"Actually," Adam says, "I thought I'd ask you to marry me."

Megan is probably not the right person to have this discussion with. She’s a bit of a free spirit. She’s the kind of girl who had sex in the back of a truck on prom night. With a teacher. Named Mrs. Philips.

"Okay." He exhales into the phone. "Just. Tell me what we need to do." "You and Kris need to have sex."

Kris didn't know what the hell to do. Adam was kissing him, sweet cold tang of the lemon ice in his mouth, Adam's lips hot by contrast, and he was doing something with his tongue, and Mrs. Lambert was standing over them saying, "Adam!" in exasperation, and three weeks later, they were married.

Adam had to concentrate to think about it. "It's 2008. And George W. Bush is the president," he added, because they always asked that next in the movies.

Kris says, "Uh," and stares, wide-eyed, unmoving, until he realizes he's clutching several pairs of dirty boxer-briefs to his chest in the presence of an angel of the Lord.

Adam doesn’t ask if he’s sure, if he knows what he’s doing. Amazing the things you can get across in 140 characters. 

“But I’ll let you stay, as long as you don’t make too much of a pest of yourself. And don’t you move a single thing out of place. This is still my house.”

"You shouldn't call when a boy wants you to. Cosmo says it makes you look easy."

Oddly enough, it isn't the fan fiction that makes things weird.

Kris thinks fuck it, he can at least do this, and says, "I don't know what the courts will decide, but I hope eventually we'll come to a time when marriage isn't off limits to anyone. I don't think there's any room for hate or judgment in the world, only love. And that's on the record."

"Adam says he misses your sweet ass," Kris says, totally straight-faced, and he can barely make out David's cackling laugh as Adam wrestles the phone away from him.

“Be a gentleman,” Charles said sternly, pointing in Kris’ face. “Don’t make me look bad, Allen. You can tell a lot about a man by his friends. I don’t want people thinking I hang out with fruit thieves.”

Behind Adam there’s the ocean, spread out as far as the eye can see; Kris can’t see the remnants of the plane anymore, but he’s not sure if that means it’s gone, or if it’s just too far away to make out in the fading light. The sun is setting already, and it’s happening fast, clear blue smoothed out into bruised violet and yellow.

“She just completely killed the moment and danced on its grave,” Adam says.

Kris rolled his eyes, trying not to grin. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”   “Can I?” Adam reached hopefully for his phone.

He has no roadmap for this particular trip.

Kris doesn't mind when life gives him lemons. He is good at making the best of lemons. He just thinks it sucks that when life gave him crème brûlée, he didn't know what to do with it.

"Sex and office supplies; not a good mix," he informs Kris, like it was Kris' idea to use the desk when there is a perfectly good couch in the room.

"Do not even 'hey guys' us, comin' out of that room in the clothes you had on yesterday," Lil says in her very best mom-voice.

People responded with things like, "PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN," or "OBVIOUS TROLL IS OBVIOUS," or "lol yeah right i fucking wish" or "Did the stylist tell you this?". Whatever that meant.

As the weeks slip by you learn to let it slide straightaway, to make no excuses, not even in your head, because you're Kara fucking DioGuardi, you're on your way to plan Miley's next hit song, and you make more money than all of them put together and forced to sober up and count their savings.

There's also been a steady stream of beer and fancy cocktails that Adam calls things like "The Monster Cock" and "My Piano Teacher Was A Perv"; Kris is sure they have more more innocuous names in the real world, so he'd never be able to order one at a bar. Which is sad, because the Monster Cock is really pretty delicious.

Danny is off somewhere, meditating or going on a nature walk, who knows.

"We need guns," Mike Sarver said.