarettes, tearing into the pack with shaky, erratic movements. “Saw the big party on TMZ,” he says, chin jutting out obstinately. “Tell me, is her dick bigger than mine? I’ve always wondered.”
Kris gapes at him for an agonizingly long minute, watching as Adam lights a cigarette, staring at the ground with narrowed eyes.
“What exactly were you wanting me to do?” he finally says, fighting to keep his words even. “We slept together, and you didn’t want to take it further than that, fine. Whatever. I kept calling you because I thought for some – some stupid reason that we could still salvage what was left of our friendship. And you didn’t want that either, okay. So what next, am I supposed to disappear off the face of the earth? Never leave my house again?” Kris’s anger builds as he keeps talking, something snapping in his head and allowing the flow of words to rush free. “You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me? God that’s – I never thought I’d actually say that to somebody.” Kris shakes his head. “Congrats, Adam.”
“So it’s true, huh?” Adam takes a long drag, staring at some point over Kris’s shoulder. “Yeah, thought so.”
Feeling suddenly and intensely exhausted, Kris shakes his head, not having the strength to correct him on the assumption, or to come up with a reason why he even should. “Whatever, man.” Kris turns to leave. “I hope you’re happy.”
Adam snorts loudly, calling out to Kris’s back with a derisive sneer. “Say hello to Gaga for me. It’s been way too long, we should do lunch!”
Kris ignores him, managing to make it to his car before faltering, jutting forward to lean his forehead against the steering wheel, the dismay and disappointment overwhelming. He breathes deeply for a long second, an icy cold spreading through his arms and fingers. Emotional frostbite, he thinks, and gulps down a hysterical snort.
From his driver’s seat, Kris can see Adam’s profile, a dark shadow against the bright backdrop of the mansion, blazing with light. As Kris watches, Adam turns and climbs inside the car, face turned away. The sound of the door slamming is muffled and far away, and after a minute the limo pulls away, driving past Kris’s car smoothly.
So that’s that, Kris thinks, and watches as Adam’s limo disappears into the night, silent as the grave.
--
Kris decides, halfway through a bottle of whiskey that is supposed to help him drown his sorrows but instead is just making him feel like puking, to mope about it for exactly one week. One week is a fair amount of time, he figures – after all, it’s not like they broke up, exactly, or that they’d ever even dated at all. It’s the end of, well, whatever it is that they were doing, Kris doesn’t think there’s a name for it.
This commitment doesn’t work out so well. But he’d been expecting that.
He’s so sick of moping, though, and whining, and self-analyzing, and obsessing. He feels like he’s been going around in a vicious circle in his own head for months, and the familiar treads in his mind are well-worn.
But he can’t just let go, there’s just – no way. No matter how many times he goes over it in his mind, it just doesn’t make sense. Everything had been fine – better than fine, it’d been amazing, in a way that life hadn’t been amazing for quite a while. Their night together was the culmination of not just the weeks and months they’d spent toeing the line with each other, playing chicken and slowly moving forward, inch by inch, but of their entire friendship, every moment from the very first day they’d met all leading up to what Kris had already accepted was the inevitable conclusion. There’d been no sign that Adam wasn’t on the same page – at least no sign that Kris had seen, or could figure out in retrospect.
He just can’t figure out what changed between the time they fell asleep and the time that they woke up, how Kris had expected warmth and happiness and had been met with standoffishness and awkwardness. How Adam had rushed out in almost a panic, all jerky movement and high-pitched excuses – and then, to not even have an explanation, to just be blatantly ignored – Kris doesn’t understand it, knows he’s missing something important, something that Adam isn’t letting him in on.
He doesn’t have the energy to keep chasing it, that’s for sure. But he can’t quite let go, either, can’t quite believe that the Adam he’d seen at Fuller’s party, the nasty, sneering, unreachable Adam, is all that’s left for him.
But it’s all Adam’s choice, is the bottom line, Adam’s terms, Adam’s limits, Adam’s decision. Kris doesn’t even really know what happened or what’s going on, all he has is confusion and anger and, well, Lady Gaga, apparently.
A few days before Kris’s birthday, Carli sends him a link to photos of Gaga and Adam, taken in a bistro in downtown LA. They’re arguing – or sort of, where it’s more like Adam looking angry and Gaga frowning up at him disapprovingly. The article is mildly offensive, referring to the “tiff” as “dissent among the ranks” – which doesn’t even make sense, honestly – but it quotes a couple nameless patrons who describe “a huge blowup” and also “friends” of both Adam and Gaga saying that “this is it, for their friendship” and “it was a major thing.” It gets picked up by TMZ, but it doesn’t go much farther than that, to Kris’s great relief.
It only increases his confusion however, to the point where he’s exasperated just thinking about it. Why were they arguing? Adam was jealous, Kris could deduce that much, but if he doesn’t want a relationship or sex or whatever, why would he even care who Kris sleeps with?
He doesn’t have a whole lot of time to dissect it, which he is insanely grateful for. His tour starts up in a month, and he’s spending two weeks of that back in Arkansas since his parents want to celebrate his birthday with just family this year. This may or may not have something to do with the incident on Kris’s thirtieth birthday the year before, when his mother had attempted a surprise visit and had crashed Kris’s night of embarrassing drunken revelry with Adam and his band. Tommy had been in a lap-dance sort of mood, and well. She hasn’t quite let it go yet. Though in retrospect, it had been a convenient opener for the “by the way, I might be a little bit gay” conversation, which had been long overdue.
But the point remains that he owes her a quiet birthday party, with cake and ice cream and normal-people things, and he’s determined to give it to her. For instance, normal people don’t usually angst about their weird love triangle-resembling situations with gay rock stars, so Kris is attempting to move past it.
He gets a text, a few days before he’s scheduled to leave. It’s from Mr. Lucy, who Kris had exchanged numbers with at some point at the party, he can’t really remember why. They’ve had some interesting conversations over the past few weeks, though. Turns out his real name is George.
Are you free right now?
Kris blinks, debating the best way to react if this is a come on of some kind. Yes?
Good. I’m outside. Her highness requests your presence!
“Ooookay,” Kris mumbles, and hops across his suitcase to peer out the window. Sure enough, the familiar limo is there (which Kris has since learned is named Purple Rain, which is just…awesome, he has to admit) and Mr. Lucy standing vigil by the driver’s side door.
What is my life? Kris thinks, but heads downstairs anyway. Gaga requests his presence, after all.
Mr. Lucy presents him with a purple cupcake, colored exactly the same shade as the limo. “Happy birthday,” he says, and grins toothily. “Now get in, we’re gonna be late.”
Kris shrugs and climbs in; he’s at least getting a cupcake out of this deal. He lounges in the back and eats it leisurely as the limo makes its now familiar trek to Gaga’s estate. He manages to make it last most of the ride, so he’s still licking frosting off his fingers as Mr. Lucy opens his door.
They’re parked in a different spot than before, and Mr. Lucy leads him in through the back, past the pool where most of the people had been gathered around at the party. Then, into an unfamiliar bedroom on the second floor, one that Kris doesn’t think he’s seen before.
There’s a huge bed with a black comforter, and a big mahogany desk that takes up an entire wall. A wooden screen is set up beside the bed, and a massage table sits just beyond it. Perched on top primly is Gaga, who is brushing her hair and humming something to herself. Looking up at Kris’s entrance, she throws the brush aside and hops off.
“Kris Allen! Happy birthday!” She rushes over and gives him a big kiss on his forehead, then leaning back and giggling. “I love how I don’t have to stand on my tip toes to reach you, you runt.”
“That’s cold,” Kris replies, laughing. “You’re one to talk anyway.”
She waves one hand at him, and he notices that there are tiny peace signs painted on each fingernail. “Alright, so I know it’s not your actual birthday until this weekend, but a little birdie told me you were flying out of town, so I have to give you your present now.”
“You didn’t have to – “
“Pish, posh, no speaking. Come with me.” She takes him by the hand and pats the massage table she’d just been sitting on with a wink. “Hop on.”
“A massage?” Kris asks, obediently jumping onto the table. “Or is this something more mysterious? A tattooing table, or…acupuncture, maybe?”
“Acupuncture,” she repeats, chin jutting out thoughtfully. “Now there’s an idea.”
“This is a needle-free birthday,” Kris says quickly.
“Of course, of course.” Tossing her head, she moves to the screen, pulling it out so that it obscures Kris from the rest of the room. “Now bear with me here. I have a surprise for you, but you need to stay behind here and keep quiet.”
Kris frowns. “What?”
Gaga smiles mysteriously, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a white flower, tossing it to him casually. “Have a daisy,” she says. “You’ll understand in a minute.”
“Wait, what are you – “
“Remember, keep quiet!” She smiles, hopping out from behind the screen with a wave of her hand. “And stay behind the screen!”
Kris laughs, a little bewildered. God, he hopes it isn’t a hooker.
He sits for only a few scant minutes before the door opens again. He waits with no small amount of trepidation before he starts to hear voices.
“…just in here. I hope you don’t mind, darling, I couldn’t book Paolo for any other time but right now. He’s going on some cruise with Naomi Campbell, I don’t even know.”
“No, it’s totally fine.” Kris freezes. That’s Adam. “I’m just glad we can have some time to talk in person. I just really wanted to apologize again, for the other day.”
“Don’t even think of it. We’ll not speak of it again.” Kris scrambles off the table as quietly as he can; he squints, and can just see the figures of Adam and Gaga through the wooden screen. “I’m just glad everything is all cleared up now. It – is, right?”
“Of course! Of course. I feel awful that I was taking all my stuff out on you, I was acting like such an ass.” Kris hears Adam sigh mournfully. “Seems to be the trend nowadays.”
“Is there a reason for that?” A flash of movement, and Gaga suddenly appears on the opposite side of the screen, grinning coquettishly at Kris.
What are you doing, Kris mouths, eyes wide.
Happy birthday, she mouths back, pressing a finger to her lips. “You can keep talking, love, I’m just going to get ready for my massage appointment. I’m listening.”
On the other side of the screen, Adam moves to flop down on the huge bed. “It’s this thing with Kris,” he says, and Kris’s breath catches abruptly. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“Talk it out, darling, maybe it’ll help,” Gaga calls, and Kris turns to her in a panic. Clapping her hand over his mouth, she leans in, whispers, “happy birthday, Gatsby,” and kisses his temple. Kris watches, gobsmacked, as she slips out the back door, winking over her shoulder. The door closes with an almost imperceptible click, leaving him alone in the room with a clueless Adam.
“…and you already know what happened, and everything. And – well, I don’t know, it’s like what I said the other night. It’s like some crazy monster takes over my body and wreaks nasty havoc while I watch in horror.” Adam snorts loudly. “Jekyll and Hyde. Or Adam and Hyde. Or – which one was the mean one? Or – whatever.”
Kris bites his lip, debating the incredible number of ethical issues implicit in this situation, and just how incredibly pissed off Adam will be when he discovers Kris is here. Then he weighs that against just how badly he wants to hear what Adam has to say, and quickly decides that he is a very unethical person.
“And I know it’s not his fault, really, like in my head? But I feel like it’s his fault, even though I know that’s not true, and so it all just gets jumbled up and wham, evil Adam. And so I’m guilty and yucky and angry and self-righteous, all at the same time. It’s just – ridiculous.” Adam’s talking so quickly that his words are tumbling over each other. “It’s just – I thought I could handle it, you know? He kept pushing, and I’m not saying I didn’t want it too, I did – fuck, I did, I do – but he’d only gotten divorced like, what, six months before, and I wasn’t sure if – “ Adam sighs again. “I dunno.”
Kris suddenly feels a little sick.
“And then it happened and it was amazing, don’t get me wrong, and I thought it could handle it, and then I woke up, because his phone was ringing? And it was Katy, and for a moment it almost felt like we were cheating on her, and I just – I freaked out.” Adam sighs, voice growing softer as he keeps talking. “And I knew I should’ve just, like, explained or something, but I wasn’t sure…I mean, he never talks to me about anything, he never talks about how he feels. And I don’t know if he actually meant any of it or if it was just like, something he wanted to do to get over Katy, maybe? I mean, that’s awful, and I don’t think he’d ever do that, but maybe if he wasn’t aware of it?”
Kris falls back against the table with a loud thump, his heart in his throat.
“What was that?” Kris barely registers the sounds of Adam standing up and moving toward the screen. “Hey, are you okay?” The screen suddenly moves and Adam appears, face draining of color. “Oh…my God.”
“You thought I was using you to get over Katy?” Kris croaks, and Adam takes a step back.
“Um, you – you’re not Gaga.” Adam shakes his head, knuckles going white as he grips the screen.
“No, I’m not,” Kris says. “And I really, really wasn’t. That’s not – Jesus, Adam, that’s what you’ve been thinking the whole time?”
“No,” Adam blurts quickly. “I didn’t think that, I mean – I did, okay, yeah, a little bit, but that’s crazy, and I know you wouldn’t do that, and I didn’t even think it for very long, but – um.”
“But you thought I was,” Kris pushes. “Or you didn’t think I was serious about it. And instead of talking to me, you…decided to act like a crazy person instead?”
“I have issues!” Adam whines. “You know this about me!”
“You don’t have issues, okay, Lindsey Lohan has issues. You have a troubling lack of common sense, but that’s just a part of your sparkling personality, apparently.”
“Hey, you weren’t very talky yourself, you know,” Adam shoots back. “And then you sent me all these texts like, oh, we can still be friends! It doesn’t have to be a big deal!” Adam flaps his hands mockingly.
“I thought that’s what you wanted!” Kris protests. “You ran out on me and you were all freaked out and I thought you – that you didn’t.” Adam’s face changes slightly and Kris takes a deep breath, flustered. “Whatever, asshole. You were the one acting like a psycho the other night.”
“Well, you were the one flirting with Lady Gaga on freaking twitter!”
“You drunk dialed me! And made out with some other guy and told me about it.”
“Well, your stupid assistant won’t stop sending me nasty emails!”
“She – “ Kris stops short. “Carli sends you email?”
Adam crosses his arms petulantly. “Yes. Any time she feels like venting, apparently, for the past fucking month.”
Kris splutters, unable to keep an incredulous laugh from erupting. “She sends – she sends you hate mail?”
“It’s not funny,” Adam says, as Kris laughs helplessly. “Shut the fuck up, okay, some of them were very hurtful.”
“I can’t believe – Adam. Adam, I’m friends with Lady Gaga,” Kris stammers, suddenly overwhelmed with the utter insanity of the past month. “We’re having an argument about our relationship in Lady Gaga’s bedroom.”
Adam’s mouth twitches slightly. “Are you having an episode or something?” Kris just laughs harder, collapsing backwards on the massage table. “Do you need some Valium?”
“She told me you were my birthday present,” Kris says, clutching at his side helplessly.
“Well, that’s nice and objectifying,” Adam grumbles. “Stop laughing, dick.”
“I’m sorry,” Kris manages, slowly calming down. Thinking back over what Adam had said, he sobers completely. Had he really gotten his signals crossed so completely? “I’m sorry. I’m – really sorry.”
Adam just frowns, kicking at the carpet with one boot. “Did – you really thought that’s what I wanted to hear? That’s what all the friend noise was about?” Kris nods slowly. “And I thought – well, I don’t know what I thought exactly, but it was something totally different.”
“I think,” Kris says slowly, thinking through the past few months with a newfound clarity, “that we need to work on our communication.”
Adam takes a deep breath. “We could start,” he says slowly, staring at his feet, “by talking? Maybe, over dinner?”
Kris is almost afraid to breathe. “Yes,” he says immediately. “I would – yes. Absolutely.”
“Saturday night?” Adam grins a little. “I’d even pay and everything. Be a gentleman and all that.”
“I’m leaving on Friday,” he says, without thinking, and Adam’s face falls a little. “Just to Arkansas! For my birthday. My mom wants a family celebration.”
“Oh,” Adam replies, sounding relieved. “Well, okay. We can meet up – well, shit, then you’re going on tour, aren’t you?”
Kris nods slowly. “Five months.”
“Dammit,” Adam says, the strained look returning to his face. “Well. This is what cell phones were invented for, right?”
“Or,” says Kris, and swallows a little nervously. “Or, you could come with me?” Adam’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “You might have to let Carli interrogate you, but – “
“You’d want me there, at your family celebration?”
“Of course,” Kris replies automatically, and Adam smiles, big and wide and beautiful.
“Okay, let’s do that,” he says, and reaches out to grab Kris’s wrist, his light grip sending tiny explosions of sparks, racing up his arm. “But we should have sex again, first. Probably.”
“Um,” Kris says, and feels something almost – snap, in his head, and he lurches forward without thinking, latching his arms around Adam’s neck.
Stumbling backward beneath Kris’s unexpected weight, Adam laughs into the kiss. “Whoa nelly.”
“Shut up,” Kris says, pushing him back towards the bed.
“Why Kristopher, how forward of you,” Adam mumbles as he topples backwards onto the comforter. “Ow – what the – “ Twisting around, Adam digs something out from beneath his back, frowning perplexedly. “Is this – “
“Lube!” Kris throws his head back and laughs. “Gaga left us lube! Do you see what I’m talking about?”
Adam stares at the bottle unblinkingly, then back up at Kris, eyes dark and intense. “Kris,” he says. “Shut up.”
And Kris does.
--
“Oh, shit.”
Kris attempts to lift his head, groans, and gives up. “What?”
“The lube’s all gone.”
“Oh, man.” Kris shakes his head mournfully. “I’m not leaving. You’re leaving. I can’t move.”
“Wait, wait.” The bed dips and Adam stumbles to the desk in the corner, stark naked. “Look at this. Oh my God.”
“What?” Kris grunts as a bottle of lube hits his chest. “Ow!”
Adam turns around, holding a velvet bag, tied with ivory ribbon. “There’s like, three fucking bottles here. And M&Ms, and – Ritz crackers?” Kris jerks his head up. “And Mountain Dew!” Adam jerks open another drawer and gasps. “And condoms! Oh my God, it’s like a goody bag of sexy awesomeness!”
“Wait, that wasn’t there before,” Kris says. “How did she know we…” he trails off, frowning deeply.
Adam looks up from the bag, hair ruffled, eyes wide. “She’s magic,” he breathes reverently.
Kris blinks, thinks, my life is awesome. “Okay,” he says, and shrugs. “Toss me some M&Ms.”
end.