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labyrinth2015) wrote2009-11-10 08:08 am
labyrinth2015) wrote2009-11-10 08:08 am
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CommentDrabbles 26: I Stayed Awake to Make David Cook Drabbles
DC Drabbles - Stayed awake, just to hear you…
Somehow I wrote eleven drabbles for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
cookleta_etc DC Appreciation Post, which accidentallied my weekend. Largely Cookleta, though there’s an implied Nealeta, one Cook/Archie/Andrew (thanks, Nitya), David/Kyle and David/Kelly Clarkson. Thanks for letting me play, girls!
Usual disclaimer goes here. This is RP fan-fiction. Don’t own any of the characters depicted here, nor do I make any money from this venture. I do not assert any of these events occurred. I intend no libel. I will remove this on a without prejudice basis should a valid cease and desist letter be issued.
* for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
asmallsmackerel - Cookleta on swings [PG]:
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So high, we could hear heaven
It was Cook who found the swing-set in the park, but Archie who wanted to play.
"I haven't been on the swings since I was a kid!"
Cook could never deny him anything, of course; he sat down, and started to swing, too.
"If this thing breaks under my weight, Archuleta, you're going to have to explain things to management, okay?"
Archie grinned. "Bet I can get higher than you."
"Kind of sounds like a challenge, doesn't it? Fancy that. American Idol finale, take two."
"You're on!"
They kicked off, legs flailing purposefully, straining to swing faster and harder.
Higher and higher they swung, pendulums in the sky, aimed like arrows against the clouds, like all the dreams they'd come to this year with, everything they'd achieved.
The world blurred around Archie, as he sailed through the air. Blue and green, back and forth, flashes of his life before Idol, the bright lights of the tour.
Out of the corner of his eye, there was Cook, an arm's length away. A graceful parabola of speed, he swung on his own, separate axis.
Their paths didn't cross, wouldn't ever cross, unless one of them put out an arm, one of them took the risk, to reach out -
- and then Cook did, at high speed, dangerously, and Archie flew off his swing and tumbled to the ground.
He saw stars, for a while, lying back against the new grass. Eventually, they resolved themselves, into the brightness of Cook's green eyes. The world slowed down enough, so he could see, at last.
"I am such an idiot, Arch," Cook started to say, "I'm so sorry, I don't know what even came over me -"
"I'm not," whispered Archie, and pulled him down to kiss him.
* forsomewheresunny - Cookleta AU where Archie is local weatherman [PG]:
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Gale Force Winds -
Anchor: And after this round-up of local KMFC-TV News, we have David Archuleta on the weather!
Weatherman: Good morning, Kansas City! We have storms and big winds heading our way. Windspeeds up to 32, sweeping across the south-west, driving rain clouds over Lees Summit and central parts of Topeka and La Cygne. Temperatures are going to be a low of 42 and a high of 50, it's going to be cold out there today.
Anchor: And we have a special guest in the studio this morning! It's David Cook, ladies and gentlemen, the winner of American Idol 2008, and he's gonna be chatting in a little while to our very own Tannie Lee, about how things have changed for him since his Idol win.
Cook: Hi, guys! I'm excited to be here. Except it sounds, from the weather report, like a tornado's on the way, ha ha.
Weatherman: Ha ha! It's only a little storm. We get them a lot out here, as you know. Anyway, don't worry, the KMFC-TV studio has tornado-rated doors!
Cook: Hey, I'm not worried. Tornados can be useful, like for dropping barns on wicked witches.
Weatherman: Ha ha. Funny Oz joke. Bet you don't have that problem.
Cook: Actually, I get the wicked witch thing a lot. Where's a good tornado when you need one, hey? Ha ha.
Anchor: Ha ha! But first, we're headed to commercial!
**
(Anchor, off mike: Kathleen, did our guest just call Tannie Lee the Wicked Witch of the East?)
(Producer: Yes. Tannie Lee is not happy. You are gonna have to stall, when we come back from commercial break.)
(Anchor: I hear the sound of things breaking!)
(Producer: Told you she's not happy. Look, maybe you should stand by to conduct the interview.)
(Anchor: I'm expected on the fourth floor in ten minutes!)
(Producer: Hm. Why don't you get Archuleta to cover for you, till I get Tannie calmed down?)
(Weatherman: Ha ha. You're kidding, right? Kathleen? Oh, you're not kidding.)
(Cook: Is something wrong?)
(Weatherman: No, just...hey, look, why don't I sit here, and we can, um, chat about the weather some more?)
(Cook: With you? Awesome! Hey, my name's David, too!)
**
Weatherman: And we're back! It's David Archuleta here in the KMFC-TV studios with David Cook, winner of American Idol 2008. So, um, I guess we can see big weather ahead for you, Mr Cook?
Cook: Not as big as the weather that's ahead of us here, sounds like.
**
Anchor: And it's another local news round up, and David Archuleta, back in the weather station after his stint in the interviewer's chair yesterday, to tell us what's the forecast for today. David?
Weatherman: Good morning, Kansas City! The weather for today...blue skies and sunshine, as far as the eye can see.
* forkissesblow - Cookleta at Archie's christmas show [PG-13]:
Link to original post here
have yourself a merry little Christmas
cook tells himself he’s just going to take a break from his tour, and show up incognito at archie’s Christmas concert in blue springs. hat and muffler and huge-ass puffy jacket, nobody’s gonna recognize him.
someday all our troubles will be out of sight
of course, he doesn’t count on busting his cover himself. he can’t help it, though. his boyfriend is so simply gorgeous, under the stage lights, eyes shining like stars. the sheer goodness of arch is so palpable he knows it draws good people into his orbit, and makes the more flawed (himself included) vow to do better, next year.
and when archie opens that mouth of his to sing, and the lush and glorious voice that belongs to no one else in this entire world pours out of him like light, and cook doesn’t even care that arch has just sung the words make the Yuletide gay without any irony whatsoever. that’s the person arch is, the person who isn’t ashamed to love Christmas and sentimental things, the best person in the world, whom he loves and will always love, and cook stands up and takes off his headgear and makes huge heart hands so archie can see him.
at first, archie looks over all bemused, and then, the spark of recognition – and his smile is bright enough to power the entire concert hall.
hang a shining star upon the highest bough
cook waits for far too long, for them to be alone backstage. people keep coming by, slapping arch on the back and hugging him, saying things like, “good show!” and “love your album!” and “that jim cantiello is so taken with you he keeps asking to have you back on his show!” (and cook needs to find out if that last thing is true, because if so cook is going to have to have a serious word with slim jim; it was bad enough that he made arch wear a horrible Christmas sweater in october).
and cook of course tries to be patient and understanding, because arch is a genuinely caring guy who has many friends and people who want to wish him well, and it’s great that they want to reach out to him – he can see how arch really lights up at every kind and encouraging word from them.
faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us, once more
it does eventually get a little too much, though, and cook is forced once again to take matters into his own hands. arch squawks in surprise, when cook pushes him into the nearest closet.
“cook, wait, what -?”
“I brought you a present,” cook says, in what’s hopefully an inviting manner.
“it’s in here?” arch asks, confusedly, and then, “oh. ohhh.”
“merry Christmas, arch,” says cook, eventually, when they’ve subsided, panting in the half-light and the confined space and full of nothing but each other, and arch clings to his neck and says, “it is, now.”
* forsoverignthorn - Cookleta on the Anthemic tour bus [R]:
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Wheels Go Round
Cook enjoys touring. He loves the back and forth with the guys and the roadies, sorting out the line-up, lives for flying high on the concert buzz, always makes time to meet the fans at the buses or barricades, after the show. He loves the hazy, delirious comedown, also, all beer and loose-limbed partying, and in the small hours of the morning, there's quiet conversation with his boyfriend, and the heat of their remote love.
What he doesn't enjoy so much is the tour bus thing. It's necessary, of course, to get from place to place. And their bus is nice; deluxe bunks, 500 thread count sheets, soft suspension, fully-furnished kitchenette and living room area. There's a certain pleasure to be derived from living in close quarters with his bandmates, his best friends in all the world - the intensity of such proximity that translates to synergy on stage, the lazy cameraderie of falling asleep in front of beer and the TV.
But, after weeks on the road, the maddening sway of bus wheels, the lack of laundry, the questionable personal hygiene of some of the guys - it gets a little bit too much, sometimes; it becomes less than enjoyable.
Which is why he's suddenly, ridiculously happy when one day David Archuleta shows up at the Dayton stop with his little duffel bag and a huge grin.
He whoops and hollers and wheels Arch in a huge circle, and Arch's bag goes flying and one of his shoes fall off, but neither of them cares very much.
Arch is done touring with Demi, he's taking a break before recording on his Christmas album starts.
"And my folks are kind of fighting at home, so I wanted to get out of their hair," confesses Archie, later, and Cook closes his eyes and presses his mouth to Arch's dark head and tries not to think about smacking Jeff Archuleta in the chin.
With Arch, the tour bus is suddenly all kinds of awesome. The guys are suddenly on their best behavior; nobody forgets to put the toothpaste cap back on, or leaves gross pubes in the shower. In the morning Arch scrambles eggs and Neal makes toast and coffee and Cook hugs them both. In the afternoons, there's a warm lapful of boyfriend as an alternative to the TV. Archie watches their concerts from the wings, and is unreservedly enthusiastic as well as full of constructive suggestions for how to make the show better.
Best of all, the maddening sway of the bus wheels? Happen to align perfectly with the rhythm their bodies have learned from each other. They're rocking, swaying, coming together, as the tour bus rushes into the dark.
"Wish you could be here always," Cook murmurs, into Arch's bare, sweaty skin, feeling the gravel under them, the rolling miles of open road.
Archie grins, and shifts in Cook's bunk. His strong body slots against Cook's, each lining up against the planes and angles of the other. "I'll be here as long as you need me, til I'm satisfied you and Neal won't kill each other," he says, softly.
Cook thinks, that's not nearly long enough, but doesn't say it. He doesn't want to be demanding; Archie has his own career, his own life. He knows they have their work cut out for them, carving a relationship out of their busy days and nights.
He knows they'll make it, but they need to pace themselves, and to be very gentle with each other.
The long road stretches ahead of them, in the distance, under the noisy tour bus wheels.
* fororochi_kitty – Cookleta go clothes shopping [PG-13]:
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Dress Me Up in Your Love
"What I'm saying," said Cook, patiently, "is that I think your stylist needs to change up a couple of things."
He was sitting on the couch in Archie's living room. Even the couch was a conservative, age-appropriate plaid hue.
"I think my clothes are fine, Cook." Archie was wearing a t-shirt as yellow as Pikachu, and loose-fitting cargo pants. He looked like he was fifteen. "They match my image? My stylist says it's important that I look fun and approachable, and that I need to look like a role model. I have lots of underage fans, you know."
"Fun and approachable are good things, Arch," said Cook, reassuringly. "And I think your image is great. I just..."
He waved his hand at Archie's ensemble, taking care to speak euphemistically. Arch had gotten a lot less self-conscious than he'd been in the early days of Idol, but he didn't want to make Arch embarrassed about his attire.
"...Look. You're eighteen years old. You have tighter stomach muscles than you'll ever have again." Cook patted his stomach, fondly. "You need to dress your age. Trust me, I think your teenage fans will live to tell the tale."
Archie smiled and shook his head, but let Cook drive him out to Wiltshire Avenue and ply him with cheeseburgers. And he didn't protest much when Cook steered him into the designer men's department at Saks and insisted on pulling clothes off racks for him to try on.
The staff in menswear were used to celebrity customers, and stood at a discreet distance, ready to offer assistance when summoned, but Cook didn't need help. He was on a roll - he'd ushered Archie into a changing room, and was flinging clothes over the top of the door, and kept insisting that Archie come out and show him each outfit, in a humorous movie-montage way.
Archie found Versace too out there, and Cook agreed Armani was too square for the teenager. Archie flat out refused to try the pleather Comme des Garcons pants which Cook had found in his size. Cook attempted to go with Tommy Hilfiger and Ralph Lauren, but their autumn/fall collection wasn't very inspiring, and the fit of their shirts wasn't quite right.
Then, Calvin Klein happened.
Calvin offered a pewter shirt with a subtle, textured weave, fitted enough to emphasize the lean, strong lines of Arch's body, his shoulders, his defined chest and torso; light enough, that Cook wanted to touch the fabric with his fingers, to see how soft it was, and feel the warm skin underneath.
He also offered a black vest, and black jeans that were cunningly woven with just enough lycra that they clung to Arch's muscular thighs and cupped his perfect ass. And cupped, well, other things, that Cook had never really considered, until now.
It was kind of hot in the menswear department, all of a sudden.
Cook watched his hand reach out, as if of its own accord, and undo the top button of the shirt. The slice of bare, golden skin that slid into view made his mouth go dry.
"This is definitely the designer for Mr Archuleta!" gushed a voice at his elbow. It seemed they had an audience, suddenly: the bevy of assistants had snuck up on them while they'd been otherwise engaged.
“Gosh, you think so?” Arch smiled, a little shyly.
Cook gave himself a mental shake. It wasn’t working; he needed more than a mental cold shower. He needed thoughts of Issey Miyake, Bjork’s swan costume, Simon Cowell in the nude. Sadly, these things weren’t working, faced with the sudden, awesome hotness of David Archuleta, appropriately attired in an entirely age-appropriate designer outfit.
Cook wasn’t sure Arch’s teenage fans would in fact live to tell the tale. Truth be told, he was a little worried if he’d survive it himself.
What had their little experiment, their shopping expedition gotten him into? Cook had thought shopping was going to be entirely innocent. But, as they left Saks with shopping bags filled with form-fitting shirts, illegally tight pants and jeans, a motorcycle jacket, and a red tee-shirt that looked like it was painted on, Cook decided he’d seemed to have wandered into an entirely dangerous department, from which he wasn’t sure he’d ever escape.
* forlexiloumarie - Cookleta: Arch's tired of Cook's neverending Declaration tour [Angsty, PG-13]:
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DECLARATION BLUES
INT SHOT: THE BEDROOM OF DAVID ARCHULETA’S HOTEL ROOM. IT IS KIND OF MESSY, WHICH IS UNCHARACTERISTIC OF ARCHIE. ARCHIE LOOKS INTO THE CAMERA. THE USUAL BRILLIANT AND SOMEWHAT SAPPY SMILE WHICH HE USUALLY WEARS WHEN HE IS VLOGGING IS MISSING, FOR SOME REASON. HIS EYES ARE DARK.
ARCH: Hi, Cook! Um, when you get this you’ll probably be heading for bed. Not sure if you’ll check your email after the show or the after party, so if you don’t do that then you’ll get this tomorrow when you wake up.
ARCH RUNS A HAND THROUGH HIS HAIR. HE LOOKS TIRED. AS IF HE HASN’T BEEN SLEEPING VERY WELL.
ARCH: Anyway. I wanted to make this log for you so you wouldn’t forget what I look like, haha! You’ve been touring so much, you haven’t had a break since summer. I’m not sure how come this tour seems like it’s never going to end, you know? Which means we’ve hardly seen each other. We hardly get to see each other. I don’t know.
ARCH LOOKS DOWN. HIS VOICE HAD GOTTEN VERY QUIET.
ARCH: I really miss you, Cook.
ARCH RUBS HIS EYES. WE’RE NOT SURE IF IT’S TIREDNESS, OR TEARS.
ARCH: I’m not sure I want to do this any more. I get you work hard, I’m working hard, too. But we need to make more time for each other, okay? Cook? Can you –
[OFF SCREEN: KNOCKING.]
ARCH: …ah, heck, think that’s room service. I’m gonna press pause – no, actually, hold on, it’ll only be a moment…
[ARCH MOVES OFFSCREEN. THERE’S THE SOUND OF A DOOR OPENING, AND THEN, OFF SCREEN, THE SOUND OF A FAMILIAR, GRAVELLY VOICE.]
COOK, OFF SCREEN: Surprise, babe. The Declaration Tour comes to L.A.!
ARCH, OFF SCREEN: OH MY HECK, COOK.
[OFF SCREEN, MESSY SOUNDS OF SURPRISE REUNION; EVENTUALLY, WE FADE TO BLACK.]
[EDITED TO ADD:...THERE MIGHT BE A SEX TAPE, RELEASED SUBSEQUENTLY.]
* forthebiggest_lie - a Cookleta story in a bar after a show, where everyone is drunk except Arch. (Incl some accidental Nealeta, sorry.) [R for groping, drunkenness]:
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The Taste of You
When Cook and Archie arrive at the bar, the other guys have been there for a while, and are kind of messed up. It's kind of like this after a show - everyone's buzzed and horny, and after a while, falling-down-drunk.
Kyle puts his arms around Arch. "I love you, David!" He has a Coors in either hand, and his eyes are a dark, dreamy glaze.
"Wrong David," mutters Neal, prying their drummer off Archie. His lip-rings glint under the low bar lights. As Kyle attaches himself around Neal's neck, he hands Cook a short glass of Jack. Neal’s drinking what looks like Jack and coke, and is a little more unsteady on his feet than he usually is, which means he’s had entirely too many such glasses already.
"It's so unfair to Archie that he can't drink," announces Andy, blithely, waving his bottle of Corona.
"Oh, I don't mind," Archie says; he's already blushing furiously, thanks to Kyle's impromptu groping.
"He doesn't enjoy the taste," Cook smirks. He knocks back the glass, and holds it out for more.
"I just don't," Arch shrugs, edging away from Cook a little. "I've tried a couple of different things, wine and beer, but, I don’t know, nothing's really that nice."
"Hey, stop that," Cook grins, tugging him back close in. "You kind of like the taste of some things."
Archie rolls his eyes, but can't suppress his happy squirm when Cook grabs him and kisses him soundly, licking inside his mouth.
"He likes Jack, when I've been drinking it," Cook says smugly, pulling back.
"Um, what?" Kyle's draped himself over Arch again.
"Knock it off, Peek, he's already tasted enough of your Coors breath," says Cook, grinning, but Kyle kisses Arch’s cheek anyway before Cook pries him away. Bemusedly, Kyle sits himself down in Cook’s lap.
"Maybe he'll like Corona. That okay with you, Arch?" Andy smiles, and slides on over, proffering a choice between the bottle and his lips.
Cook bats Andy away, too. "Will you guys all stop propositioning my boyfriend? Arch, don't listen to them, they're all so dronk. Drunk, whatever," and Arch giggles.
"You guys are really funny when you're high. Alcohol obviously makes people, um, less inhibited. Which is why it's bad for you, of course."
"Inhibited isn't necessarily good for you, kid." Neal's a shadow on his right; Jack and Coke, sour and sweet, lingering in his atmosphere.
The both of them look at each other, in the half-light. There's a moment there, where they each wonder what the taste of the other might be like.
"I am so drunk," says Cook, breaking the moment, and Arch puts his arms around his boyfriend's neck, reeling him back in: without the alcohol, they'll never know.
* forbwinchester - Cookleta, pining!Cook and oblivious!Arch [PG-13]:
An Essay on Pining, and Love
This has been happened so many times before, but it doesn't get old.
Throughout history, from the beginning of time and stories, there's been a Lover and a Beloved, a Pursuer and the Pursued. The lover's desperately in love, the beloved blissfully oblivious. Tristan and Isolde. Heloise and Abelard. The Shepherd and the Nymph. Marquez's Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza. Martin Amis and the Rachel Papers. John Cusack and Say Anything, you know how it is.
Then, there's David Cook, and David Archuleta.
All the hallmarks are there: Cook as Lover - rapt gaze, poignant songs about heartbreak and seeking and setting free, hands that can't help but touch, gently, possessively, the one he loves but feels he can’t have.
If you were to discover that Cook had written feverish lines and verses to the beauty of Archuleta's eyes, or stood outside Archuleta's room in the rain all night, acoustic guitar ready for a moonlit serenade, or alternatively, with a boom-box held high, playing one of his I-am-so-in-love-with-you-and-you-don’t-know songs, you wouldn't be surprised at all. All this is archetypical Lover behavior, given to pining, and extravagant gestures of self-denial and obsession.
Cute like hell, too, as it happens. You've got to appreciate a scruffy rocker who's happy to cry out of love.
Archuleta as Beloved – his role is more passive. He gets to simper, to flutter his eyelashes, oblivious to the torment underpinning the Lover. He’s the object of affection, and of pursuit. Traditionally, he doesn’t get many action sequences.
Gosh, isn’t it nice of Cook to show up at his concert, and to say such nice things about him to interviewers! And, it is kind of hot in this stuffy room, he’s going to roll up his shirt sleeves and unbutton his shirt a little, hope that’s – hey, is Cook all right?
Nobody’s that oblivious. And Archuleta is actually pretty sharp, for all he’s just eighteen.
Tradition has it that the Lover will finally make a move, and the Beloved will look all surprised and astonished, and there’ll be some modest hand-wringing against virginal bosoms, and romantic sequences in the rain, before, finally, there’s surrender to the Lover’s faithful pursuit.
Somewhat less Traditional, of course, is the story in which the Beloved decides to take matters into his own hands, and push away the Lover’s sappy guitar, and make fists in the Lover’s shirt, and kiss the mouth off him like he’s dreamed of doing, for such a long time.
“What took you so long?” the Lover might murmur, and the Beloved might respond, “Hello, making the first move is your job.”
That might happen. Pining isn’t very constructive, when you could have a love scene, instead.
This has happened so many times before, in so many different ways: the Lover and the Beloved, their blissful consummation, however it’s derived.
But, you know, although every couple is different, with their unique quirks and individual natures that occasionally screw with the stereotype, each time the Lover and the Beloved meet in love, each time the Pursued gets his man, is just as awesome as the first.
* forgracelessheart - Cook/Archie/Andrew, fie upon her! [Angsty, PG-13]:
hold on, to anything at all
The two men he loves the most in the whole world, and they’re asleep in each other’s arms, in his bed.
They look entirely innocent, exhausted, still in funereal black.
Arch is still wearing his black tie, although it’s loose, and a couple of buttons on his white shirt have come undone, such that there’s a length of white, ingenuous throat laid bare, his dark head tilted back against the pillows. He’s lying on his back, one arm thrown back, slack-limbed like a child, the splay of his muscular thighs looking nothing like a child’s. He’d considerately taken his shoes off before deciding to power nap on David’s bed.
Andrew’s jacketless, tieless, unbespectacled in sleep. For some reason, he’s also decided to nap, and to do so curled up next to his brother’s boyfriend, long nose against Arch’s shoulder, one arm loosely coiled around Arch’s waist. He’s hooked a thumb into one of Arch’s belt loops. There are tear marks on his narrow face; David’s heart aches a little, at the sight.
David steps in closer, taking off his jacket, loosening his own tie, unbuttoning his shirt. He looks down on them, in their sleep.
Is it his imagination, or does Andrew press more closely to Arch, murmuring unconscious things into the shell-like ear? He watches his brother’s fingers flutter, in Arch’s beltline, sleeping flesh seeking comfort and warmth. He watches Arch shift closer to Andrew, thighs stirring restlessly. His eyelashes move as if in lucid dreaming.
David wonders why he isn’t more curious about this, more upset, maybe. But it’s been an exhausting, emotional day for everyone, filled with tears and an aching grief that still fills his mouth with bitterness, and, tired to the core of him, he figures that, you know, anything to help with the ache and the loneliness is going to be welcome.
So, he kicks off his own shoes, and gets into bed with them, very carefully. First, he kisses his brother on the nose, and then on the mouth, like he used to do when they were little, and there were three of them.
Andrew tastes like chewing gum, and saltiness. It's this combination that makes David press himself against his boy, and muffle his own tears against the back of Arch’s neck.
Arch mumbles something, and leans against him. The curve of his ass, the broad swathe of his back, roll against David, and the desire to weep becomes another kind of desire. David holds his breath.
Gently, he slides his arm around Archie’s waist. His hand covers Andrew’s narrower one; the same blood running in both their veins, palming the strange, familiar pulse point in Arch’s belly.
The three of them hold tight to each other, in David’s bed.
* fortankshallkill - David/Kyle take a nap [PG-13]:
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all innocent
The band’s suite has a large sofa and it’s currently occupied by a sleeping David Cook, curled up like a tousled, overgrown child in leather and pointy boots. At the sight, Kyle feels an unexpected tugging at his heart.
He tells himself it’s because Dave reminds him of his boy in that position. Hayden’s fond of falling asleep on the sofa curled up just like that, a soft comma of rosy limbs and bright hair, smelling of crayons and kisses. When he sees Hayden asleep like that, Kyle can’t resist lying down too, pressing close and gathering his son in his arms.
Kyle tells himself it’s this instinct that makes him lie down now beside Dave, pressing close. He puts his arms around Dave experimentally, the long limbs, the bright hair. Dave smells of ink, of exertion, long nights in front of screaming crowds, and underneath he smells vulnerable, just like little Hayden does.
When Kyle puts his arms around Dave, Dave makes a little sound, and cuddles close, like Hayden would. It’s strangely comforting to Kyle, to be here with his front-man in his arms, holding Dave as if he were Kyle’s child.
Kyle pushes away the unexpected tugging at somewhere else that isn’t his heart, and eventually falls asleep as well.
Which is how the large sofa in the suite comes to be occupied by David Cook and Kyle Peek, sleeping and curled up around each other like overgrown children. For all their pointy boots and smelly t-shirts, they look as innocent as boys.
At the sight, Neal and Andy feel an unexpected surge of something else.
Which could be why they opt to leap on Dave and Kyle with pillows and wake them up raucously and tease the hell out of them, rather than leaving them peaceful and sleeping, perhaps to wake to love in each other’s arms.
* formicheleeeex - long-time-comin' David Cook/Kelly Clarkson[R]:
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Play That Song for Me
They met each other again at the launch of the American Idol Experience in Orlando, under the hot lights.
She, the first winner, he, the latest one: both of them at different ends of the Idol continuum that had started with her, dark-haired and uncompromising, with the biggest voice to grace that wide stage; that had ended with him, at least for that year, the rocker boy who had cleaned up his act and become an unlikely, Michael Jackson-song-covering sex symbol.
He was wearing white shirt-sleeves and a gray vest that matched his eyes, like an old jazz tune. She was a rock ballad in midnight black.
She watched him sing a remarkably cheesy song with Carrie Underwood, who had been wearing a jumpsuit and a cheery smile and far too much glitter, and tried not to roll her eyes.
He watched her sail past Clive Davies and give the big boss an elegantly chilly shoulder. For some reason, it made him grin hard.
She left the party early; she wasn’t an indentured slave to 19E any more, like he was. When he saw she was leaving, he cut short a conversation with one of the execs and came over to say goodbye.
He held out his hand, and she took it.
And then, one of them tugged the other into a quick hug, neither of them was quite sure who it was. She felt the scratchiness of his beard; he felt her soft cheek - there was a sudden burst of electricity -
- (and there’s a rocking melody sweeping over them both, and they’re pressed against each other, leaning against a wall somewhere, kissing messily, endlessly, his hands hiking her dress up her thighs, past her hips, stroking the seam of her panties and the skin underneath, her hands catching in his hair, all fast breath and tongues and a wordless, electric song, and someone’s voice calling, calling out) -
- and the lightning flared, and they broke apart, staring at each other.
As the last notes of their shared music shivered over them, he wondered if this was a prelude to a far more epic duet, that they might, one day soon, sing together.
She didn’t wonder. She knew.
Link to original compilation post
Somehow I wrote eleven drabbles for the
cookleta_etc DC Appreciation Post, which accidentallied my weekend. Largely Cookleta, though there’s an implied Nealeta, one Cook/Archie/Andrew (thanks, Nitya), David/Kyle and David/Kelly Clarkson. Thanks for letting me play, girls!Usual disclaimer goes here. This is RP fan-fiction. Don’t own any of the characters depicted here, nor do I make any money from this venture. I do not assert any of these events occurred. I intend no libel. I will remove this on a without prejudice basis should a valid cease and desist letter be issued.
* for
asmallsmackerel - Cookleta on swings [PG]: Link to original post
So high, we could hear heaven
It was Cook who found the swing-set in the park, but Archie who wanted to play.
"I haven't been on the swings since I was a kid!"
Cook could never deny him anything, of course; he sat down, and started to swing, too.
"If this thing breaks under my weight, Archuleta, you're going to have to explain things to management, okay?"
Archie grinned. "Bet I can get higher than you."
"Kind of sounds like a challenge, doesn't it? Fancy that. American Idol finale, take two."
"You're on!"
They kicked off, legs flailing purposefully, straining to swing faster and harder.
Higher and higher they swung, pendulums in the sky, aimed like arrows against the clouds, like all the dreams they'd come to this year with, everything they'd achieved.
The world blurred around Archie, as he sailed through the air. Blue and green, back and forth, flashes of his life before Idol, the bright lights of the tour.
Out of the corner of his eye, there was Cook, an arm's length away. A graceful parabola of speed, he swung on his own, separate axis.
Their paths didn't cross, wouldn't ever cross, unless one of them put out an arm, one of them took the risk, to reach out -
- and then Cook did, at high speed, dangerously, and Archie flew off his swing and tumbled to the ground.
He saw stars, for a while, lying back against the new grass. Eventually, they resolved themselves, into the brightness of Cook's green eyes. The world slowed down enough, so he could see, at last.
"I am such an idiot, Arch," Cook started to say, "I'm so sorry, I don't know what even came over me -"
"I'm not," whispered Archie, and pulled him down to kiss him.
* for
somewheresunny - Cookleta AU where Archie is local weatherman [PG]: Link to original post
Gale Force Winds -
Anchor: And after this round-up of local KMFC-TV News, we have David Archuleta on the weather!
Weatherman: Good morning, Kansas City! We have storms and big winds heading our way. Windspeeds up to 32, sweeping across the south-west, driving rain clouds over Lees Summit and central parts of Topeka and La Cygne. Temperatures are going to be a low of 42 and a high of 50, it's going to be cold out there today.
Anchor: And we have a special guest in the studio this morning! It's David Cook, ladies and gentlemen, the winner of American Idol 2008, and he's gonna be chatting in a little while to our very own Tannie Lee, about how things have changed for him since his Idol win.
Cook: Hi, guys! I'm excited to be here. Except it sounds, from the weather report, like a tornado's on the way, ha ha.
Weatherman: Ha ha! It's only a little storm. We get them a lot out here, as you know. Anyway, don't worry, the KMFC-TV studio has tornado-rated doors!
Cook: Hey, I'm not worried. Tornados can be useful, like for dropping barns on wicked witches.
Weatherman: Ha ha. Funny Oz joke. Bet you don't have that problem.
Cook: Actually, I get the wicked witch thing a lot. Where's a good tornado when you need one, hey? Ha ha.
Anchor: Ha ha! But first, we're headed to commercial!
**
(Anchor, off mike: Kathleen, did our guest just call Tannie Lee the Wicked Witch of the East?)
(Producer: Yes. Tannie Lee is not happy. You are gonna have to stall, when we come back from commercial break.)
(Anchor: I hear the sound of things breaking!)
(Producer: Told you she's not happy. Look, maybe you should stand by to conduct the interview.)
(Anchor: I'm expected on the fourth floor in ten minutes!)
(Producer: Hm. Why don't you get Archuleta to cover for you, till I get Tannie calmed down?)
(Weatherman: Ha ha. You're kidding, right? Kathleen? Oh, you're not kidding.)
(Cook: Is something wrong?)
(Weatherman: No, just...hey, look, why don't I sit here, and we can, um, chat about the weather some more?)
(Cook: With you? Awesome! Hey, my name's David, too!)
**
Weatherman: And we're back! It's David Archuleta here in the KMFC-TV studios with David Cook, winner of American Idol 2008. So, um, I guess we can see big weather ahead for you, Mr Cook?
Cook: Not as big as the weather that's ahead of us here, sounds like.
**
Anchor: And it's another local news round up, and David Archuleta, back in the weather station after his stint in the interviewer's chair yesterday, to tell us what's the forecast for today. David?
Weatherman: Good morning, Kansas City! The weather for today...blue skies and sunshine, as far as the eye can see.
* for
kissesblow - Cookleta at Archie's christmas show [PG-13]: Link to original post here
have yourself a merry little Christmas
cook tells himself he’s just going to take a break from his tour, and show up incognito at archie’s Christmas concert in blue springs. hat and muffler and huge-ass puffy jacket, nobody’s gonna recognize him.
someday all our troubles will be out of sight
of course, he doesn’t count on busting his cover himself. he can’t help it, though. his boyfriend is so simply gorgeous, under the stage lights, eyes shining like stars. the sheer goodness of arch is so palpable he knows it draws good people into his orbit, and makes the more flawed (himself included) vow to do better, next year.
and when archie opens that mouth of his to sing, and the lush and glorious voice that belongs to no one else in this entire world pours out of him like light, and cook doesn’t even care that arch has just sung the words make the Yuletide gay without any irony whatsoever. that’s the person arch is, the person who isn’t ashamed to love Christmas and sentimental things, the best person in the world, whom he loves and will always love, and cook stands up and takes off his headgear and makes huge heart hands so archie can see him.
at first, archie looks over all bemused, and then, the spark of recognition – and his smile is bright enough to power the entire concert hall.
hang a shining star upon the highest bough
cook waits for far too long, for them to be alone backstage. people keep coming by, slapping arch on the back and hugging him, saying things like, “good show!” and “love your album!” and “that jim cantiello is so taken with you he keeps asking to have you back on his show!” (and cook needs to find out if that last thing is true, because if so cook is going to have to have a serious word with slim jim; it was bad enough that he made arch wear a horrible Christmas sweater in october).
and cook of course tries to be patient and understanding, because arch is a genuinely caring guy who has many friends and people who want to wish him well, and it’s great that they want to reach out to him – he can see how arch really lights up at every kind and encouraging word from them.
faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us, once more
it does eventually get a little too much, though, and cook is forced once again to take matters into his own hands. arch squawks in surprise, when cook pushes him into the nearest closet.
“cook, wait, what -?”
“I brought you a present,” cook says, in what’s hopefully an inviting manner.
“it’s in here?” arch asks, confusedly, and then, “oh. ohhh.”
“merry Christmas, arch,” says cook, eventually, when they’ve subsided, panting in the half-light and the confined space and full of nothing but each other, and arch clings to his neck and says, “it is, now.”
* for
soverignthorn - Cookleta on the Anthemic tour bus [R]: Link to original post
Wheels Go Round
Cook enjoys touring. He loves the back and forth with the guys and the roadies, sorting out the line-up, lives for flying high on the concert buzz, always makes time to meet the fans at the buses or barricades, after the show. He loves the hazy, delirious comedown, also, all beer and loose-limbed partying, and in the small hours of the morning, there's quiet conversation with his boyfriend, and the heat of their remote love.
What he doesn't enjoy so much is the tour bus thing. It's necessary, of course, to get from place to place. And their bus is nice; deluxe bunks, 500 thread count sheets, soft suspension, fully-furnished kitchenette and living room area. There's a certain pleasure to be derived from living in close quarters with his bandmates, his best friends in all the world - the intensity of such proximity that translates to synergy on stage, the lazy cameraderie of falling asleep in front of beer and the TV.
But, after weeks on the road, the maddening sway of bus wheels, the lack of laundry, the questionable personal hygiene of some of the guys - it gets a little bit too much, sometimes; it becomes less than enjoyable.
Which is why he's suddenly, ridiculously happy when one day David Archuleta shows up at the Dayton stop with his little duffel bag and a huge grin.
He whoops and hollers and wheels Arch in a huge circle, and Arch's bag goes flying and one of his shoes fall off, but neither of them cares very much.
Arch is done touring with Demi, he's taking a break before recording on his Christmas album starts.
"And my folks are kind of fighting at home, so I wanted to get out of their hair," confesses Archie, later, and Cook closes his eyes and presses his mouth to Arch's dark head and tries not to think about smacking Jeff Archuleta in the chin.
With Arch, the tour bus is suddenly all kinds of awesome. The guys are suddenly on their best behavior; nobody forgets to put the toothpaste cap back on, or leaves gross pubes in the shower. In the morning Arch scrambles eggs and Neal makes toast and coffee and Cook hugs them both. In the afternoons, there's a warm lapful of boyfriend as an alternative to the TV. Archie watches their concerts from the wings, and is unreservedly enthusiastic as well as full of constructive suggestions for how to make the show better.
Best of all, the maddening sway of the bus wheels? Happen to align perfectly with the rhythm their bodies have learned from each other. They're rocking, swaying, coming together, as the tour bus rushes into the dark.
"Wish you could be here always," Cook murmurs, into Arch's bare, sweaty skin, feeling the gravel under them, the rolling miles of open road.
Archie grins, and shifts in Cook's bunk. His strong body slots against Cook's, each lining up against the planes and angles of the other. "I'll be here as long as you need me, til I'm satisfied you and Neal won't kill each other," he says, softly.
Cook thinks, that's not nearly long enough, but doesn't say it. He doesn't want to be demanding; Archie has his own career, his own life. He knows they have their work cut out for them, carving a relationship out of their busy days and nights.
He knows they'll make it, but they need to pace themselves, and to be very gentle with each other.
The long road stretches ahead of them, in the distance, under the noisy tour bus wheels.
* for
orochi_kitty – Cookleta go clothes shopping [PG-13]: Link to original post
Dress Me Up in Your Love
"What I'm saying," said Cook, patiently, "is that I think your stylist needs to change up a couple of things."
He was sitting on the couch in Archie's living room. Even the couch was a conservative, age-appropriate plaid hue.
"I think my clothes are fine, Cook." Archie was wearing a t-shirt as yellow as Pikachu, and loose-fitting cargo pants. He looked like he was fifteen. "They match my image? My stylist says it's important that I look fun and approachable, and that I need to look like a role model. I have lots of underage fans, you know."
"Fun and approachable are good things, Arch," said Cook, reassuringly. "And I think your image is great. I just..."
He waved his hand at Archie's ensemble, taking care to speak euphemistically. Arch had gotten a lot less self-conscious than he'd been in the early days of Idol, but he didn't want to make Arch embarrassed about his attire.
"...Look. You're eighteen years old. You have tighter stomach muscles than you'll ever have again." Cook patted his stomach, fondly. "You need to dress your age. Trust me, I think your teenage fans will live to tell the tale."
Archie smiled and shook his head, but let Cook drive him out to Wiltshire Avenue and ply him with cheeseburgers. And he didn't protest much when Cook steered him into the designer men's department at Saks and insisted on pulling clothes off racks for him to try on.
The staff in menswear were used to celebrity customers, and stood at a discreet distance, ready to offer assistance when summoned, but Cook didn't need help. He was on a roll - he'd ushered Archie into a changing room, and was flinging clothes over the top of the door, and kept insisting that Archie come out and show him each outfit, in a humorous movie-montage way.
Archie found Versace too out there, and Cook agreed Armani was too square for the teenager. Archie flat out refused to try the pleather Comme des Garcons pants which Cook had found in his size. Cook attempted to go with Tommy Hilfiger and Ralph Lauren, but their autumn/fall collection wasn't very inspiring, and the fit of their shirts wasn't quite right.
Then, Calvin Klein happened.
Calvin offered a pewter shirt with a subtle, textured weave, fitted enough to emphasize the lean, strong lines of Arch's body, his shoulders, his defined chest and torso; light enough, that Cook wanted to touch the fabric with his fingers, to see how soft it was, and feel the warm skin underneath.
He also offered a black vest, and black jeans that were cunningly woven with just enough lycra that they clung to Arch's muscular thighs and cupped his perfect ass. And cupped, well, other things, that Cook had never really considered, until now.
It was kind of hot in the menswear department, all of a sudden.
Cook watched his hand reach out, as if of its own accord, and undo the top button of the shirt. The slice of bare, golden skin that slid into view made his mouth go dry.
"This is definitely the designer for Mr Archuleta!" gushed a voice at his elbow. It seemed they had an audience, suddenly: the bevy of assistants had snuck up on them while they'd been otherwise engaged.
“Gosh, you think so?” Arch smiled, a little shyly.
Cook gave himself a mental shake. It wasn’t working; he needed more than a mental cold shower. He needed thoughts of Issey Miyake, Bjork’s swan costume, Simon Cowell in the nude. Sadly, these things weren’t working, faced with the sudden, awesome hotness of David Archuleta, appropriately attired in an entirely age-appropriate designer outfit.
Cook wasn’t sure Arch’s teenage fans would in fact live to tell the tale. Truth be told, he was a little worried if he’d survive it himself.
What had their little experiment, their shopping expedition gotten him into? Cook had thought shopping was going to be entirely innocent. But, as they left Saks with shopping bags filled with form-fitting shirts, illegally tight pants and jeans, a motorcycle jacket, and a red tee-shirt that looked like it was painted on, Cook decided he’d seemed to have wandered into an entirely dangerous department, from which he wasn’t sure he’d ever escape.
* for
lexiloumarie - Cookleta: Arch's tired of Cook's neverending Declaration tour [Angsty, PG-13]: Link to original post
DECLARATION BLUES
INT SHOT: THE BEDROOM OF DAVID ARCHULETA’S HOTEL ROOM. IT IS KIND OF MESSY, WHICH IS UNCHARACTERISTIC OF ARCHIE. ARCHIE LOOKS INTO THE CAMERA. THE USUAL BRILLIANT AND SOMEWHAT SAPPY SMILE WHICH HE USUALLY WEARS WHEN HE IS VLOGGING IS MISSING, FOR SOME REASON. HIS EYES ARE DARK.
ARCH: Hi, Cook! Um, when you get this you’ll probably be heading for bed. Not sure if you’ll check your email after the show or the after party, so if you don’t do that then you’ll get this tomorrow when you wake up.
ARCH RUNS A HAND THROUGH HIS HAIR. HE LOOKS TIRED. AS IF HE HASN’T BEEN SLEEPING VERY WELL.
ARCH: Anyway. I wanted to make this log for you so you wouldn’t forget what I look like, haha! You’ve been touring so much, you haven’t had a break since summer. I’m not sure how come this tour seems like it’s never going to end, you know? Which means we’ve hardly seen each other. We hardly get to see each other. I don’t know.
ARCH LOOKS DOWN. HIS VOICE HAD GOTTEN VERY QUIET.
ARCH: I really miss you, Cook.
ARCH RUBS HIS EYES. WE’RE NOT SURE IF IT’S TIREDNESS, OR TEARS.
ARCH: I’m not sure I want to do this any more. I get you work hard, I’m working hard, too. But we need to make more time for each other, okay? Cook? Can you –
[OFF SCREEN: KNOCKING.]
ARCH: …ah, heck, think that’s room service. I’m gonna press pause – no, actually, hold on, it’ll only be a moment…
[ARCH MOVES OFFSCREEN. THERE’S THE SOUND OF A DOOR OPENING, AND THEN, OFF SCREEN, THE SOUND OF A FAMILIAR, GRAVELLY VOICE.]
COOK, OFF SCREEN: Surprise, babe. The Declaration Tour comes to L.A.!
ARCH, OFF SCREEN: OH MY HECK, COOK.
[OFF SCREEN, MESSY SOUNDS OF SURPRISE REUNION; EVENTUALLY, WE FADE TO BLACK.]
[EDITED TO ADD:...THERE MIGHT BE A SEX TAPE, RELEASED SUBSEQUENTLY.]
* for
thebiggest_lie - a Cookleta story in a bar after a show, where everyone is drunk except Arch. (Incl some accidental Nealeta, sorry.) [R for groping, drunkenness]: Link to original post
The Taste of You
When Cook and Archie arrive at the bar, the other guys have been there for a while, and are kind of messed up. It's kind of like this after a show - everyone's buzzed and horny, and after a while, falling-down-drunk.
Kyle puts his arms around Arch. "I love you, David!" He has a Coors in either hand, and his eyes are a dark, dreamy glaze.
"Wrong David," mutters Neal, prying their drummer off Archie. His lip-rings glint under the low bar lights. As Kyle attaches himself around Neal's neck, he hands Cook a short glass of Jack. Neal’s drinking what looks like Jack and coke, and is a little more unsteady on his feet than he usually is, which means he’s had entirely too many such glasses already.
"It's so unfair to Archie that he can't drink," announces Andy, blithely, waving his bottle of Corona.
"Oh, I don't mind," Archie says; he's already blushing furiously, thanks to Kyle's impromptu groping.
"He doesn't enjoy the taste," Cook smirks. He knocks back the glass, and holds it out for more.
"I just don't," Arch shrugs, edging away from Cook a little. "I've tried a couple of different things, wine and beer, but, I don’t know, nothing's really that nice."
"Hey, stop that," Cook grins, tugging him back close in. "You kind of like the taste of some things."
Archie rolls his eyes, but can't suppress his happy squirm when Cook grabs him and kisses him soundly, licking inside his mouth.
"He likes Jack, when I've been drinking it," Cook says smugly, pulling back.
"Um, what?" Kyle's draped himself over Arch again.
"Knock it off, Peek, he's already tasted enough of your Coors breath," says Cook, grinning, but Kyle kisses Arch’s cheek anyway before Cook pries him away. Bemusedly, Kyle sits himself down in Cook’s lap.
"Maybe he'll like Corona. That okay with you, Arch?" Andy smiles, and slides on over, proffering a choice between the bottle and his lips.
Cook bats Andy away, too. "Will you guys all stop propositioning my boyfriend? Arch, don't listen to them, they're all so dronk. Drunk, whatever," and Arch giggles.
"You guys are really funny when you're high. Alcohol obviously makes people, um, less inhibited. Which is why it's bad for you, of course."
"Inhibited isn't necessarily good for you, kid." Neal's a shadow on his right; Jack and Coke, sour and sweet, lingering in his atmosphere.
The both of them look at each other, in the half-light. There's a moment there, where they each wonder what the taste of the other might be like.
"I am so drunk," says Cook, breaking the moment, and Arch puts his arms around his boyfriend's neck, reeling him back in: without the alcohol, they'll never know.
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bwinchester - Cookleta, pining!Cook and oblivious!Arch [PG-13]: An Essay on Pining, and Love
This has been happened so many times before, but it doesn't get old.
Throughout history, from the beginning of time and stories, there's been a Lover and a Beloved, a Pursuer and the Pursued. The lover's desperately in love, the beloved blissfully oblivious. Tristan and Isolde. Heloise and Abelard. The Shepherd and the Nymph. Marquez's Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza. Martin Amis and the Rachel Papers. John Cusack and Say Anything, you know how it is.
Then, there's David Cook, and David Archuleta.
All the hallmarks are there: Cook as Lover - rapt gaze, poignant songs about heartbreak and seeking and setting free, hands that can't help but touch, gently, possessively, the one he loves but feels he can’t have.
If you were to discover that Cook had written feverish lines and verses to the beauty of Archuleta's eyes, or stood outside Archuleta's room in the rain all night, acoustic guitar ready for a moonlit serenade, or alternatively, with a boom-box held high, playing one of his I-am-so-in-love-with-you-and-you-don’t-know songs, you wouldn't be surprised at all. All this is archetypical Lover behavior, given to pining, and extravagant gestures of self-denial and obsession.
Cute like hell, too, as it happens. You've got to appreciate a scruffy rocker who's happy to cry out of love.
Archuleta as Beloved – his role is more passive. He gets to simper, to flutter his eyelashes, oblivious to the torment underpinning the Lover. He’s the object of affection, and of pursuit. Traditionally, he doesn’t get many action sequences.
Gosh, isn’t it nice of Cook to show up at his concert, and to say such nice things about him to interviewers! And, it is kind of hot in this stuffy room, he’s going to roll up his shirt sleeves and unbutton his shirt a little, hope that’s – hey, is Cook all right?
Nobody’s that oblivious. And Archuleta is actually pretty sharp, for all he’s just eighteen.
Tradition has it that the Lover will finally make a move, and the Beloved will look all surprised and astonished, and there’ll be some modest hand-wringing against virginal bosoms, and romantic sequences in the rain, before, finally, there’s surrender to the Lover’s faithful pursuit.
Somewhat less Traditional, of course, is the story in which the Beloved decides to take matters into his own hands, and push away the Lover’s sappy guitar, and make fists in the Lover’s shirt, and kiss the mouth off him like he’s dreamed of doing, for such a long time.
“What took you so long?” the Lover might murmur, and the Beloved might respond, “Hello, making the first move is your job.”
That might happen. Pining isn’t very constructive, when you could have a love scene, instead.
This has happened so many times before, in so many different ways: the Lover and the Beloved, their blissful consummation, however it’s derived.
But, you know, although every couple is different, with their unique quirks and individual natures that occasionally screw with the stereotype, each time the Lover and the Beloved meet in love, each time the Pursued gets his man, is just as awesome as the first.
* for
gracelessheart - Cook/Archie/Andrew, fie upon her! [Angsty, PG-13]: hold on, to anything at all
The two men he loves the most in the whole world, and they’re asleep in each other’s arms, in his bed.
They look entirely innocent, exhausted, still in funereal black.
Arch is still wearing his black tie, although it’s loose, and a couple of buttons on his white shirt have come undone, such that there’s a length of white, ingenuous throat laid bare, his dark head tilted back against the pillows. He’s lying on his back, one arm thrown back, slack-limbed like a child, the splay of his muscular thighs looking nothing like a child’s. He’d considerately taken his shoes off before deciding to power nap on David’s bed.
Andrew’s jacketless, tieless, unbespectacled in sleep. For some reason, he’s also decided to nap, and to do so curled up next to his brother’s boyfriend, long nose against Arch’s shoulder, one arm loosely coiled around Arch’s waist. He’s hooked a thumb into one of Arch’s belt loops. There are tear marks on his narrow face; David’s heart aches a little, at the sight.
David steps in closer, taking off his jacket, loosening his own tie, unbuttoning his shirt. He looks down on them, in their sleep.
Is it his imagination, or does Andrew press more closely to Arch, murmuring unconscious things into the shell-like ear? He watches his brother’s fingers flutter, in Arch’s beltline, sleeping flesh seeking comfort and warmth. He watches Arch shift closer to Andrew, thighs stirring restlessly. His eyelashes move as if in lucid dreaming.
David wonders why he isn’t more curious about this, more upset, maybe. But it’s been an exhausting, emotional day for everyone, filled with tears and an aching grief that still fills his mouth with bitterness, and, tired to the core of him, he figures that, you know, anything to help with the ache and the loneliness is going to be welcome.
So, he kicks off his own shoes, and gets into bed with them, very carefully. First, he kisses his brother on the nose, and then on the mouth, like he used to do when they were little, and there were three of them.
Andrew tastes like chewing gum, and saltiness. It's this combination that makes David press himself against his boy, and muffle his own tears against the back of Arch’s neck.
Arch mumbles something, and leans against him. The curve of his ass, the broad swathe of his back, roll against David, and the desire to weep becomes another kind of desire. David holds his breath.
Gently, he slides his arm around Archie’s waist. His hand covers Andrew’s narrower one; the same blood running in both their veins, palming the strange, familiar pulse point in Arch’s belly.
The three of them hold tight to each other, in David’s bed.
* for
tankshallkill - David/Kyle take a nap [PG-13]: Link to original post
all innocent
The band’s suite has a large sofa and it’s currently occupied by a sleeping David Cook, curled up like a tousled, overgrown child in leather and pointy boots. At the sight, Kyle feels an unexpected tugging at his heart.
He tells himself it’s because Dave reminds him of his boy in that position. Hayden’s fond of falling asleep on the sofa curled up just like that, a soft comma of rosy limbs and bright hair, smelling of crayons and kisses. When he sees Hayden asleep like that, Kyle can’t resist lying down too, pressing close and gathering his son in his arms.
Kyle tells himself it’s this instinct that makes him lie down now beside Dave, pressing close. He puts his arms around Dave experimentally, the long limbs, the bright hair. Dave smells of ink, of exertion, long nights in front of screaming crowds, and underneath he smells vulnerable, just like little Hayden does.
When Kyle puts his arms around Dave, Dave makes a little sound, and cuddles close, like Hayden would. It’s strangely comforting to Kyle, to be here with his front-man in his arms, holding Dave as if he were Kyle’s child.
Kyle pushes away the unexpected tugging at somewhere else that isn’t his heart, and eventually falls asleep as well.
Which is how the large sofa in the suite comes to be occupied by David Cook and Kyle Peek, sleeping and curled up around each other like overgrown children. For all their pointy boots and smelly t-shirts, they look as innocent as boys.
At the sight, Neal and Andy feel an unexpected surge of something else.
Which could be why they opt to leap on Dave and Kyle with pillows and wake them up raucously and tease the hell out of them, rather than leaving them peaceful and sleeping, perhaps to wake to love in each other’s arms.
* for
micheleeeex - long-time-comin' David Cook/Kelly Clarkson[R]: Link to original post
Play That Song for Me
They met each other again at the launch of the American Idol Experience in Orlando, under the hot lights.
She, the first winner, he, the latest one: both of them at different ends of the Idol continuum that had started with her, dark-haired and uncompromising, with the biggest voice to grace that wide stage; that had ended with him, at least for that year, the rocker boy who had cleaned up his act and become an unlikely, Michael Jackson-song-covering sex symbol.
He was wearing white shirt-sleeves and a gray vest that matched his eyes, like an old jazz tune. She was a rock ballad in midnight black.
She watched him sing a remarkably cheesy song with Carrie Underwood, who had been wearing a jumpsuit and a cheery smile and far too much glitter, and tried not to roll her eyes.
He watched her sail past Clive Davies and give the big boss an elegantly chilly shoulder. For some reason, it made him grin hard.
She left the party early; she wasn’t an indentured slave to 19E any more, like he was. When he saw she was leaving, he cut short a conversation with one of the execs and came over to say goodbye.
He held out his hand, and she took it.
And then, one of them tugged the other into a quick hug, neither of them was quite sure who it was. She felt the scratchiness of his beard; he felt her soft cheek - there was a sudden burst of electricity -
- (and there’s a rocking melody sweeping over them both, and they’re pressed against each other, leaning against a wall somewhere, kissing messily, endlessly, his hands hiking her dress up her thighs, past her hips, stroking the seam of her panties and the skin underneath, her hands catching in his hair, all fast breath and tongues and a wordless, electric song, and someone’s voice calling, calling out) -
- and the lightning flared, and they broke apart, staring at each other.
As the last notes of their shared music shivered over them, he wondered if this was a prelude to a far more epic duet, that they might, one day soon, sing together.
She didn’t wonder. She knew.
Link to original compilation post