Charity Fic 46: Three Races
Apr. 23rd, 2010 10:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
labyrinth2015Here squeaking in under deadline with this week’s ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ficforhope prompt!
Title: THREE RACES
Pairing:Cook/Underwood, Cook/Anthemic, Cook/Archuleta
Rating/Warnings: Unbetaed, [PG] to [mild R]
Summary: Three races, three loves, three times Cook runs the Race for Hope.
Dedication: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
leici and likealocket, for running this challenge, and, as always my sponsor ssdimes.
Not-for-profit work of fiction, no libel or intellectual property violations intended. Real persons referenced belong to themselves. Will remove without prejudice if cease and desist validly issued.
Race for Hope, Washington DC, Freedom Plaza is a 5K walk/run with the goal of raising $1.5 million to fund innovative brain tumor research and support for families affected by this devastating disease. Proceeds benefit two not-for-profit organizations, the Brain Tumor Society and Accelerate Brain Cancer Cure.
A reminder of how DCook run the race last year: self-deprecating wit, humor, sheer courage. ILH so much.
THREE RACES
First Race: You gotta run to win and not be hung up on the time
(Cook/Carrie Underwood), [PG], 1,319 words
In the shadow of the roped-off VIP area at Freedom Plaza, David Cook did his usual pre-run warm-ups and stretched out - first hamstrings, then quads.
He was considering the numbers in his head. Last year he ran 5 kilometers in 28 minutes and they’d raised two million bucks. This year, he’d committed to breaking both records - hey, you couldn’t blame a guy for being competitive.
This year they looked like they were going to hit their fund-raising target, which was awesome, given the state of the economy and their share of the charity dollar.
As for improving his time – well, that was on the cards too. He’d had more time to train this year now the Declaration Tour of 2009 was over, and he had a kickass new trainer and multi-station training regime that had seen him drop 20 per cent on his time in the gym, so he felt pretty confident.
The training and new diet had also had the unexpected benefit of getting rid of most of his spare tire. Dave patted his belly, mentally congratulated it on its new hotness, and promised it some fries and a cheeseburger when the race was over.
He was bending over to tighten the laces on his Nikes when he heard the voice: adored by millions, sounding like platinum and the sound of all Dave’s dreams.
“Plannin’ on running somewhere?”
He pulled up so fast the blood drained from his head. Carrie Underwood held on to his arm, laughing, steadying him like she would have done if he were falling down drunk, and right now, he might as well be.
He’d last seen her two weeks ago on the Idol stage, flawless in a shimmering black and pewter gown and singing about changing the world. Effortless and heartbreaking, she did that to him every damn time he watched her perform.
Two weeks later: she was wearing a Race for Hope kid’s T-shirt and had her hair in pigtails and looked like she was about sixteen years old.
He had no idea how her manager let her out of the house wearing shorts that short. The sight of her legs and perfect ass wasn’t helping with blood flow to his brain either, now he thought about it.
“Oh my God, Carrie!” He would have hugged her, but he had already started sweating in the humid Washington morning.
“That’s me.” She adjusted the Royals cap on her head. “I signed up on your team online, d’you know you can totally do that? And I sent you a message sayin’ I was coming!”
Dave frowned. “Not sure how I missed that. My cell has been crazy since I got back from Ethiopia. So: to what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit?”
He thought that uncertainty clouded her eyes for an instant before she grinned and waved it away. “I’d hoped to catch you on Idol Gives Back, Dave, but it seems we missed each other. I knew you were headlining the run today. You know I like to run, so I’m here!” She hesitated again and said, “And I remembered about your brother. How’s everyone holding up?”
Dave had to look away and swallow hard, for a moment. “We’re good,” he said after a while. “They say the first anniversary’s always the toughest.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, and put her hand on his arm. Her smooth fingertips were as hot as the summer morning. He chanced a look at her; her eyes were a glaze of blue.
“Thank you,” he said, and they stood in silence for a while. Then she took her hand away, and he exhaled fiercely, shook himself and focused on where they were now: in D.C., in 2010, about to flag off on five kilometers of running in honor of those who couldn’t run any more.
“You know, if you’d been up for singing at IGB we coulda done another duet,” Carrie said, starting to warm up herself. Her engagement ring sparkled in the early morning light.
“Better make sure the lawyers clear this one properly,” said Dave. He was still annoyed management had initially green-lighted their duet last year on Van Halen’s “Why Can’t This Be Love” and then had pulled the plug on it at the last moment.
Carrie grimaced. Despite himself, Dave remembered standing at her side for the taping of the Carrie Underwood Christmas Special, singing that song with her (It’s got what it takes, So tell me why can’t this be love?), their voices blending with each other’s as if they’d been made to sing together always. How it had felt like to hold her hand, and feel the world fall away.
How it had felt, a couple of weeks later, seeing the press pictures of her, arm in arm with Mike Fisher, wearing a boulder-sized yellow diamond that looked too large and garish for that fine-boned hand.
“This time I’ll look at the contracts myself,” Carrie was telling him grimly. “Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure I clear everything before I come pitch to you again, okay?”
Dave tried hard not to think: ah, if only you would. Straight from my heart, Oh, tell me why can’t this be love?
He made himself smile. Over her head, he could see his manager, Michelle, coming over with one of the chief marshals; they were about to signal the start of the race. The marshall was wearing an “Oh my God Carrie Underwood!” expression, Michelle was looking around for Carrie’s management to chew them out about not giving her the head’s up earlier, and Dave turned to Carrie’s upturned, expectant face.
He said, “I think the race is gonna start.”
She nodded. “Seriously, David, you should think about the duet. Maybe we could write together some time. You know we’re awesome together.”
Was there something other than just pure professionalism underneath her casual voice? The veneer of friendship built from the years of shared Southern experience and their shared industry? Would she have come out here to run with him if that was all there was? Dave couldn’t tell. He knew she didn’t belong to him, much as he wished things were different.
“Are you ready to run?” was what he asked her.
She shrugged. “Me? I’m always ready. The question is: do you think you can keep up?”
And there was the real question. You’ve got to run to win and I’ll be damned if I’ll get hung up on the time.
He said, “I can totally take you, Underwood.”
There: you couldn’t blame a guy for being competitive.
Carrie grinned, her eyes sparkled; she liked competitive. That was one of the things Dave loved about her.
They were ushered to the starting point, past whispers of “Carrie Underwood, oh my God!” and camera flashes. Amid a sea of handlers and marshalls, they took their mark, side by side.
Dave saw her looking at him from under her blue cap, eyes like the bright sky overhead. He knew he should say something. But all the things that popped into his head were stupid (like Come out to dinner with me tonight, and You know that guy whose ring you’re wearing? Doesn’t deserve you), and he didn’t want Carrie to punch him in the face. Even if she did feel something, even if she’d meant something by what she’d last said, now wasn’t the time to raise it with her.
I tell myself only fools rush in, and only time will tell if we’ll stand the test of time.
Who knew? Perhaps it might never be the right time for them. Dave knew it wasn’t up to him. Everything between them had always began and ended with her.
The marshall gave the signal; the starter’s flag went up.
Carrie threw him a grin over one elegant shoulder and set off, and he could do nothing except follow her lead.
Second Race: Something’s right when you run too far, can’t you see
(Cook/Neal/Andy), (Cook/Anthemic), mild [R] for allusions to m/m sex, 1,285 words
“We need something to distract him,” Neal had said.
“And how do you propose we do that?” Andy wanted to know. He was stretched out in the bed in Neal’s room.
For some reason that wasn’t entirely clear to Andy, Neal was sharing space in the Cook brothers’ house in L.A. To make Neal feel at home, Dave had put up a huge vintage poster of Bjork in her swan dress over the bed. The effect was negated by someone else having drawn a moustache on the pixie-faced Icelandic singer – Neal said he suspected Drew, but apparently Drew had had an alibi for the weekday in question. Whoever it was, they’d had to get on Neal’s bed to draw it, which kind of narrowed the field.
Neal shrugged. “Music always works. But I think he’s already arranged his writing schedule, and there’s nothing happening that evening after the race.”
They were silent for a couple of beats, remembering how things had been for Dave last year. They’d just come offstage in West Palm Beach when Dave had got the call – the one that they’d known would be coming for weeks now, but which still gutted them all.
Dave had gotten on the first plane out to Terra Haute, and had then flown to D.C. to run that race with more courage than the rest of them put together. Then he’d come back to perform with them in Athens, all hot eyes and brave smile and a febrile, kinetic energy: flinging himself into the music as if he was desperate to affirm that he was alive, that he was still singing his song and sounding his guitar, even though one of the voices he’d loved had been silenced.
It had lasted maybe a week. They’d carefully tiptoed around Dave in the day, showed up to pay their respects at the funeral, practiced with him their routines and stage drills, over and over. Then there'd been the nights onstage, trying to keep up with him or keep him from running aground, Andy wasn’t sure which. Dave had been back to normal when they’d headed out to Manila in mid-May.
That was the way Dave had coped, this time last year, using the distraction of the tour and the music. This year was somewhat thin on the ground by way of distractions.
“Of course, there’s always sex,” Andy said, after a while.
As one, they saw the same memory: backstage in Ohio, Dave flying high on the post-concert adrenaline, still caught in the teeth of grief that hadn’t let him go and maybe never would.
That Dave had gotten into a shouting fight with Neal over a minor line-up change, something stupid and small that escalated until Dave was shouting, Fucker, what you say isn’t what you mean, you’re nothing to me, go on, leave. Neal had grabbed Dave's shirt to stop him from popping Neal in the chin or clawing his own face off, Andy had tried to get in between them both to stop them from killing each other -- and suddenly Dave was crying, and Neal was kissing him, and Dave wound his fingers tightly in Andy’s hair. The three of them had ended up having messy, frantic sex on the ratty old changing room sofa, with Dave holding Neal down, and Andy trying to keep up, and Kyle and Joey wondering where everyone had gotten to.
They’d put Dave to bed afterwards and held him as he cried himself to sleep. Then they’d done it again the next day, more gently - Neal’s turn this time, slow and sure. It had been obvious that Dave needed the solace, needed to know he wasn’t alone. Even Jennie had told Andy he’d done the right thing.
Now, Neal chewed on his lip-rings, then nodded. “Jennie gonna be okay with this, if we do it again?”
Andy nodded. “Think so. How about Kira?”
“She’ll be pissed we didn’t invite her, but I’ll make it up to her next month,” Neal grinned.
Andy mused, “Maybe we won’t need to. He’s actually been fine since. Okay, there was that night before New Year’s Eve, but that was more because of beer than a real need for distraction.”
“Huh,” said Neal. “Still. We should get Monty and the kid on board.”
Andy grinned, remembering the communal shower and the champagne at the Pechanga; the antics, the cheesy heart-shaped bed which they’d all gotten some use out of, eventually. Good times. “Okay, I’ll spread the word.”
*
Dave was totally taken aback when his four band-mates showed up at the West Beverly track in varying tee-shirts and track pants and running shoes.
“Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” he asked, glaring at Kyle’s sunny smile and Neal’s last emergency cigarette.
“It’s not a joke!” protested Monty. “We just wanna support you in D.C., even an old-timer like me, and the Doc, who can’t go a lap without coughing his lungs out.”
Dave looked at them all, and got red around the eyes in the way that he did when he was trying not to cry. “Fuck, I love you guys so much,” he said, and flung his arms around Andy’s and Kyle’s necks. Andy held Dave gingerly and felt the heat in Dave’s muscles, straining under Dave’s thin T-shirt, and then scowled over Dave’s head at Neal: You’re right, he’s totally on edge, he needs us.
Neal rolled his eyes, looked longingly at his cigarette, then tossed it and ground it out with the heel of his trainer. “We’re burning daylight,” he said, resignedly. “We should run.”
*
When they started training, Dave left all of them in the dirt, except for fleet-footed Kyle. So it had fallen to their young, lithe, energetic drummer to pace Dave at the race itself.
Andy wasn’t in too bad shape, as it turned out, and he managed to keep David and Kyle in sight as they cut a swathe through the field, followed by a bunch of race personnel. Monty and Neal brought up the rear – Andy made a mental note to get Kira to toss Neal’s cigs because the nicotine was making the Doctor seriously short of breath.
Twenty-eight minutes later, he pulled up at the finish line and fell into a deep squat and put his head over his knees. Shit, he wasn't as fit as he thought; maybe he should get Jennie to toss the stir-fryer for him too.
Dave and Kyle strolled over, laughing. Dave had one arm hooked around Kyle’s neck; his hair was a wreck, he was drenched in sweat, the perspiration rolling off him in rivulets, and he had never looked more beautiful.
“Thanks, man,” he said to Andy and helped him to his feet. “What’s your time?”
Andy waved weakly at the nearest time-keeper, and Kyle high-fived him and said, “Awesome!”
Monty and Neal staggered in at the thirty-three minute mark. Neal did in fact puke, and while the guys snickered a little at first, they did make a belated effort to assist. Dave looped an arm around Neal’s broad shoulders and said, “How we doin’, Doc?”
Neal gave him the middle finger. “When I get my breath back, I’m gonna start trainin’ for next year. Gonna give you a run for your money, heartthrob.”
Dave grinned and stuck his tongue in Neal’s ear. Monty said, “I’m totally training too!” Kyle preened and tossed his ponytail and jogged on the spot.
Andy saw the spark in Dave’s eyes. He knew, Dave did, that as long as the guys had his back, he’d never be alone. None of them would.
Forward, on – Andy put his arms around his sweaty front-man, and Neal held on tight.
Third Race: Out there running straight to me
(Cook/Archuleta), [PG], 1,310 words
Cook wasn't sure what Archie had in mind when he'd asked to run the Race for Hope with him. He'd had dinner with Arch a month ago at Casa Vega and it had been great to catch up, but they hadn’t seen each other since.
Cook wasn't constantly online or as quick with the Twitter like some of the young'uns, so he'd missed the first wave of the trouble Arch had gotten into over his visit to Club 57 in NYC.
He could just picture the shit-storm at the Archuleta ground control. Jeff no longer permanently resided there, but still, there must have been serious freaking out happening.
He'd messaged Arch after, discreetly: Hey, hope you're ok. Let me know if you need anything.
It had taken a couple of hours for Arch to message back: I'm good, haha, lying low. The timelag wasn't usual for a texting fiend like Arch. Crap.
He hoped this incident hadn't been a setback - Arch had had pretty much free rein on the promo front since he'd taken control of his management team, a step which Cook had mentally applauded as a significant milestone for Arch.
Of course, there was one milestone which was of particular interest for Cook.
He remembered the old questions that people posed about Arch's sexuality: the fake smile on Arch's face, the seething beneath his own polite answers. Obviously, Arch hadn't been ready to head there then.
And from the recent trouble it looked like Arch still wasn't ready to head there. He wasn't sure when Arch would be ready. He knew what he hoped: he wanted very much Arch to take that significant step towards finding himself, because it was only then that Arch might see clear to taking a step towards Cook.
Who may or may not have been waiting for a while for that to happen.
But anyway, shit-storm, and then Arch had to clarify he was distancing himself from the club scene and not from his sexuality, or anyone else's.
So Cook had offered support, Arch had said no thanks. Cook had replied, Sometimes lying low is best! Discretion, better part of valor, etc, and that had been it.
Cook’s schedule pre-Race had been so hectic: work on the new record, IGB, training for his run, family time coming up on the anniversary of Adam’s death, so he hadn’t had time to worry about it. He was really surprised when Michelle told him Arch's people had approached her and told her Arch wanted to run the Race for Hope with him.
"Of course they're probably thinking, post-ClubGate, it’s a good thing for Archie to do his bit for charity and hang out with his gay-friendly BFF," Michelle said, rolling her eyes a bit. "Leverage off the old Cookleta bromance, you know how the fans'll come flocking back for that."
Cook grimaced. "It doesn't matter. Of course I'd love Arch to come."
Michelle eyed him. "Really, you're cool with being used as, as some kinda gaywash? You are such a sucker for the kid."
Cook didn't meet her eyes. She didn't know how much of a sucker for Arch he really was.
*
@thedavidcook Hey @DavidArchie, coming to run with me? Awesome.
Michelle was right, the fans went crazy.
*
Race Day dawned hazy and blue. When Cook and his family and team got to Freedom Plaza, Archie was already there, wearing the race t-shirt and running shorts and really serious trainers, and that cute bowl-like haircut which Cook had kept wanting to muss up.
"Hey!" said Arch, brightly, and they hugged for the cameras. Cook felt the curling tension in Arch's taut muscles; his friend was as tense as a spring.
"Glad you could make it," Cook said softly into Arch’s hair.
Arch relaxed a little in Cook's arms, then pulled awkwardly away. "Thanks for having me! This is such a great cause, I know how much it means to you."
Cook grinned. "Hey, thank you. Your team raised the bar on fund-raising! My team's ahead, though."
He gave Arch a friendly elbow, and one of the bright sparks amongst the reporters called, "So are we gonna see some competition out there today? Idol Season 7 Finale, Battle of the Davids Round 2?"
Arch gave his uneasy laugh, and Cook said, "C'mon, guys, this is a charity run!" The reporters subsided, snickering and nodding to each other – c’mon, of course there would be competition.
Eventually, the cameras stopped flashing. Arch turned to say hello to Cook’s dad and Cook’s little nieces – some of the kids had wanted to take part this year in the Kids’ Fun Run, and Stan had agreed to come out and pace them this year. Cook thought this might be the start of a cool family tradition.
When they started to warm up for serious, Arch standing on one leg and stretching out his thigh, Cook leaned in again. "’Course, I know you think you can totally outrun me."
He'd caught Arch by surprise, and there was that real, lightbulb smile which always lit up Cook's world. "Well, I run every day," Archie said. "And my time's pretty good over 5 km. So, yeah, I think I can."
"I might surprise you! I've been training," Cook said.
It was Arch who surprised him, though, by eyeing him with a rather appraising, adult look. "Looks like it. I was gonna tell you the night we had dinner, but, y'know." Archie shrugged, which could have meant a variety of things.
Cook wasn't sure what to think. Arch in running shorts, hands on his hips, broader in the chest and shoulders than he'd been a year ago. He was leaving his teens behind, becoming a man, something not entirely apparent a month ago under low restaurant lights and the new hairstyle, but that was plain as the daylight in Freedom Plaza this morning.
Arch shifted restlessly on the balls of his feet. Cook was filled with the sense that Arch was on the brink of running somewhere; running from something, or maybe it was that Arch was considering running towards it instead.
He said, "Why'd you really want to come today, Arch?"
Arch looked at him. The dark eyes Cook knew and at the same time today realized he didn’t know, filled with things Arch hadn’t told him.
"I was thinking…” said Arch. “About the club thing, about how you would have handled it. I should've asked you."
There were many things Cook could have said to that, but the one he went with was, “You know I’m here for you, Arch. Any time, you got it.”
Arch nodded. “I do. I know that. Thanks, Cook.” For a moment, he looked like he was seventeen again and full of uncertain hope, and as if he was about to take a rare step towards Cook.
“We’re ready,” Michelle said, meaningfully, and Arch’s hand fell away.
Cook could hardly look at Arch as they walked toward the start line. Archie was staring straight ahead at something indefinite that was just beyond the horizon, out of reach, but that he could maybe get to one day if he kept running towards it. How did that song of Arch's go? He'd got his good shoes on, got his winning focus; he was running straight to you.
I don’t know how far I’ve got, but I don’t care.
He wanted to reach over and take hold of his friend’s hand. He wanted to tell Arch: You don't have to keep running. All this stuff, you’ll find it out if you just believe in yourself. I'll do anything to help you. I love you.
He didn't say these things. He knew it was important for Arch to get there by himself, to find his way to Cook by himself.
All Cook could do was run by his side, and keep the pace.
ETA: The multi-talentedlikealocket made a podfic of this story! Download her podfic here, and if you liked her lovely voice and flawless delivery, be sure to let her know!
ficforhope prompt!Title: THREE RACES
Pairing:Cook/Underwood, Cook/Anthemic, Cook/Archuleta
Rating/Warnings: Unbetaed, [PG] to [mild R]
Summary: Three races, three loves, three times Cook runs the Race for Hope.
Dedication: For
leici and likealocket, for running this challenge, and, as always my sponsor ssdimes.Not-for-profit work of fiction, no libel or intellectual property violations intended. Real persons referenced belong to themselves. Will remove without prejudice if cease and desist validly issued.
Race for Hope, Washington DC, Freedom Plaza is a 5K walk/run with the goal of raising $1.5 million to fund innovative brain tumor research and support for families affected by this devastating disease. Proceeds benefit two not-for-profit organizations, the Brain Tumor Society and Accelerate Brain Cancer Cure.
A reminder of how DCook run the race last year: self-deprecating wit, humor, sheer courage. ILH so much.
THREE RACES
First Race: You gotta run to win and not be hung up on the time
(Cook/Carrie Underwood), [PG], 1,319 words
In the shadow of the roped-off VIP area at Freedom Plaza, David Cook did his usual pre-run warm-ups and stretched out - first hamstrings, then quads.
He was considering the numbers in his head. Last year he ran 5 kilometers in 28 minutes and they’d raised two million bucks. This year, he’d committed to breaking both records - hey, you couldn’t blame a guy for being competitive.
This year they looked like they were going to hit their fund-raising target, which was awesome, given the state of the economy and their share of the charity dollar.
As for improving his time – well, that was on the cards too. He’d had more time to train this year now the Declaration Tour of 2009 was over, and he had a kickass new trainer and multi-station training regime that had seen him drop 20 per cent on his time in the gym, so he felt pretty confident.
The training and new diet had also had the unexpected benefit of getting rid of most of his spare tire. Dave patted his belly, mentally congratulated it on its new hotness, and promised it some fries and a cheeseburger when the race was over.
He was bending over to tighten the laces on his Nikes when he heard the voice: adored by millions, sounding like platinum and the sound of all Dave’s dreams.
“Plannin’ on running somewhere?”
He pulled up so fast the blood drained from his head. Carrie Underwood held on to his arm, laughing, steadying him like she would have done if he were falling down drunk, and right now, he might as well be.
He’d last seen her two weeks ago on the Idol stage, flawless in a shimmering black and pewter gown and singing about changing the world. Effortless and heartbreaking, she did that to him every damn time he watched her perform.
Two weeks later: she was wearing a Race for Hope kid’s T-shirt and had her hair in pigtails and looked like she was about sixteen years old.
He had no idea how her manager let her out of the house wearing shorts that short. The sight of her legs and perfect ass wasn’t helping with blood flow to his brain either, now he thought about it.
“Oh my God, Carrie!” He would have hugged her, but he had already started sweating in the humid Washington morning.
“That’s me.” She adjusted the Royals cap on her head. “I signed up on your team online, d’you know you can totally do that? And I sent you a message sayin’ I was coming!”
Dave frowned. “Not sure how I missed that. My cell has been crazy since I got back from Ethiopia. So: to what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit?”
He thought that uncertainty clouded her eyes for an instant before she grinned and waved it away. “I’d hoped to catch you on Idol Gives Back, Dave, but it seems we missed each other. I knew you were headlining the run today. You know I like to run, so I’m here!” She hesitated again and said, “And I remembered about your brother. How’s everyone holding up?”
Dave had to look away and swallow hard, for a moment. “We’re good,” he said after a while. “They say the first anniversary’s always the toughest.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, and put her hand on his arm. Her smooth fingertips were as hot as the summer morning. He chanced a look at her; her eyes were a glaze of blue.
“Thank you,” he said, and they stood in silence for a while. Then she took her hand away, and he exhaled fiercely, shook himself and focused on where they were now: in D.C., in 2010, about to flag off on five kilometers of running in honor of those who couldn’t run any more.
“You know, if you’d been up for singing at IGB we coulda done another duet,” Carrie said, starting to warm up herself. Her engagement ring sparkled in the early morning light.
“Better make sure the lawyers clear this one properly,” said Dave. He was still annoyed management had initially green-lighted their duet last year on Van Halen’s “Why Can’t This Be Love” and then had pulled the plug on it at the last moment.
Carrie grimaced. Despite himself, Dave remembered standing at her side for the taping of the Carrie Underwood Christmas Special, singing that song with her (It’s got what it takes, So tell me why can’t this be love?), their voices blending with each other’s as if they’d been made to sing together always. How it had felt like to hold her hand, and feel the world fall away.
How it had felt, a couple of weeks later, seeing the press pictures of her, arm in arm with Mike Fisher, wearing a boulder-sized yellow diamond that looked too large and garish for that fine-boned hand.
“This time I’ll look at the contracts myself,” Carrie was telling him grimly. “Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure I clear everything before I come pitch to you again, okay?”
Dave tried hard not to think: ah, if only you would. Straight from my heart, Oh, tell me why can’t this be love?
He made himself smile. Over her head, he could see his manager, Michelle, coming over with one of the chief marshals; they were about to signal the start of the race. The marshall was wearing an “Oh my God Carrie Underwood!” expression, Michelle was looking around for Carrie’s management to chew them out about not giving her the head’s up earlier, and Dave turned to Carrie’s upturned, expectant face.
He said, “I think the race is gonna start.”
She nodded. “Seriously, David, you should think about the duet. Maybe we could write together some time. You know we’re awesome together.”
Was there something other than just pure professionalism underneath her casual voice? The veneer of friendship built from the years of shared Southern experience and their shared industry? Would she have come out here to run with him if that was all there was? Dave couldn’t tell. He knew she didn’t belong to him, much as he wished things were different.
“Are you ready to run?” was what he asked her.
She shrugged. “Me? I’m always ready. The question is: do you think you can keep up?”
And there was the real question. You’ve got to run to win and I’ll be damned if I’ll get hung up on the time.
He said, “I can totally take you, Underwood.”
There: you couldn’t blame a guy for being competitive.
Carrie grinned, her eyes sparkled; she liked competitive. That was one of the things Dave loved about her.
They were ushered to the starting point, past whispers of “Carrie Underwood, oh my God!” and camera flashes. Amid a sea of handlers and marshalls, they took their mark, side by side.
Dave saw her looking at him from under her blue cap, eyes like the bright sky overhead. He knew he should say something. But all the things that popped into his head were stupid (like Come out to dinner with me tonight, and You know that guy whose ring you’re wearing? Doesn’t deserve you), and he didn’t want Carrie to punch him in the face. Even if she did feel something, even if she’d meant something by what she’d last said, now wasn’t the time to raise it with her.
I tell myself only fools rush in, and only time will tell if we’ll stand the test of time.
Who knew? Perhaps it might never be the right time for them. Dave knew it wasn’t up to him. Everything between them had always began and ended with her.
The marshall gave the signal; the starter’s flag went up.
Carrie threw him a grin over one elegant shoulder and set off, and he could do nothing except follow her lead.
Second Race: Something’s right when you run too far, can’t you see
(Cook/Neal/Andy), (Cook/Anthemic), mild [R] for allusions to m/m sex, 1,285 words
“We need something to distract him,” Neal had said.
“And how do you propose we do that?” Andy wanted to know. He was stretched out in the bed in Neal’s room.
For some reason that wasn’t entirely clear to Andy, Neal was sharing space in the Cook brothers’ house in L.A. To make Neal feel at home, Dave had put up a huge vintage poster of Bjork in her swan dress over the bed. The effect was negated by someone else having drawn a moustache on the pixie-faced Icelandic singer – Neal said he suspected Drew, but apparently Drew had had an alibi for the weekday in question. Whoever it was, they’d had to get on Neal’s bed to draw it, which kind of narrowed the field.
Neal shrugged. “Music always works. But I think he’s already arranged his writing schedule, and there’s nothing happening that evening after the race.”
They were silent for a couple of beats, remembering how things had been for Dave last year. They’d just come offstage in West Palm Beach when Dave had got the call – the one that they’d known would be coming for weeks now, but which still gutted them all.
Dave had gotten on the first plane out to Terra Haute, and had then flown to D.C. to run that race with more courage than the rest of them put together. Then he’d come back to perform with them in Athens, all hot eyes and brave smile and a febrile, kinetic energy: flinging himself into the music as if he was desperate to affirm that he was alive, that he was still singing his song and sounding his guitar, even though one of the voices he’d loved had been silenced.
It had lasted maybe a week. They’d carefully tiptoed around Dave in the day, showed up to pay their respects at the funeral, practiced with him their routines and stage drills, over and over. Then there'd been the nights onstage, trying to keep up with him or keep him from running aground, Andy wasn’t sure which. Dave had been back to normal when they’d headed out to Manila in mid-May.
That was the way Dave had coped, this time last year, using the distraction of the tour and the music. This year was somewhat thin on the ground by way of distractions.
“Of course, there’s always sex,” Andy said, after a while.
As one, they saw the same memory: backstage in Ohio, Dave flying high on the post-concert adrenaline, still caught in the teeth of grief that hadn’t let him go and maybe never would.
That Dave had gotten into a shouting fight with Neal over a minor line-up change, something stupid and small that escalated until Dave was shouting, Fucker, what you say isn’t what you mean, you’re nothing to me, go on, leave. Neal had grabbed Dave's shirt to stop him from popping Neal in the chin or clawing his own face off, Andy had tried to get in between them both to stop them from killing each other -- and suddenly Dave was crying, and Neal was kissing him, and Dave wound his fingers tightly in Andy’s hair. The three of them had ended up having messy, frantic sex on the ratty old changing room sofa, with Dave holding Neal down, and Andy trying to keep up, and Kyle and Joey wondering where everyone had gotten to.
They’d put Dave to bed afterwards and held him as he cried himself to sleep. Then they’d done it again the next day, more gently - Neal’s turn this time, slow and sure. It had been obvious that Dave needed the solace, needed to know he wasn’t alone. Even Jennie had told Andy he’d done the right thing.
Now, Neal chewed on his lip-rings, then nodded. “Jennie gonna be okay with this, if we do it again?”
Andy nodded. “Think so. How about Kira?”
“She’ll be pissed we didn’t invite her, but I’ll make it up to her next month,” Neal grinned.
Andy mused, “Maybe we won’t need to. He’s actually been fine since. Okay, there was that night before New Year’s Eve, but that was more because of beer than a real need for distraction.”
“Huh,” said Neal. “Still. We should get Monty and the kid on board.”
Andy grinned, remembering the communal shower and the champagne at the Pechanga; the antics, the cheesy heart-shaped bed which they’d all gotten some use out of, eventually. Good times. “Okay, I’ll spread the word.”
*
Dave was totally taken aback when his four band-mates showed up at the West Beverly track in varying tee-shirts and track pants and running shoes.
“Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” he asked, glaring at Kyle’s sunny smile and Neal’s last emergency cigarette.
“It’s not a joke!” protested Monty. “We just wanna support you in D.C., even an old-timer like me, and the Doc, who can’t go a lap without coughing his lungs out.”
Dave looked at them all, and got red around the eyes in the way that he did when he was trying not to cry. “Fuck, I love you guys so much,” he said, and flung his arms around Andy’s and Kyle’s necks. Andy held Dave gingerly and felt the heat in Dave’s muscles, straining under Dave’s thin T-shirt, and then scowled over Dave’s head at Neal: You’re right, he’s totally on edge, he needs us.
Neal rolled his eyes, looked longingly at his cigarette, then tossed it and ground it out with the heel of his trainer. “We’re burning daylight,” he said, resignedly. “We should run.”
*
When they started training, Dave left all of them in the dirt, except for fleet-footed Kyle. So it had fallen to their young, lithe, energetic drummer to pace Dave at the race itself.
Andy wasn’t in too bad shape, as it turned out, and he managed to keep David and Kyle in sight as they cut a swathe through the field, followed by a bunch of race personnel. Monty and Neal brought up the rear – Andy made a mental note to get Kira to toss Neal’s cigs because the nicotine was making the Doctor seriously short of breath.
Twenty-eight minutes later, he pulled up at the finish line and fell into a deep squat and put his head over his knees. Shit, he wasn't as fit as he thought; maybe he should get Jennie to toss the stir-fryer for him too.
Dave and Kyle strolled over, laughing. Dave had one arm hooked around Kyle’s neck; his hair was a wreck, he was drenched in sweat, the perspiration rolling off him in rivulets, and he had never looked more beautiful.
“Thanks, man,” he said to Andy and helped him to his feet. “What’s your time?”
Andy waved weakly at the nearest time-keeper, and Kyle high-fived him and said, “Awesome!”
Monty and Neal staggered in at the thirty-three minute mark. Neal did in fact puke, and while the guys snickered a little at first, they did make a belated effort to assist. Dave looped an arm around Neal’s broad shoulders and said, “How we doin’, Doc?”
Neal gave him the middle finger. “When I get my breath back, I’m gonna start trainin’ for next year. Gonna give you a run for your money, heartthrob.”
Dave grinned and stuck his tongue in Neal’s ear. Monty said, “I’m totally training too!” Kyle preened and tossed his ponytail and jogged on the spot.
Andy saw the spark in Dave’s eyes. He knew, Dave did, that as long as the guys had his back, he’d never be alone. None of them would.
Forward, on – Andy put his arms around his sweaty front-man, and Neal held on tight.
Third Race: Out there running straight to me
(Cook/Archuleta), [PG], 1,310 words
Cook wasn't sure what Archie had in mind when he'd asked to run the Race for Hope with him. He'd had dinner with Arch a month ago at Casa Vega and it had been great to catch up, but they hadn’t seen each other since.
Cook wasn't constantly online or as quick with the Twitter like some of the young'uns, so he'd missed the first wave of the trouble Arch had gotten into over his visit to Club 57 in NYC.
He could just picture the shit-storm at the Archuleta ground control. Jeff no longer permanently resided there, but still, there must have been serious freaking out happening.
He'd messaged Arch after, discreetly: Hey, hope you're ok. Let me know if you need anything.
It had taken a couple of hours for Arch to message back: I'm good, haha, lying low. The timelag wasn't usual for a texting fiend like Arch. Crap.
He hoped this incident hadn't been a setback - Arch had had pretty much free rein on the promo front since he'd taken control of his management team, a step which Cook had mentally applauded as a significant milestone for Arch.
Of course, there was one milestone which was of particular interest for Cook.
He remembered the old questions that people posed about Arch's sexuality: the fake smile on Arch's face, the seething beneath his own polite answers. Obviously, Arch hadn't been ready to head there then.
And from the recent trouble it looked like Arch still wasn't ready to head there. He wasn't sure when Arch would be ready. He knew what he hoped: he wanted very much Arch to take that significant step towards finding himself, because it was only then that Arch might see clear to taking a step towards Cook.
Who may or may not have been waiting for a while for that to happen.
But anyway, shit-storm, and then Arch had to clarify he was distancing himself from the club scene and not from his sexuality, or anyone else's.
So Cook had offered support, Arch had said no thanks. Cook had replied, Sometimes lying low is best! Discretion, better part of valor, etc, and that had been it.
Cook’s schedule pre-Race had been so hectic: work on the new record, IGB, training for his run, family time coming up on the anniversary of Adam’s death, so he hadn’t had time to worry about it. He was really surprised when Michelle told him Arch's people had approached her and told her Arch wanted to run the Race for Hope with him.
"Of course they're probably thinking, post-ClubGate, it’s a good thing for Archie to do his bit for charity and hang out with his gay-friendly BFF," Michelle said, rolling her eyes a bit. "Leverage off the old Cookleta bromance, you know how the fans'll come flocking back for that."
Cook grimaced. "It doesn't matter. Of course I'd love Arch to come."
Michelle eyed him. "Really, you're cool with being used as, as some kinda gaywash? You are such a sucker for the kid."
Cook didn't meet her eyes. She didn't know how much of a sucker for Arch he really was.
*
@thedavidcook Hey @DavidArchie, coming to run with me? Awesome.
Michelle was right, the fans went crazy.
*
Race Day dawned hazy and blue. When Cook and his family and team got to Freedom Plaza, Archie was already there, wearing the race t-shirt and running shorts and really serious trainers, and that cute bowl-like haircut which Cook had kept wanting to muss up.
"Hey!" said Arch, brightly, and they hugged for the cameras. Cook felt the curling tension in Arch's taut muscles; his friend was as tense as a spring.
"Glad you could make it," Cook said softly into Arch’s hair.
Arch relaxed a little in Cook's arms, then pulled awkwardly away. "Thanks for having me! This is such a great cause, I know how much it means to you."
Cook grinned. "Hey, thank you. Your team raised the bar on fund-raising! My team's ahead, though."
He gave Arch a friendly elbow, and one of the bright sparks amongst the reporters called, "So are we gonna see some competition out there today? Idol Season 7 Finale, Battle of the Davids Round 2?"
Arch gave his uneasy laugh, and Cook said, "C'mon, guys, this is a charity run!" The reporters subsided, snickering and nodding to each other – c’mon, of course there would be competition.
Eventually, the cameras stopped flashing. Arch turned to say hello to Cook’s dad and Cook’s little nieces – some of the kids had wanted to take part this year in the Kids’ Fun Run, and Stan had agreed to come out and pace them this year. Cook thought this might be the start of a cool family tradition.
When they started to warm up for serious, Arch standing on one leg and stretching out his thigh, Cook leaned in again. "’Course, I know you think you can totally outrun me."
He'd caught Arch by surprise, and there was that real, lightbulb smile which always lit up Cook's world. "Well, I run every day," Archie said. "And my time's pretty good over 5 km. So, yeah, I think I can."
"I might surprise you! I've been training," Cook said.
It was Arch who surprised him, though, by eyeing him with a rather appraising, adult look. "Looks like it. I was gonna tell you the night we had dinner, but, y'know." Archie shrugged, which could have meant a variety of things.
Cook wasn't sure what to think. Arch in running shorts, hands on his hips, broader in the chest and shoulders than he'd been a year ago. He was leaving his teens behind, becoming a man, something not entirely apparent a month ago under low restaurant lights and the new hairstyle, but that was plain as the daylight in Freedom Plaza this morning.
Arch shifted restlessly on the balls of his feet. Cook was filled with the sense that Arch was on the brink of running somewhere; running from something, or maybe it was that Arch was considering running towards it instead.
He said, "Why'd you really want to come today, Arch?"
Arch looked at him. The dark eyes Cook knew and at the same time today realized he didn’t know, filled with things Arch hadn’t told him.
"I was thinking…” said Arch. “About the club thing, about how you would have handled it. I should've asked you."
There were many things Cook could have said to that, but the one he went with was, “You know I’m here for you, Arch. Any time, you got it.”
Arch nodded. “I do. I know that. Thanks, Cook.” For a moment, he looked like he was seventeen again and full of uncertain hope, and as if he was about to take a rare step towards Cook.
“We’re ready,” Michelle said, meaningfully, and Arch’s hand fell away.
Cook could hardly look at Arch as they walked toward the start line. Archie was staring straight ahead at something indefinite that was just beyond the horizon, out of reach, but that he could maybe get to one day if he kept running towards it. How did that song of Arch's go? He'd got his good shoes on, got his winning focus; he was running straight to you.
I don’t know how far I’ve got, but I don’t care.
He wanted to reach over and take hold of his friend’s hand. He wanted to tell Arch: You don't have to keep running. All this stuff, you’ll find it out if you just believe in yourself. I'll do anything to help you. I love you.
He didn't say these things. He knew it was important for Arch to get there by himself, to find his way to Cook by himself.
All Cook could do was run by his side, and keep the pace.
ETA: The multi-talented
likealocket made a podfic of this story! Download her podfic here, and if you liked her lovely voice and flawless delivery, be sure to let her know!
