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"My, my, my," Brad drawls from his spot on the quad, perched on his elbows and squinting against the sun. Adam has the sense to wear his aviators on days like this - the last halcyon days of summer which always cruelly overlap with the first days back at school. He doesn't bother looking up until Brad adds, "Fresh meat, ten o'clock." When Adam looks over, he sees the baseball team filing by, heading to practice, and he can spot Efron and Jonas and Cook straight away, little Archie following behind like a shadow. Cook's got his arm around a new kid though, compact and sun-kissed in all the right ways, and Brad chuckles when Adam pushes his sunglasses up to get a better look.
"Doesn't look like a freshman," Adam murmurs and Brad kicks at his shin with one shiny black Berluti loafer.
"Is that a bout of wishful thinking I detect?"
"Whatever, he's pretty," Adam smiles and slides his glasses back into place. "Just hoping for more of a challenge; fourteen-year-olds don't really float my boat these days. This year is going to blow."
"Ah, the wise, old senior, looking forward to greener collegiate pastures. Not my fault you fucked your way through most of the last two years and left a trail of broken hearts and destruction in your wake. If you'd learned to pace yourself, you wouldn't be in this predicament."
Adam snorts. "I refuse to take lectures from you on curbing my sexual indiscretions."
"I'm just saying, if you weren't such a slut -"
"Bitch."
"Whore. And by the way, you're on KP tonight."
Adam sighs. Rooming with your ex can be a really bad plan, but he and Brad have been making it work since their disastrous two month courtship sophomore year. Neither one of them wanted to break in anyone new, so they've been together ever since - Adam mostly pretending he's over Brad by sleeping with a dozen trust fund closet cases a year, Brad ignoring the student body entirely and going after visiting professors and well-hung coaches in his quest for "a person who will never want me to call them my boyfriend".
They're heading into their senior year at Cowell's with the kind of 'fuck the world' attitude that their parents would hate, but Adam keeps his grades up well enough to satisfy their forty thousand dollars a year, and he's almost guaranteed a slot in an Ivy come next fall. He wants NYU, though - even after the shine came off from years of sneaking in to New York for shopping or shows, Adam still wants to give theater a shot, and NYU is his best bet at a compromise. The New York theater scene is why he pushed his parents to let him go to Cowell's, an old-school all-boys boarding school in the ass-end of north Jersey, with dorms that feel elegant if you don't think about the peeling paint on the moulding and big maple trees in the quad with roots so old and huge they make the sidewalks uneven as the years go by. It's as far from the sandy beaches of Adam's childhood as he can imagine, but he loves it here now. He knows all the good nooks in the library for hiding bottles of booze, knows all the faculty and how much effort he needs to put in for an A, knows just by looking out the window if it's time for a scarf when the leaves start falling. He's learned to navigate his way through new-money jocks and trust fund kids and the hard working boys who keep the curve up to keep from losing their scholarships. Adam's more on the new money scale, but he asked for a weekend in Rome for his sixteenth birthday instead of a car, and the trust fund kids - like Brad, and his family oil fields in Texas - tend to be impressed by that kind of class.
Adam likes to believe he does class as well as camp, and that is what makes him the top of the social ladder.
*
Cook and Adam get along surprisingly well, probably because they approach their 'friendship' like a weekly re-enactment of the Israeli-Palestinian peace accords. Adam heads up the arty types and Cook is the unanimous vote for 'most beloved jock' on campus, and together they broker the social rankings of The Cowell School. It's a delicate process - seven hundred boys and zero girls means a shitload of testosterone and a towering case of blue balls. Not for Adam, of course - and he's not going to say he hasn't used that sexual frustration to push more than one bi-curious classmate over the edge into homoville. But Adam and Cook keep the rankings even and fair at Cowell, and Adam even mostly likes the guy.
"Desai's overstepping his bounds," Cook says with a sigh, and Adam nods. "Cricket is great, but no matter what our national rankings, it's just not basketball. Tell him to dial it back."
"Done," Adam agrees. Anoop is one of his, usually - part science nerd, part a capella crooner. But the cricket team is doing well, or, as well as a cricket team can do in a country where the queen's face isn't on the money, and Anoop is taking his captaining duties very seriously. Including infringing on gym time for their regionally ranked basketball team. "Now, on my end, Matt's been very vocal...," he trails off as the new guy walks into the student lounge, plaid shirt open just wide enough to tease Adam with potential nipple sightings, jeans tight across his incredible ass. Adam loves the weekend 'no uniform' rule, both for allowing him to wear fitted leather pants, and for this guy, whose sense of fashion leaves a lot to be desired, but whose assets would be sorely hidden in a Cowell blazer and khaki slacks. His face is lovely too, when Adam manages to get his eyes to lift that high, bright eyes that crinkle in the corners under a mass of messy spikes that look more bedhead than coiffed.
Cook clears his throat. "He's not on the agenda, Lambert," he says, eyes shining with amusement.
"Not yet," Adam grins at him and Cook laughs outright.
"Trust me, this one is not going to fall for your charm."
"You're still just pissed about the whole Johns incident," Adam scoffs, because really. Everyone falls for Adam's charms. The new guy looks over and sees them, raising his cup of coffee in salute. Cook nods at him and cuts his eyes to Adam.
"Seriously, if you think you can get in this guy's pants --"
"Oh, I don't think," Adam says, lounging back and letting his legs sprawl open.
"Care to make a wager?" Cook says, eyes gleaming, and... fuck it. Why not? Adam's already acing his English lit course, and he has Anoop for help with chemistry, and this year was looking really, really boring, what with the Fall musical being Damn Fucking Yankees (and no, Adam is not bitter that he wasn't allowed to try out for Lola), so why the fuck not?
"Absolutely," Adam says.
"Three grand says you can't do it."
"Five grand says I have him screaming my name by Christmas," Adam counters.
They shake on it, a gentleman's agreement, and then, suddenly, the new guy is walking over.
Adam's already lucking out.
"Hey Kris, this is Adam Lambert," Cook says, and if Kris wonders why Cook sounds like he's gloating (the neanderthal asshole), he doesn't let it show on his face.
"Hey," Kris says as he shakes Adam's hand, warm brown eyes still doing that crinkly thing. Adam can't help but grin back.
"Adam, this is Kris Allen. He's here on the Seacrest scholarship."
Adam's face freezes on his face. "That's. Wow, great," Adam says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Kris spends a quick minute conferring with Cook about their practice schedule before leaving with a wave. "You son of a bitch," he hisses at Cook when Kris is out of earshot. "He's a Seacrest kid? Those kids are glued together at the knee!" Unlike the majority of Cowell's scholarships, Seacrest scholars aren't picked for their academic achievements or their stellar athletics. They're picked for being inhumanly perfect and morally unswayable.
"Doubting your abilities now, Lambert?" Cook leans back, looking smug. "That five grand will come in mighty handy for my Spring Break in Ibiza."
Adam crosses his legs and arches an eyebrow. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he says. "Besides, I was looking for a challenge."
Cook laughs again and they get back to the business at hand. Adam can't help but keep his mind from wandering back to Kris's smile, his confident handshake, the curve of his ass. Being a Seacrest kid means he's probably pure as the driven snow, even at seventeen, but if there's anything Adam Lambert is good at, it's helping good little boys go bad.
By Christmas, Kris Allen will have a whole new world view, and Adam Lambert will be five grand richer.
*
He has no social life that Adam can pinpoint, but somehow by the end of September, Kris has more friends than Adam ever had at Cowell's. Adam chalks it up to a combination of crushes (Matt, Kevin) and curiosity (Sarver, Johns - Adam happens to know for a fact that Kris isn't his type), and tries to just be grateful that he has a wealth of sources to pump for information and not annoyed that it's next to impossible to be alone in a room with the guy. Alone in a room is key to Adam's plans.
As it turns out, there isn't much to learn. Kris Allen's life reads like a chapter of Dick and Jane, only with fewer obvious sex jokes. See Kris. See Kris go to church. See Kris study. See Kris run bases. Run, Kris, run!
He calls his momma every two days, he has an ex-girlfriend in backwater wherever-the-fuck who he still talks to via email, he does well enough on every exam to maintain his scholarship, he volunteers at a fucking soup kitchen once a week, and he has an unnatural attachment to The Killers.
The last one is the only thing that gives Adam a ray of hope.
"You're doomed," Brad says, not looking up from a repeat of Gossip Girl. Adam hated this episode - Chuck's no-socks look is just disgusting.
"If he likes Brandon Flowers, he's up for a little glam in his life," Adam says with more confidence than he feels. It's been three weeks since the student lounge, and he still hasn't spoken more than ten words to Kris. He has a folder of information (that is not a creepy stalker handbook, no matter what Brad says), and he looks at it more than he'd care to admit.
"You, my darling, are way more than a little glam," Brad says sweetly and Adam huffs. "You could always try the direct approach, you know. Get him somewhere dark and smoky, stick your hand down his pants, see what happens."
Adam crosses his arms and flips his hair out of his eyes. "Don't be crass."
Brad laughs. "Whatever, it's your money. I'm just saying that there is no way he's going to show any of the skeletons in his closet to your team of Keystone Cops. You want a job done right, you do it yourself." He tosses Adam a flier for a party the soccer team is throwing in the woods behind the athletic fields. "Johns will be there, so I bet your little choir boy will be there too. And a little social lubricant can't hurt. There's a keg," he adds, grimacing at the idea.
Adam hates when Brad is right. "Fine," he says. "But I'm bringing your flask."
Hard times call for Boodles - there is no boy alive who has yet been able to resist the combination of Adam, darkness and pricey gin.
*
Adam finds Kris at the party, laughing with some friends, red cup in hand, and thinks finally. He hangs back a bit, chats with Anoop and Matt, ignoring the latter's big puppydog eyes and the former's incredulous looks. He ends up with a small circle of friendly faces, all talking about some team somewhere that did some thing with some sort of ball. Adam hasn't been at a party in any sort of wooded area since sophomore year and now he remembers why. He takes a long, soothing pull from Brad's flask. Then another. God, jocks are boring. Cook catches his eye across the field and gives him a salute. Adam flips him off.
He finally bites the bullet and plops himself on the ground next to Kris, wincing when he feels the cool dampness of the grass seeping into the ass of his favorite jeans. "Little wet," Kris says with a sly grin, and Adam shakes his head.
"A gentleman would have given me a heads up," he says, and Kris shrugs.
"A lady would have asked if this seat was taken." Adam isn't prepared for it; that's the only reason he can give for laughing way too loudly.
"Touche," he grins. He mentally crosses 'shy' off his list and stretches his legs out in front of him, crosses them at the ankles. "I was going to say 'penny for your thoughts', but that seems a little trite."
"'S okay," Kris says. "My thoughts were pretty trite."
"Share," Adam says, poking Kris in the leg with his foot.
"Just wondering if plants can absorb beer through their roots. If they can, I bet this field is usually overrun by alcoholic deer."
Adam blinks at him. This is not the conversation starter he would have imagined. "Are you high?" he asks.
Kris laughs lightly. "Sadly, no."
"That's a very interesting theory. I like to think deer would have better taste than to frequent a field full of grass that taste like Bud Light. Want something a little stronger?" He asks, pulling the flask from his jacket.
Kris shakes his head and holds up his cup. "I'm good."
"Suit yourself," Adam replies and takes another long pull. When he puts his head down, Kris is watching him. "What?"
"You're interesting," Kris says cryptically, and Adam just smiles enigmatically and tilts his head.
"So are you."
Kris raises his eyebrows. "Most folks don't seem to think so," he grins.
"Most people aren't me," Adam says, and Kris holds out his cup for a toast.
"To being interesting to all the right people," he says and Adam can't help his grin as he drinks. This is going very, very well.
*
The next morning Adam wakes up on the couch in his common room, still in his clothes from the night before, with a POUNDING headache.
"Ugh, wha," he manages as Brad stomps around the room in his combat boots. Brad loves when Adam has a hangover.
"Oh, he's awake," Brad coos, and Adam groans. "You should make sure your gentleman friends know you're alright."
"My gentleman--," Adam starts and then he's remembering flashes of the night - leaning into Kris's side, drinking more gin, attempting to bounce a soccer ball on his knee, drinking more gin, putting his head in Kris's lap and ordering Kris to pet his hair, drinking more gin. "Fuuuuck," Adam says into the cushions. Brad snickers. "How did I get home?"
"Anoop and your new beau brought you by around 2am. He's adorable, by the way. He made you drink water and was scandalized that the only painkillers I have are Vicodin."
"Oh, excellent," Adam groans. "I'm sure I made a fabulous first impression."
"He seemed to like you," Brad says with a shrug. "Or at least not want you to die of exposure in the woods, so."
"That might have been better," Adam says, pushing himself to an upright position and immediately regretting it. He doesn't drink much over his summers at home, and he always forgets he has to rebuild his fucking tolerance.
"Go get something in your stomach before you miss the good brunch food. I have to use the common room for my project group at one."
"I don't care," Adam says. Brad crosses his arms and pins him with a look. "Fine, fuck, I'm going."
Adam barely makes it to brunch, wearing his most broken-in jeans, three layers of black and his sunglasses, and he stands in the food line for a long time. His body says 'eggs' but his stomach says 'go to hell'. "Toast is the traditional hangover food, so I'm told," comes a voice from his elbow and Adam looks down to see Kris, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and dressed in his practice uniform. Adam clears his throat and forces himself not to blush.
"Mind telling me how you're not hungover?" Adam asks, dropping some wheat slices in the toaster. Kris had that damn cup in his hand all night.
"Ahhh, I was drinking ginger ale," Kris says with a smirk, and Adam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Not much of a drinker."
"God loves wine," Adam says with a grin, and then mentally kicks himself.
"Yeah, but I love my liver," Kris replies.
"You know, I'm not a bio whiz, but I'm pretty sure you're a little young for cirrhosis brought on by warm beer."
"Oh, but I'm special," Kris says sagely, and then someone is calling his name from the entrance hall. "Gotta go! Catch you at dinner."
Kris's ass is especially fine in his baseball uniform and Adam watches him walk away, fuzzy memories of strong fingers stroking the back of his neck. "Yes, you are," he murmurs to himself.
*
"Africa," Adam says again, because seriously. Kris just takes another bite of his meatloaf. Anoop and Joe lean in closer, waiting for more of the story.
"It was only for six weeks last summer. We were building a school," he says, mouth full, and Adam runs his hands over his face to hide his groan. "The hepatitis was an unexpected and exciting side effect. But it means my kegging days are over, I'm afraid."
"That's just. Jesus," Adam says, because the way Kris talks about it, it was like getting a papercut.
"Could have been much worse," he shrugs. "Some people get way sicker than I did. I mostly felt like I had the flu for a month. It was pretty gross." Adam puts his napkin over his plate. Dining hall fare isn't all that appetizing on a good day.
"Man, I bet you wish you'd just stayed home and practiced your swing," Matt says with a laugh.
"Nah, it was still totally worth it," Kris smiles, "bringing a little light to the darkness. Those kids, man. All we did was slap some plywood and bricks around, and it was like Christmas to them."
Adam feels kind of like a loser douchebag. He spent last summer partying with the cast of Spring Awakening and perfecting a dry martini.
"So, was it, like, a church thing?" Anoop asks.
"A mission, yeah," Kris says, and he must catch Adam's veiled look of annoyance because he puts his fork down and adds, "Some of the greatest scholars in history were also theologians, Lambert. You can be a smart guy and a Christian, man."
"Hasn't been my experience," he bites out. "'Love the sinner, hate the sin' hasn't really worked out in my favor."
The rest of the table shifts awkwardly, and Kris just nods. "Yeah, I know. I'm more of a 'do unto others, judge not lest ye be judged' sort of guy. A little more Gospel, a little less Leviticus."
Adam's honestly not sure what the difference is, but the way Kris is smiling at him across the table, eyes crinkling to show he's sincere, Adam figures it's probably a pretty important distinction. He can feel his pulse speed up a fraction, and he wonders if this complete openness and lack of self-loathing will make Kris that much harder to crack.
The guy is pure as the driven snow, but hardly naive. It's driving Adam totally insane.
*
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Brad grits out, rolling up his cashmere scarf and stuffing it under his ass in an effort to keep from bruising his tailbone on the metal bleachers. "I have made it a point of personal pride to have avoided all sporting activities for three years, and now you've ruined me."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Adam says casually and then points to the infield where Kris is standing in his white and green uniform, bent over with his hands resting on his knees as he watches the play. "God, what I wouldn't give to have a view from the other side of that," Adam sighs.
Brad snorts. "Looking's about as far as you're going to get, gorgeous, so get in all the creepy staring while you can."
"He's just," Adam huffs, frustrated. He's spent the last three weeks getting to know Kris, looking for some signal as to what his reaction would be to Adam throwing him against something and ravaging him, and he's come up totally empty-handed. He's also started to think he might not even be able to wait for a signal. On Thursday, Kris busted out an acoustic guitar and started playing a Kelly Clarkson song, and Adam almost dropped to his knees right there.
They've only missed the first few innings, and the afternoon sun casts a warming glow over the bleachers. Cowell's isn't a particularly big school, but they take their athletics pretty seriously, and Adam isn't surprised to find the stands pretty full. He is surprised to see a few folks rooting for Kris in particular, enthusiastic yells whenever he's up at bat. Kris is the new kid, but he's apparently good enough to have a fan base. Adam notices Johns in the stands, yelling Kris's name as he hits a ground ball, and frowns when Kris waves at him.
"Stop being a baby," Brad sighs at him. "Here, there's popcorn! Eat popcorn, cheer on your team, ogle the second baseman. It's the American dream."
"Shut up," Adam says, but he has to admit, the popcorn is pretty fantastic.
"Hey, Lambert," Cook calls from the fence, and Adam waves. "Enjoying the view?" Adam gives him a thumbs up, and Cook just shakes his head. "Don't see you out at these things much, man. You must be getting a little desperate."
Adam's cheeks color as Brad laughs. "I'm doing just fine, Cook," Adam calls back. "Just getting into the school spirit."
"And that's all you're getting into," Brad sing-songs next to him and Adam pinches his thigh.
"Good luck with that," Cook laughs from the fence.
Three innings later, Adam is surprisingly not bored. Kris scored off a long fly ball and Adam actually stood up to cheer. Brad, meanwhile, seems preoccupied with the boys in the dugout. "They're not going to burst into song," Adam points out. Brad nods, but doesn't look away. Archie is lining up bats and Cook is watching him, arms folded over the fence, eyes shaded.
"Mmm, but it's just fascinating to watch."
"Whatever," Adam says, distracted by the way Kris is stretching along the sidelines. Adam's never been much of a school spirit type, but he's a sucker for a boy in uniform.
*
They're in the library common room late one evening, cramming for the one class Adam and Kris have together. This is Adam's idea of multitasking - crib some notes off the one guy he knows who actually pays attention in AP Psych and get in some quality flirting time while he's at it. He's been keeping the flirting on a low simmer so far, but Kris blushes so adorably every time Adam calls him cute that it's taking all his energy not to push just a little further.
"You're saying that personality tests aren't indicative of success in certain fields," Adam says, and Kris half-shrugs.
"Not really? I mean, it used to be a big factor in hiring, still is in some places, but correlation is not causation, you know?" Kris flips to the right chapter of their textbook and Adam leans in a little too close to read over his shoulder. Kris is warm and smells of coffee and shampoo, and Adam wonders if he could play it off if he propped his head on Kris's shoulder.
A kid Adam barely knows - David something - gets a phone call and Adam glares at him over his shoulder when he picks it up. Phones are strictly off limits in the library; Adam's had his taken away more than once. David's kind of a dick, for what Adam knows about him, and he's not above turning the guy in if he keeps talking. A few other kids make noises too, an David gets up to go outside. Kris frowns too, but tilts his head a little, like he's listening, and when David walks by with the phone pressed to his ear, he waves and gives him a weird sort of thumbs up, like it has a question mark attached. David waves him off with a smile and Kris nods and grins back. Adam leans back and crosses his arms.
"What was that?"
"What was what?" Kris says, confused.
"That secret mime conversation you just had with what's-his-name," Adam grins, one eyebrow raised. He wouldn't count that guy as competition, but it's still good to know all the angles.
"Oh, I was just making sure it wasn't about his mom," Kris says matter-of-factly.
"What about his mom?" Adam asks, avoiding the obvious joke with great effort.
"She's been fighting off breast cancer since last summer," Kris explains. "This week was her last round of chemo."
Adam doesn't even know what to say to that. He's seen this kid around for two years and barely knows his name. Kris somehow knows his whole family medical history. Kris just leans over his notes and looks at Adam, eyebrows raised. "You want to tackle cognition next?"
*
"Kris is too fucking good, Bradley. I need a thing," Adam says mournfully and Brad looks up from his design layout for art class long enough to shoot him a withering look.
"I don't really have time for your gay romcom shenanigans right now," he snaps. "Be more specific."
"I need a thing I do that makes me look like a good person," Adam clarifies. "Something... churchy."
"Well, all you do is wear black and seduce underage boys. So unless you're planning on joining the priesthood, I'm not sure a life in the church is for you."
Adam groans. "He's so nice, Brad. How can one person be that nice?"
"He's not that nice. He's kind of a snarky bitch, actually." Brad is still impressed by a hilarious comment Kris made about Dr. Tedder's ability to make every lecture sound exactly the same. Adam sighs piteously.
"I know. He's perfect."
Brad puts his exacto knife down and sits back in his chair. "Look, I might know a guy," he says.
*
"You read books for the blind?" Kris asks dubiously.
"Yeah, I record books on tape as part of a project a friend is doing. It's good practice for my voice work. I'm thinking of trying accents next!"
"That is very cool, man. Way to combine outreach with your love of theater!" Kris is looking at him with that wide, open smile that Adam is beginning to adore.
Adam nods and takes a bite of his apple. He can't spend long at lunch - he has three issues of Penthouse Letters and a new MacBook microphone waiting in his room. Scott better really fucking appreciate this.
*
Adam has spent the last three hours in the city looking for exactly the right vest to complete his Liza-in-Cabaret Halloween costume, and he's frazzled and needs at least three hours to pull this shit together, and so he's completely unprepared to find Kris Allen in his common room, in chaps. Granted, he's also in jeans, but still. He's pretty sure this is what a heart attack feels like.
"Is this heaven?" he asks the ceiling, and Kris laughs, delighted.
"No, I was looking for decent boots to complete my cowboy look and Anoop said your roommate was from Texas, so--"
"So," Brad continues, coming out of his room in a Catholic school girl outfit skimpy enough to make even Britney blush, "he came by here, and lucky boy, I happened to have boots, chaps, and this killer hat." He drops the hat on Kris's head and steps back, appraising. "What do you think, Adam? He look like a cattle man to you?"
Kris looks up at him from under the brim of the hat, and Adam's heart skitters a little. "Y-yeah, that's. Wow."
Kris grins at him, and doesn't flinch when Brad wraps his arms around Kris from behind, dropping his chin on Kris's shoulder. "Isn't it adorable?" he says, batting his long eyelashes. "We're the same size!"
Adam's pretty sure if he doesn't shake that mental image as soon as possible, he might actually explode. "Totally adorable," he chokes out. "I have to," he flails his shopping bags in the air and retreats into his room as fast as he can. He leans on the inside of the door, breathing through his nose for a few long seconds. He can hear Brad and Kris laughing on the other side of the door, and doesn't move until Brad thumps on the door from the other side and says, "We're off to pre-game with Nick and Joe. Meet us there."
It takes Adam three tries at his false eyelashes before he gives in and lays down on his bed, jerking himself off in hard, steady strokes. All he can think about is Kris's ass, getting Kris on his knees on Adam's bed in nothing but those chaps, spreading his cheeks, what Kris would sound like as Adam takes him apart.
*
He's an hour late for the party, and Brad's already dancing on a table. Adam let's himself admire the view for a minute before looking around to see who else may be worth talking to. He's not looking for Kris per se, but he spots him almost immediately, standing with his hands in his pockets in the corner, leaning close to Johns to hear him over the music. Johns puts his hand on Kris's shoulder and Adam bristles, his hand balling into a fist. He stops, blinks at his hand for a second, totally taken aback by his own reaction. Kris Allen might be a very cute, very nice, very charming boy, but Adam doesn't do jealous boyfriend over mostly-straight Christians, especially mostly-straight boys he hasn't even kissed yet. He grabs two jello shots from the table and downs them quickly, looking everywhere but Kris, and tries to figure out what the hell is going on inside his head.
It was the stupid jerk off fantasy, that has to be it. Adam hasn't gotten laid since school started back up - too wrapped up in Kris, in this stupid bet that is seeming stupider by the minute. Five grand isn't nothing, but Adam doesn't really need it. What he needs is a decent buzz and a willing mouth.
Castro's never hard to find at parties - he transforms from the guy everyone laughs at to the guy everyone's looking for as soon as the sun goes down. "Hey, Lambert," he says when Adam slips a hand over his shoulder. "Haven't seen you in a while, man, you good?"
Adam smiles, because Jason really is a fucking nice guy. He figures it comes with the stoner territory. "I'm good. Midterms kicked my ass, though. I could use a little R&R." He slides a fifty dollar bill into Jason's shirt pocket and Jason laughs.
"Always ready to help out a friend in need." He hands Adam a dime bag with a wink, then says, "Hey, hold on, c'mere." He takes a nice toke from his pipe and tilts his head, and Adam grins wider. He wasn't actually thinking he could find the buzz and the mouth in one place, but Jason seems all too willing to let Adam slip his fingers in his beltloops while he shotguns the hit. "You wanna get out of here?" Jason rasps through a haze of smoke, and yeah. Adam is totally up for this.
There's a balcony off the top floor that leads to a little widow's walk, and the party is raging enough that the only people outside are a gaggle of freshmen who scatter quickly at Adam's pointed look. Jason laughs. "You're not so scary," he says, pushing Adam down onto an old bench and straddling his thighs.
"I know," Adam says, hands sliding down Jason's back. "Totally undeserved reputation. I'm a pussy cat."
"Uh-huh, that is so not what I remember," Jason murmurs, teasing open the first few buttons on Adam's vest and slipping his fingers inside. Adam laughs for a second before Jason's words sink in.
Remember?, he thinks, and oh, fuck, has he hooked up with Jason before? He can't remember doing that, but Jason seems pretty comfortable in his lap right now, mouth hot on Adam's neck. Adam's drunk and a little stoned, and he's wearing ripped stockings and false eyelashes and is making out with his dealer who he has apparently slept with before, and it's not that Adam hasn't known he was kind of turning into this guy for a while; he just hasn't really cared. And it's not even that he cares, so much as he thinks that if Kris knew about this, he wouldn't really like Adam all that much anymore. And that's. Less than okay.
"Hey," Adam says, tugs at Jason's shirt to pull him back. "We should. This is maybe not the best idea."
Jason tilts his head, eyes narrowed, but he's still smiling. "This is a fabulous idea."
"No, I just...," and Adam doesn't really know how to finish that. He came to this party to have fun, and until about thirty seconds ago, this would have been his textbook definition of fun. "I'm sorry," is all he can think of, and Jason sighs.
"It's cool. Guess you're not really one to break your one-time-per-guy rule, huh?" He's still smiling a little, but Adam takes his words like a punch to the gut. And, okay, he's not been the paragon of decency since he and Brad broke up, but Adam's had a broken heart exactly once, and he hasn't really been interested in getting that invested in anyone else. He didn't really have a one-time-per-guy rule, it's just... that's how it seemed to work out.
"Guess not," he manages, and Jason kisses him on the cheek before climbing out of his lap and heading back for the party.
He stays outside for a long time, elbows resting on his knees. It's chilly out, but he can't bring himself to go back inside. He finally just bails on the whole thing and slips down the side stairs and back to his room where he peels off his eyelashes and scrubs his face clean, staring at his dripping face in the mirror for a long time.
Adam like to have a more-than-one-time guy. He would totally be okay with that. It just. He doesn't want it to hurt like it did the last time. Like it still does when he looks at Brad sometimes and thinks, what if.
*
"You're quiet," Brad says the next afternoon. Adam is busy with his essay for Dr. Chamberlain on Socrates, bent over his library books and trying to figure out how to incorporate his last paper on pederasty in ancient Greece. Chamberlain had loved that one.
"I'm working," Adam bites out and Brad blinks.
"You're sulking, and usually I don't care, but usually I know why," he says bluntly and Adam half-chuckles.
"Long night," is all he says, and Brad hums.
"Barely saw you at the party," he notes. "Kris was wondering where you were."
Adam's pulse jumps at the mention of Kris's name, at the idea that Kris was looking for him. Brad giggles, and Adam wishes for the millionth time that he could have had a normal breakup, and wasn't stuck living with someone who could read him like a book.
"Wasn't feeling all that well," Adam mutters, and Brad just shakes his head.
"You're an idiot," he says, but he lets Adam get back to his paper in peace.
*
He doesn't see Kris again for a while.
It's not that Adam is avoiding Kris per se, but they don't really run in the same circles, and midterms are a bitch, and he has college applications due. And he also seems to be having a small crisis of conscience, which is just downright annoying. Adam has never been one for intense introspection - too many boys, too much fun, too little time to take it all in, and no time to waste on pondering his place in the world. But Kris is a contradiction in terms; Adam always assumed that to be good was to be boring, but Kris's life is anything but half-lived. He's truly happy in a way that makes Adam's chest ache sometimes, makes him feel less than.
It's just easier to not see Kris, because really. Adam has enough to do passing Dr. Henry's non-Western lit class. He doesn't have time for character-building bullshit.
*
Adam is really looking forward to Thanksgiving this year. His parents aren't big on family meals - or, really, family anything - and Adam hates flying home to California for the holidays anyway. The airports are crowded, the flights are tedious, and all he gets for it is a kiss on the cheek from his mother, and a fight over which parent gets Adam for the meal proper. It's been five years, and Adam is still a prop in his parent's messy divorce. It's fucking ridiculous. He spent sophomore year in Texas with Brad, both of them still riding the high of daily sexcapades, trying to be quiet during morning quickies. Junior year Brad had invited him again, and they were trying extra hard to be friends, so Adam had gone. It had been... weird, for both of them, and there was an unspoken understanding that it was a failed experiment. So, for his senior year, Adam has booked himself a suite at the W in Union Square, with a reservation for lobster from room service and the promise of a soft king-sized bed and pay-per-view porn on the television. It's going to be amazing.
There's a bulletin board outside the dining hall with a notice from the Dean every year - a signup sheet for students who aren't going home for the holiday to come and have a feast at the Dean's house. Turkey with acquaintances and faculty members doesn't seem like a really fun way to pass the time, but there are always a handful of names on the list. Adam's looking at the schedule of room assignments for midterms when his eyes glance over the page and he sees Kris's name there, written in his wide, chicken-scratch handwriting. Adam blinks at the page a few times.
"Hey," he asks Anoop, sliding into the chair next to him with a small smile. Dinner tonight is pork chops, and Adam almost wishes he'd signed up for the kosher meals. He got extra buttered noodles on the side, though, and prays his waistline will forgive him.
"Hey yourself!" Anoop replies, thumping him on the shoulder. "You've been a ghost these last few weeks, man!"
"Eh, too much going on this year," he evades and Anoop just nods vigorously.
"Dude, if I never have to write another fucking essay about my future goals and aspirations, it will be too fucking soon."
Adam laughs and lets himself get drawn into the conversation around the table - who is in danger of flunking what exam, how the baseball team is doing in the playoffs, and, finally, plans for Thanksgiving.
"Everyone seems to be heading home this year," Joe says. He and his brothers are some of the few non-boarding students at Cowell's, and they usually take in a few strays. "Mom says she's going to have to force us to bring all the leftovers back here!"
"You're not going home, are you?" Matt asks, and Adam doesn't like the gleam in his eye.
"Nah, but I have plans," he evades. Then, "I saw Allen's name on the Dean's list outside. Someone going to warn him there's usually a lecture on native american history and racial intolerance before they bring out the pies?"
The table laughs. Anoop leans back in his chair. "He said something about working over break? I don't know what he's working on, but he seems happy to just chill here for the long weekend."
"Better than fighting the crowds at Newark," Danny grumbles and everyone else chimes in in agreement.
Adam sips his tea thoughtfully.
*
What Adam really needs to do is get Kris Allen out of his system. If that comes with the added bonus of five grand, so be it.
He chooses to see Thanksgiving as a golden opportunity, a way to have time alone with Kris, to hear whatever sob story is keeping him from heading back to Arkansas, to pet his hair and slip some Maker's Mark in his hot cider and hold his wrists down against his mattress and fucking win this thing.
Fuck lobster and porn - this is going to be way more satisfying.
He starts nodding to Kris in the halls again, and chalks it up to general anticipation when his heart speeds up every time Kris smiles back. He goes to the last baseball game of the season, and hits up the afterparty with a bottle of tequila. He doesn't talk to Kris too much, just enough to hear him laugh a few times, get a sense of what might be going on. Kris is his usual jovial self, though, still as laid-back as ever, and as unlikely to do a tequila shot, even when Adam offers him a bare arm sprinkled liberally with salt.
"No," he laughs, batting Adam's arm away, and Adam can feel his eyes crinkle in the corners from laughing right along with him.
"You're square," he says with a shake of his head. Kris makes a shocked sound.
"I am not square, I am cultured and refined, Lambert," he drawls and Adam eyes him up and down, from his worn Converse to his brandless plaid shirt to his ridiculous hair.
"Oh, my mistake," he replies, dripping with sarcasm, and doesn't flinch when Kris winks at him.
He waits until the very last day of classes before break, when the dining hall is down to twenty or so hardy souls all rushing through dinner to make it out of town on time, before stopping at the bulletin board and adding his name to the Dean's Thanksgiving dinner list.
*
He doesn't mean to be up so early on Thanksgiving proper, but without a party the night before, and with Brad and the rest of his friends already home, Adam fell asleep watching a marathon of Project Runway and suddenly it's eight am.
He pokes around his room for an hour, thinks about finishing an essay that's due the first week of December. He wonders if there's coffee anywhere on campus, because he can't handle the intense joy of the Macy's Parade without at least a little caffiene in his system. It's doesn't take him too long to realize that the dining hall is most definitely closed for business. There isn't even anyone around to bribe to open the door, and Adam bemoans the Great Naked Ice Cream Social of his junior year that caused the administration to change all the locks.
He's on his way back to his room when he spots Kris walking across the quad, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, scarf pulled tight against the cold. "Hey," he calls out, and Kris looks surprised to see him.
"You're awake, can't say I would have called that," he grins, and Adam shrugs.
"Thought maybe the early bird would get the fresh coffee, but sadly I'm out of luck."
Kris's grin turns thoughtful. "I might know where you could get a cup of coffee, if you're interested," he says.
Adam is usually a procrastinator, but he could definitely get a head start on his holiday project. He tucks his hand under Kris's arm. "Lead on, McDuff!"
*
Of course, Adam thinks when they get to the church. Adam didn't think Thanksgiving was a very churchy holiday, but clearly Jesus loved turkey as much as the next guy. He slows his gait, trying to think of a way to get out of this that wouldn't offend Kris.
Kris doesn't go up the front steps, though. He wanders around to the side of the building where there's a large hall, and when he knocks the door is answered by a middle-aged woman with a wide smile and dark hair piled on top of her head.
"Kristopher, thank God," she says in a rush. "Three hours to go, and the turkeys are fine, but I need potato peelers, stat!" She finally sees Adam standing there and stops, her smile getting bigger. "You here to volunteer today? We're expecting two hundred people by one o'clock, so we can use all the hands we can get!"
Kris grins at Adam over his shoulder. "Think you can handle it, rich boy?" he asks, and Adam shakes his head in awe.
"You sneaky little bastard," he says and Kris laughs.
"Whatever, I'm not lying. Isobel makes a great pot of coffee. You could stand a good deed in your life, Lambert."
The woman, Isobel, looks between them for a second before rolling her eyes. "You," she says, pointing at Kris, "grab a sack of potatoes and a peeler. You," she says to Adam, "coffee is in the back of the kitchen, next to the donuts. Are you any good at pies?"
"Hey!" Kris says, offended. "He gets pies and I get potatoes?"
"You're clearly a lying liar, and this one looks like he doesn't do much manual labor."
Adam's not sure whether to be offended or grateful, but Kris's huff of indignation makes him giggle. "Here, kid - what's your name?" Isobel asks.
"Adam."
"Adam, wonderful, this is the pie making station." She leads them to a long table set up in the hall, covered in bowls full of sliced apples and cans of pumpkin. There is an older woman already there, carefully measuring out sugar and cubes of butter. "Betty is in charge, just do what she tells you. Betty," she adds, and the older woman looks up, "be nice."
Betty eyes Adam suspiciously. "You any good at baking?" she rasps, and Adam would place good money on there being a pack of Newports in her handbag.
"Doubt it," Adam replies. "Last time my mom cooked anything, I was twelve and it came out of a box. I can follow directions okay," he adds, pulling off his wool coat and laying it out of the way. "Just don't put me on something that's easy to fuck up and we should be okay." Betty looks at him sharply, then nods.
"Good, get your ass over here and stir this until I tell you to stop."
*
Adam makes more pies in three hours than he has ever seen in his entire life.
The time flies by pretty fast - it seems Betty has a weakness for Tim Gunn, but hates asymmetrical hemlines, so she and Adam have plenty to talk about - and by the time they open the doors to the first wave of Thanksgiving feasters, he's totally forgiven Kris for tricking him into coming. Kris, Isobel and a dozen other volunteers stand side-by-side in the food aisle handing out plates of turkey and mashed potatoes and green bean casserole and fresh rolls while Adam and Betty man the dessert table, Betty bitching at Adam to "cut the damn things in even slices, what the hell, kid?"
Adam catches Kris's eyes across the room and waves. Kris shakes his head, clearly impressed that Adam lasted this long. Adam doesn't realize they're staring at each other until Betty snorts. "Wow, you're not obvious at all," she says.
Adam puts his hands on his hips. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You like him that much, ask him out," she says, and Adam huffs.
"You're a dottering old woman and you should mind your own business."
"I'm a bored old woman, and you should stop being a chickenshit and ask him out," she replies. "He a great kid, but he could use a little loosening up."
"And you think I'm the guy for the job?" he asks.
"I think he could use someone with a little style, a little class," she replies, almost smiling, and Adam's chest aches just a little. He's pretty sure he's not the guy Betty thinks he is, and he's absolutely sure he's not classy enough for Kris. He thinks about Cook and the bet, about Jason and Halloween, and he thinks he's probably the least classy person he knows.
It's two more hours before the crowd is down to a handful of stragglers, and Isobel sends them off with covered plates and kisses on the cheek.
"Come back any time," she says.
"I'm Jewish," Adam winks, and she flicks him in the arm with one long fingernail.
The walk back to campus is lovely - the leaves crunch under Adam's feet as he walks and the sunlight makes everything feel just a little warmer. Kris bumps his shoulder.
"Didn't think you'd stay for the whole thing," he says and Adam shrugs, blushing a little.
"Didn't have anything better to do."
"The Dean's thing is at four - you still gonna go?" Kris picks at the edge of his plate, carefully wrapping the plastic wrap over the edge.
Adam has a whole apple pie in one hand, a full plate balanced in the other. He gestures with both hands, "I don't think I'm going to be hungry."
"Me either," Kris grins up at him. "You want to ditch that and watch movies and eat pie?"
"Yeah, that's," Adam scrambles, because he really, honestly can't think of anything he'd rather do tonight - just pie and movies and Kris tucked next to him on the couch - and it's fucking terrifying. "Sure."
*
Kris's room is exactly what Adam would have pictured - it's cluttered but not overly so, baseball cleats in the corner, his guitar laying against the arm of the couch, piles of books on most surfaces. Kris's movie collection is hilariously lame, and Adam shakes his head for a few minutes before picking out Grosse Point Blank.
"You like assassins?" Kris says with one eyebrow raised.
"Cusack," Adam replies, and Kris nods.
"Understood, man." They pop the movie in the DVD player and Kris grabs two plastic forks from a pile of takeout menus and packets of soy sauce. They just prop the pie on an old pizza box between them and dig in as John Cusack shoots at people. Adam loves this movie, and he's delighted when Kris laughs at all the right times - he wouldn't have pegged Kris as a dark humor kind of guy, but he's been wrong about a lot of Kris-related things this semester.
"Seriously, why hasn't he done a decent movie since this?" Kris asks as the credit roll.
"High Fidelity," Adam counters and Kris shrugs.
"Eh. Mostly that was Jack Black, with Cusack whining about being a terrible boyfriend."
"Malkovich?"
"I will give you Malkovich," he concedes, "but everything else is just chick flicks and badly made espionage."
Adam settles back into the couch a little more with a groan. He's totally full, but he can't seem to stop eating little bites of crust from what's left of the pie. "You know, he pretty much set the bar with Say Anything, and after that it was going to be a lot of downhill."
"We could watch that if you want?" Kris says, and Adam turns his head to look at him. Kris is sitting close enough that their knees are touching, his eyes half-closed. He smiles at Adam and Adam has to force himself not to lean in to kiss him.
This isn't a fucking date, he reminds himself, but oh, man, he kind of wants it to be. Adam just nods and Kris nods back, and makes Adam laugh with his overwraught groans as he struggles off the couch.
He pops a new DVD in the player and flops down close enough that he's leaning into Adam's side, the pie forgotten on the coffee table. "I am never eating again, holy hell," he says, and Adam tries to focus on the television screen and not on the spot where Kris's fingers are brushing the outside of his thigh.
Adam loves Say Anything, almost as much as Pretty in Pink, but watching it with Kris is an exercise in distraction. By the time Lloyd and Diane break up, Kris's head is on Adam's shoulder. "I never understood why he stayed out there so long. What if she wasn't even home?" Kris murmurs as Lloyd stands outside her window, boombox in the air. His breath tickles Adam's neck.
"It was a grand gesture," Adam says. "It doesn't need to make sense." Kris tilts his head up and Adam makes the mistake of looking down; they're so close Adam wouldn't even need to move six inches to kiss him.
"You're a closet romantic," Kris says with a slow smile, and Adam suddenly can't fucking breathe.
"I have to go," he says, standing up fast enough that Kris has to catch himself with one hand to not fall over on his side. "Sorry, I just. Haven't called home yet, or anything." Kris is looking up at him, sleepy and confused, and Adam pulls his coat on, eager to have something to do with his hands that doesn't involve touching Kris right this instant.
"I'll see you tomorrow at dinner, right?" Kris asks, standing up and tucking his hands under his arms, unsure.
"Don't know," Adam says, and backs toward the door. "I have a shitload to finish before Christmas, and Perry's breathing down my neck about my history paper. We'll see," he finishes lamely, and manages to get himself down the hall and out to the quad before he has to stop and close his eyes and lean against the side of the chapel building.
Adam Lambert hasn't been a closet anything since he was fourteen, but Kris Allen has somehow turned every table on him. Closet romantic indeed, he thinks, and waits until he sees the light go out in Kris's bedroom window before trudging back to his dorm room.
*
"Oh my God, you fucked him," Brad says the first time Adam crosses the quad to avoid running into Kris.
"NO, fuck, just. Shut up," Adam hisses.
"Huh. I thought the strategy was fuck-then-avoid, not the other way around."
"I'm not--" Adam huffs and pulls his scarf tighter around his neck. "Look, I'm just not interested anymore."
"Soooo, that's why we can't say hello to him?" Brad asks, blinking, and Adam hates everything ever.
"It got boring," he says, and feels a twist in his gut at how fucking laughable that lie is, "And he's like a little puppy; I don't want him following me around."
Brad opens his mouth, then shuts it and stares at him. "Okay," he says finally, "that is some amazing bullshit. You want to tell me what happened over break?"
"No."
"You want to go say hi to him?"
"No, God, what is--"
"You want to hold his hand and ask him to the Winter Formal?" Brad finishes and Adam can't stop from blushing, even though he knows Brad will notice immediately. Which of course, he does. "That. Is. Priceless," Brad crows, throwing his head back to laugh. "You have a total crush on this guy! Amazing."
"Fuck you," Adam says, but mostly he's resigned himself to weeks of teasing over this.
*
The avoiding works, mostly. Adam and Kris wave in the dining hall, and even have a meal or two at the same table, but Adam suddenly finds plenty of reasons to be in his room. His papers get monumentally better, and when he gets his final grade from Chamberlain, he almost wants to send Kris a thank-you note for making him a lovesick hermit basketcase. He hasn't gotten grades this good since freshman year.
Brad teases him about it for about a week before he gives up and just starts sighing a lot.
"Maybe he'd want to go out with you," he tries one night and Adam throws a pillow at his face.
"He spends his time feeding the poor, Brad. He wears a cross unironically, and doesn't understand fashion and he's as wholesome as fucking baseball and apple pie...," he trails off, thinking about Kris pulling a slice of apple out of Betty's pie and popping it in his mouth, and how his fingers probably would have tasted like apples and cinnamon. When he looks back up, Brad is smirking at him.
"You're hopeless."
"I know. Go away." Adam crosses his arms, sulking, and Brad plants a kiss to the top of his head before heading to a study group.
*
Matt and Anoop corner Adam after his last final.
"You are the worst friend ever," Anoop says, shaking his head. Matt slings an arm across his shoulders and leans in.
"Seriously, you suck, hardcore. How are we supposed to know what's cool if you aren't around to tell us?"
Adam laughs. "I've been busy, fuckers."
"Yeah, okay, but you are done now, so, party time, Lambert." Anoop flanks him on the other side, and neither one of them will listen to his protests when he sees they're headed for Cook's annual Christmas bash. Brad meets them at the door with a grin.
"Good boys!" he says, and ignores Matt's attempt at a fist bump.
"What are you doing?" Adam says, pleadingly, and Brad just straightens Adam's tie.
"I don't care if you have a twink gangbang to get to - you are coming inside and having a drink."
"Fine, one drink," Adam glares, and Brad slips his arm into Adam's and pulls him inside.
It's already pretty rowdy; everyone's abandoned their jackets in a pile on Cook's bed, and Adam spots more than one guy in nothing but a tie. There's a keg - something only David Cook could ever get away with at this place - and Adam takes a proffered glass of punch in one hand and tries to lighten up. He doesn't see Kris anywhere, and Anoop and Matt are already pulling him into a conversation about next semester's Spring Fling. Matt is head of the entertainment committee, and they are already butting heads about how to spend their ample budget. Adam nixes anything that could be found at a traveling carnival, and Anoop nixes anything that includes the word 'glam', and Matt does his best to try and please everyone, which makes Adam laugh. Some things never change.
He's having a good time, and he doesn't even mind the punch - sticky sweet and red and making his head swim a little. He gets up to get another cup, weaving his way back to his friends through a sea of people. He can see Cook holding court by the useless fireplace and raises his glass in hello. He makes it another three steps to the corner of the hallway before someone crashes into him from behind. Adam stumbles around the corner and ends up pressed hip-to-shoulder with Kris, his drink mangled between them, sticky liquor seeping through their clothes.
"Oh, gross," Kris says, and Adam's heart stops.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry," he says, eyes wide, but Kris is giggling, shaking small drops of the drink off his hand.
"You're a menace, Lambert," Kris says, looking down at his ruined shirt, and Adam stares at the way his eyelashes fan out across his cheek.
"That might not stain if you rinse it out right away," Adam says, and Kris nods.
"Cool, c'mon," he replies and tugs Adam two steps down the hall to the bathroom. Adam closes the door out of habit and when he turns around, Kris is already tugging his shirt off over his head, pulling the cuffs off his wrists and dropping it in the sink. "Gimme yours," he says, holding out his hand, and Adam blinks at him. "Adam, I'm guessing your shirt costs more than my entire outfit. Let's try to minimize the damage."
Adam unbuttons his shirt with numb fingers and hands it to Kris, watches him rinse both under cold water, rubbing the fabric together like they do in films, rugged poineer folk washing their clothes in the river. "Does that actually work?" he asks, bemused.
"Hell if I know," Kris grins over at him, "but it can't hurt, right?"
"Unless the stain spreads," Adam sighs, and reaches out to grab Kris's wrist to stop him, "then the whole thing is kind of pink."
"...Right," Kris says, voice just a little strained, and Adam doesn't let go of him as he turns around. Kris is looking up at him questioningly, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and Adam can see a warm flush across his cheeks, down his chest, tries not to let his eyes wander lower, to Kris's taut, pink nipples.
"Adam," Kris says, suddenly quiet.
"Yeah?" Adam replies, just as quietly.
"You're a hard guy to read." Adam can feel his pulse jumping under his fingers.
"Not usually."
Kris smiles a little. "Then maybe I just need a few more hints?" he asks, teasing, and Adam can barely think straight. They're so close, close enough that half a step would have them pressed skin-against-skin, and Adam's breaths are coming in short, shallow pants.
"I don't know what--"
"Did I do something wrong? Because I thought, maybe, you were interested," Kris says, stammering a little. "But then you just... nothing."
"I know. You didn't... you're kind of hard to read too, you know," Adam says, because he's not really sure what's happening here.
"I don't think so," Kris says, and if Kris keeps standing this close, looking up at him from under those lashes, Adam might not be able to stop himself from doing something he's promised himself he wouldn't.
"Kris," he starts, rubbing his thumb over Kris's wrist, but before he can finish Kris is leaning up on his toes, chin angled up, and Adam can't help but close the distance, their lips just brushing at first before Kris moans a little and presses closer. It's a hot, searing kiss - not tentative at all - and Adam reaches his other hand up to tangle in Kris's hair, to pull him closer and bite at his lower lip. Kris's fingers tighten in his belt loop and yank him closer still, and Adam shudders when they rock against each other. They make out, all lewd tongues and tiny gasps, until Adam can't breathe.
"S-shit," Kris curses as Adam tears his mouth away. Kris's arm winds around his neck, pulling him down at a sharp angle, and Adam growls a little, low in his chest before grabbing Kris's ass in both hands and lifting him up onto the counter, pressing him back against the mirror. Kris's legs wrap around his waist for balance and he looks up, mouth red and swollen, eyes wide and dark. Adam bites at Kris's jaw, savors the taste of him, tries to remember why he ever thought this could be a bad idea. Kris is practically made for him, fitting together like puzzle pieces.
"Fuck, you are so gorgeous," Adam whispers before nosing along Kris's throat, kissing his neck where his clavicle juts out sharply.
"Adam," Kris keens, and his whole body shivers when Adam bites down gently, then a little harder. Kris's fingers fist in his hair.
"God, Kris," Adam groans and then Kris is tugging his head back up for a kiss as Adam's hands slide up his thighs, over his slim hips, up the smooth planes of his back. Kris kisses taste like coca-cola and red vines and something sharp and smoky, and Adam can't fucking get enough. Kris places one hand flat against Adam's chest and Adam braces to be pushed away, but all Kris does is touch, his fingers ghosting over Adam's nipple, his stomach, before coming to rest on the button of his pants. Adam kisses him deeper, a silent okay to whatever the hell Kris wants to do here, and Kris moans deep in his chest before slipping his fingers into the waistband and popping the button free.
"Breaking the five minute rule, boys," Cook says loudly, not even knocking as he opens the door, and Adam pulls back like he's been slapped. Oh, shit, shit, shit, he thinks, tries desperately to think of a way to shut Cook up before he says something damning like, "Whoa, fuck me! I totally didn't think you'd be able to pull this one off, Lambert!"
Kris is looking at him head tilted in confusion. "Cook," Adam rasps, but Cook is leaning on the doorframe, weaving a little, and Adam knows a drunk Cook isn't going to remember anything about discretion or gentleman's agreements. Sure enough:
"Seriously, man, I was convinced that was money in the bank. You are truly the fucking master of the straight boy seduction." Adam knows Cook woudn't be saying this if he was sober enough to stand up unassisted, and he's also totally guilty of making the bet with him in the first place; otherwise he's pretty sure he would have beaten him to death with his towel rack by now.
As it is, Adam lowers his eyes and prays that Kris isn't following any of this, but Kris pushes him back a step and stands up. When Adam chances a look at his face, it's stony, jaw set.
"It was a bet," he says, low and quiet and Adam closes his eyes. "How much?"
"Five grand," Adam says, slumping against the wall.
"Wow. Good to know I didn't come cheap, I guess." His voice is rough and caustic, but Adam can sense the tension, the hurt underneath it.
"Kris, it's not," Adam starts, but he doesn't know how to finish the sentence. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Kris says thickly. "Me too." He pushes past Cook and through the throng of guys behind him, dozens of pairs of eyes studiously avoiding him, the gossip mill already churning.
*
Two days later, Adam is still in bed, curled half on his stomach in his knotted sheets. He feels the bed dip behind him and Brad's warm fingers curling around his shoulder. "Hey, how're you holding up?"
"Not great," Adam manages, and Brad rubs his back. "He's still not answering his phone."
"Yeah," Brad says and Adam closes his eyes.
"How bad is it out there?"
"What, you mean, how bad is the rumor mill? So far Kris is getting plenty of sympathy but..."
"But what?"
"No one thinks you're the bad guy. They're all just kicking themselves for not warning him off of you in the first place."
Adam lets that sink for a second before he laughs, hard and mirthless. "They totally expected that of me. They totally expected that I would fuck him up. Wow, that's--"
"Adam, come on--"
"No, that's pretty fucking spot on, don't you think? He probably should stay far the fuck away from me. I bet he's heard every story by now, every guy I sweet-talked into bed and then never called again."
"Look, this is completely self-defeating, Lambert. Points of fact: You were a big old slut. You made a stupid bet. You fell head over heels for this guy, on day fucking one, which I noticed even if you didn't. If you think he's too good for you, boo fucking hoo, get out of bed and go mack on some cute freshmen. If you want Kris, you have to fight for him," he finishes, digging his fingers painfully into Adam's ribs.
"He won't talk to me," Adam says, exasperated.
"Of course he won't, you publicly humiliated him in front of half the school. He thinks you're in your room gloating and counting your millions or whatever. In, like, a monocle. he needs a little turnabout, a little fair play before he'll be able to talk to you without thinking the whole school is laughing at him."
"So you're saying I should... what? Publicly humiliate myself to show him I love him?"
"I don't know, Lambert, you're the theater queen. But whatever you do, it needs to be big. Huge."
*
It takes Adam less than two days to put the whole thing together. Archie is strangely helpful in the music department, and Joe and Kevin drive him to a vintage store the next town over. It's cold out, so Adam lets himself mess up the outfit with his black fingerless gloves, but everything is perfect down to the letter. Brad looks at him and shakes his head.
"You don't look half bad. Still ridiculous, but not half bad."
"Good," Adam says and steels himself one more time before grabbing the boombox and walking out the door.
It's a quick walk across campus to Kris's dorm, and Adam doesn't look at a single person as he walks past. They watch him, though, he can tell, and there are more than a few laughs behind him, footsteps that tell him he's being followed. Alright, he thinks. Here we go.
Kris's window is on the second floor and Adam stops far enough away that he'll be visible from any window on that wall. He presses play on the tape player and turns the volume all the way up before hoisting it over his head. It's heavy as fuck, but Adam is going to go the full Lloyd Dobler here, aching biceps be damned. The opening notes of 'All These Things That I've Done' strain against the speakers, and it's not long before the song is at full volume, echoing off the brick walls. Adam can hear the murmur of voices behind him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Kris's window.
It's not a long song, but Adam didn't want this to be an empty four minute gesture. When the last chorus fades out, the first verse loops back in again, thanks to Anoop and GarageBand, and Adam stays put. Maybe Kris won't come out at all, like in the movie, but he's going to stand there for as long as he can hold this thing over his head. He's going to stand there until the entire school sees him, until every whisper in the dining hall is about what a lame, freaky sap he is. He's going to stand here until Kris hears this song, and knows.
It's over ten minutes before Kris comes walking around the side of the building, coat pulled close around him. Adam doesn't even see him at first, doesn't move his eyes from the window until the murmurs behind him get louder, a few hushed voices saying "oh, shit!". Kris is watching him, wary, and Adam swallows hard.
"What are you doing, Lambert?" he asks, stopping close enough to talk, but not close enough to touch.
"Grand gesture," he says, and his teeth are chattering a little from the cold. His fingers and forearms are numb from the cold, the wind blowing cold through his t-shirt, his stupid loose pants.
"Put that thing down, you look ridiculous," Kris says.
"Kind of the point," Adam grits out and the corner of Kris's mouth twitches.
"Okay, then, put it down because you're making my arms tired just looking at you. Also, this song is not this long."
Adam winces as he puts the boombox down on the ground, turning the sound down but not off. "I know. Anoop looped it."
"Ah."
They stand there staring at the ground for a long minute before Adam clears his throat to say, "I'm sorry. You don't have any reason to believe me, but that bet was the stupidest thing I've ever done."
"Word is you collected on it yesterday," Kris says, smiling coldly, and under any other circumstances Adam would have been impressed by Kris's ability to be calm and cutting.
"I gave it away," Adam says quietly. "Look, I know I don't deserve a second chance here, but I like you, a lot, more than I've liked anyone in a long fucking time, and I just wanted you to know that. That I wasn't faking it. Anything it takes to prove that to you, I'll do it."
"You gave it away," Kris says, voice far away.
"Yeah, it wasn't... I didn't want it," Adam says. "It's not about--"
"Isobel had someone slip ten thousand dollars cash into her mailbox yesterday. You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"
Adam sighs. "You weren't supposed to know about that."
"Yeah, well, she called me in tears, man. That's just. You seriously gave ten grand to my soup kitchen?" Kris steps closer, eyes wide with something almost like gratitude, Adam thinks Kris isn't getting it.
Adam grabs Kris by the shoulders and looks him straight in the eyes. "It's not about the money. Fuck the money. I am head over heels for you, okay? And you can tell me to go to hell, since I probably deserve that, but that part has to get through."
"It's getting through," Kris says, smiling slowly, and Adam nods. He's breathing hard as Kris takes a step closer. "You're not done proving to me that you're a jackass," he says, and Adam nods again. He would talk, but Kris's eyes are crinckling in the corners, and Adam's chest is seizing up. "And you're going to have to do all sorts of lame stuff with me, like help me move, and carry my books, and watch football games." He slips his fingers into Adam's and winds them together.
"And hold hands?" Adam says, barely a whisper, and Kris leans up on his toes.
"And definitely hold hands, that's totally lame," he says, and Adam barely registers the catcalls and applause from the student body behind them as he pulls Kris close and kisses him soundly.
FIN