Fic: Just an Ordinary Love Story (that's what we are): Part Four

[epicflailer]

Dedication: For all your patience, your talent, your enthusiasm (*\o/*), and your huge fucking heart; for every anonymouse spammy comment, every fabulous tweet, every glee-inducing msn conversation; for being an amazing mod, and a genuinely nice, sweet person, and the most fantasmic friend; for the sheer awesome you've brought into my life, into everyone's, since we first met; Pri, this one's for you. I really, really hope you like it. ♥ ♥ ♥

The worst part of the whole 'surprise breakfast to make amends for the totally awkward last night' thing is that David is so, so close to being done when Cook ambles out of the bedroom, freshly showered and a towel slung casually around his neck, saying, "Hey, David, uh, I was just gonna head out for--"

"Oh my gosh!" David says, startled, and then has to spend a couple of minutes fighting not to drop his bacon-loaded frying pan. He winds up dropping his spatula instead.

"Uh," Cook says, as he wanders over and picks it up. "Do you want any help with that?"

"No!" David says, as he carefully sets the pan back on the stove and steps in front of it to block Cook's view, because it's going to be a surprise if it kills him, okay. "I mean, no. I mean, help would be awesome, but not, um, but it's bacon, I can totally handle bacon! You're not - you can't be out here yet, though? I'm almost finished." Cook just stands there, watching him, and David adds, uncertainly, "Please?"

There's another beat of silence, and David watches as Cook's eyebrows do the whole confused up and down thing, and then slowly settle into something between wary and amused. "Archie," he says eventually, voice threaded with laughter, "Is that supposed to be my breakfast? Because you're burning it."

"What?" David asks, distractedly (just - Cook's eyes are suddenly, startlingly bright), and then he's choking on a lungful of smoke as he turns around, and -- "Oh my heck!"

Five minutes later, Cook's slouched over the breakfast table, face pressed into his arms, and David's finally dismissed picking out and plating the not-quite-charred pieces of bacon as a lost cause. "This is totally your fault," he says mournfully, to Cook's still shaking shoulders.

"Oh god," Cook wheezes, voice muffled by his skin. "Jesus, your face."

"See if I make you breakfast again," David says, as he slumps into the seat beside Cook. He looks at the plate a little regretfully, now piled high with toast, eggs, tomatoes, and -- half-burnt bacon, sigh, and reaches for it.

Cook straightens, stabbing an insistent finger onto the plate before it slides too far across the counter. "Hey, not so fast. I'm eating that."

David blinks. "Um, I don't - it's all kind of a mess, though."

Cook shrugs, mouth half-curled in a smile, and tugs the plate the rest of the way in. "I'm not a fan of bacon anyway."

"Oh," David says, eloquently. He watches Cook spear a tomato. "Why not?"

Cook's totally focused on chewing his tomatoes. "So these are actually pretty good," he says. "Are you gonna have some?"

"Oh," David repeats. "I - no, not today." He gets up when the timer on the microwave pings. "Mine was already made. I just had to heat it up."

"Archie," Cook begins. "Is that from--"

"Yes?" David says, as he hunts for the mustard. "I - Hotdogs are awesome?"

This time, David catches Cook's eye when he looks up, and they're - Cook looks... softer, somehow, like an edge has been dulled, and David takes a quick bite of his breakfast before he says anything to ruin it. The sausage sort of tastes like rubber, and the bread is all soggy, but Cook is - he's kind of smiling into his eggs, and there's a weird jerk in David's stomach, like he's just stepped into an elevator, so he totally doesn't notice.

They're going to be okay.

Their schedule for the day - their entire stay, actually - is pretty much crammed full of family and wedding stuff. David hadn't even been supposed to be involved with half of it at first, but then Jazzy had been all, "Whatever, you're gay now; you'll be totally awesome at this! You have to help!"

So now he's part of the whole cake-tasting process, and still more floral arrangements, and the bridal gown fitting, and the bachelorette party, and--

"Archie," Cook laughs. "Would you quit freaking out? It's going to be fine."

"I don't even know what chiffon cake is!" David protests, staring in bewilderment at the ten billion cakes that Elena has set down in front of them.

"That's what happens when your sister has a contact at the bakery," Cook points out, and Jazzy grins at them from across the table. "I mean, it's cake. How bad can it be?"

And -- okay, that's true, but David's still a little indignant over the fact that none of the other guys have to be here. Even Jeff's excused, which -- it's his wedding!

Off Cook's expression, David just sighs and reaches dubiously for the plate closest to him. The icing looks okay, and the nuts are kind of pretty. There's a little flag that reads Coconut-Macadamia Cake stuck in it with a toothpick. Jazzy's got the Kahlua Chocolate Fudge, and Amber and his mom are already on their second slice of cake -- Traditional White Wedding, or something.

"Okay, where are we going to start the maybe pile?" Jazzy says, just as David takes a tentative bite of the Coconut-Macadamia.

"Oh my gosh!" he splutters. It's really, really hard to swallow. Cook pounds him on the back a couple of times. "Um. Where are we starting the 'no's?"

They go through about a dozen cakes after that, each weirder than the first ("Guava Chiffon Cake?" Cook mutters to David, under his breath, "I think I'm gonna pass on this one."), and David's just about to call for a short time-out, because his tongue is, like, almost numb from all the sugar, when Cook breathes, "Holy sh--uh, smokes."

David looks up. "Cook?"

Cook's practically beaming. "This is it."

"What?"

Cook cuts a corner of cake with his fork, and lifts it up. "This is the cake."

"Um," David says, confusedly. "...Okay? I don't--"

Cook huffs out a laugh, and rolls his eyes, almost affectionate. "Open up, David."

Jazzy's looking at them now, curiously, and then his mom and Amber are, too, and when David hesitates some more, Cook lets out a sigh and says, "I know we have that no-PDA rule, but this barely even counts, I swear."

Cook's mouth is twitching, though, and David is about to object, because -- is he seriously talking about PDA? With - with his mom and his sisters right there?

But David never even gets the chance, because then Cook leans in and - and kisses him again, oh--

It's not like the last kiss, this time. This time, Cook is all slow, hot intent, and David's eyes flutter shut. This time, Cook's hand is coming up to rest gently against David's skin, the curve where neck meets shoulder, and David feels his pulse speed up. This time, Cook is coaxing David's lips apart, and David is breathing hot and ragged into Cook's mouth, oh my gosh, and it feels right, it feels--

And then David nearly tips into Cook's chair, he's leaning so far over, and the heat of Cook is gone, replaced by an invasion of buttercream and white chocolate.

Cook's struggling valiantly not to smile when David blinks his eyes open again. Jazzy's not even trying to hide it, and Amber's already sending off a text - probably to Daniel or something, dangit - and his mom buries her face in the wedding cake catalog as soon as David catches her watching them fondly (even though David knows she's already seen every single item in there, like, six times).

David takes his time chewing.

Cook smirks. "So was I right about the cake, or was I right about the cake?"

David wets his lips and manages a smile. "This is the cake," he echoes, quietly.

He tries not to lean in when Cook slings an arm around his shoulders and ruffles his hair, and the girls all clamor to try the White Chocolate Fantasy.

"Jesus," Cook says, sprawling out over his bed once they get back to the hotel later that evening. "Who knew cake tasting could be such a workout?"

"Mmm," David says, as he heads straight for his suitcase. He's feeling kind of... weird, still. His stomach has been in knots all day, and his face feels flushed. He'd barely managed to laugh at Cook's jokes all throughout dinner (except at the one about the orange and the gorilla, oh my heck), but at the end of the meal, his mom hadn't said anything aside from, "Make sure you get your suit ready for the rehearsal dinner next week, baby. Ironed and everything." And David's pretty sure she would've noticed if he was sick or something, so. Um. So that means it's probably--

David swallows, hard, and scrubs a hand over his mouth. "Probably nothing," he says, to his luggage. He worries at his lower lip as he begins yanking his shirts out of the bag, a little harder than necessary. "Probably stupid."

Cook is -- he's experienced, and - and he's really, um, good-looking? And friendly, and funny, and smart, which are all things David really, really isn't, and--and even if he was all those things, maybe that isn't what Cook's looking for; maybe Cook has someone already, waiting back in New York (just because David doesn't think he could take the idea of his - whatever, his boyfriend, going away to be someone else's escort for a weekend--)

...And Cook is also working. Oh my gosh, what is he thinking?

"Um," David says, without turning around. "Cook?"

He startles a little at the loud snore he gets in reply. And then he laughs into his hand. And he keeps laughing until he realizes he's reached the bottom of his baggage and his suit is nowhere to be found.

Telling Cook about his suit the next morning turns out to be a huge mistake.

"What's the point of being a rockstar if you can't indulge when you need to?" Cook demands, and David's attempts to point out that he's, um, a far cry from anything resembling the poster boy for sex, drugs and rock and roll go completely unheeded.

So Cook pretty much drags him to one of the boutiques near the hotel straight after breakfast, tosses him into a changing room and dumps, like, a ton of suits in after him. It's sort of like watching an avalanche.

It's not even that bad, at first. David has an older sister, okay, he sort of knows the shopping drill. He's used to having to try on different outfits. But then it's three hours later, and David's been in and out of, like, a hundred different suits, and Cook still isn't satisfied. "Oh my gosh," David says, as he struggles out of the hundred and sixteenth one. "Cook, you have to stop."

"Yeah, right," Cook says, and David can practically hear him roll his eyes. He shrugs his shirt back on, and puts a careful hand on the doorknob, trying to ease it open. Maybe if he can just slip past the assistant--

Then Cook's voice wafts in from right outside. "Stop trying to get out of the changing room, Archuleta. I'm barring the door until you've put on that mauve blazer."

"Oh my gosh," David says, miserably. He gives the knob another half-hearted tug anyway, but isn't even surprised when it doesn't budge. "It's like you're six thousand people in one body. I think you're, whatever, the biggest investment I've ever made." There's silence for a second, and David adds, hurriedly, "wait, no, I didn't mean - was that rude?"

"Yeah," Cook calls back, through the door. His voice is muffled. "Yeah, because I'm your regular delicate flower, Arch."

"What's - Cook -- are you laughing? Oh my gosh, shut up. "

Cook's only response is to chuck yet another suit at him over the top of the dressing room door.

They still haven't found "the One" forty-five minutes later, and David starts operating on autopilot. He walks out of the changing rooms, twirls and ducks back inside without even waiting to hear Cook's commentary ("Smurf; too weird; the inseam is crooked, man; uh, no.") to wrestle his way into the next suit.

So he's totally not expecting a reaction when he steps out, in a plain white shirt and a dark charcoal-gray blazer-pants combination, and twirls. Cook is silent for the longest moment, and David looks up to find Cook scowling at his cell phone and thumbing it off before slipping it back into his pocket.

David sighs and turns around.

Which is when Cook lets out a low whistle.

"Um?" David says, turning back.

Cook's already halfway across the room, eyeing him appreciatively. "You clean up nice."

"Aw, no," David says, and ducks his head. He's always felt pretty ridiculous in suits. They make him look so young, and he really, really doesn't need that. "This is - I don't--"

Cook comes up to him, then, plants both hands on his shoulders, and maneuvers him so he's facing the long panel of mirrors he'd been studiously avoiding up till now. David watches Cook's reflection in confusion. "Here," Cook says, leaning in some more, and suddenly David's heartbeat is thunder in his ears. This - this is just like in the bakery, he thinks, just like Justin, and he tips his head up--

--and then Cook leans over to redo his tie, fingers deft and clever just under the hollow of his throat. "Tada. Perfect."

"Uh," David says, a little uncertainly. He clears his throat, and quickly licks his lips. He can feel the heat of Cook's skin lingering, even through the fabric of his jacket.

Cook aims a teasing smile at him and raises an eyebrow. "The appropriate response is 'thank you, Cook.'"

David watches Cook run his hand over the tux again, feels the warmth of Cook's palm seeping into him. He swallows. "Thank you, Cook."

The melody comes to him like a dream on their walk back from the boutique. It catches David off-guard, and he beams all the way back to the hotel room. He totally doesn't even care when Cook starts laughing at him, off his look.

He reaches for paper as soon as he sees it, already working out the chords in his head, trying new notes where the ones he has don't quite fit. He doesn't - he hasn't written anything in ages, not since they've been here, which is half a week or something already, gosh, but right now, he can't seem to stop the music in his head. ("Please don't stop the music," he croons, under his breath.)

He's really psyched about this one, too; it's coming so easily that he barely has to think about it at all, and - and it's working, it sounds amazing, it's going to be even better when it's finished, especially if he can get someone to come in and do the back-up vocals, maybe Jason or something, and -- David looks up when he realizes the second line of melody he's hearing isn't in his head at all. Cook's lounging on the edge of his bed, humming along, which, together with what David has, is really - wow, yeah.

"Oh," David says, abruptly, taken by surprise. "I didn't know - you're really good."

Cook sits up a little, shooting David a crooked smile. "So when I told you I'd been working on a music record..."

"Oh," David repeats, and worries at his lower lip, face burning. "Um. You said it didn't work out, though? I thought that was because you were -- um."

"The next William Hung?"

"Oh my gosh, no!" David says, appalled, and then huffs and turns back to his music sheet when Cook tips back onto the bed, laughing. "You are totally unhelpful."

"Hey, no, Arch, come on," Cook says, once he's recovered, and David sighs when a pillow bounces off the back of his head. "What's this for? A school assignment?"

"No," David says. "No, I'm, um, I'm done with those. This is just, I don't know, it's for me."

"Oh," Cook says, a strange note in his voice, and David looks up at him, cautiously, and says, "So - so you think that works?"

It takes a second, but then Cook nods and says, "Yeah. Yeah, man, it's amazing."

And Cook is looking at him sort of oddly, with an expression David can't place, like the one he'd worn at David's house when the girls had been, whatever, quizzing him, probably, and he just nods at David and--

The silence is - it's weird, it's, they're sort of comfortable around each other now, kind of, but this is, um, this feels like a different kind of silence, maybe? And David blurts out, "You never told me -- what did Claudia and Jazzy say to you the other day? At, um, at the breakfast?"

Cook frowns a little, then, and lies back down on the bed. He's quiet for a long while.

"Cook?" David says, tentatively.

"Sorry," Cook says, sitting up again with a smile and scrubbing a quick hand over his face. "Sorry, just giving myself a little pep talk."

"Um?" David says. "What for?"

"Reminding myself not to be stupid," Cook says, and laughs a little. "Never mind." There must be something in David's expression that -- or something, because Cook barrels on. "So your sisters, right? They basically told me that the Archuletas are a package deal, and said that they'd--" Cook scratches a line across his neck with a finger, "Except, you know, in a different locality, if I ever hurt their brother."

Cook glances up, then, face framed in the fading sunlight, and his voice gentles. "They said their brother's been through more than enough, what with the vocal paralyses and having to give up on treatment because there wasn't enough in the piggybank to go around for everyone on top of that, and then having to be away from home so much. They made it exceedingly clear he deserves better than some scummy boyfriend who's going to break his heart."

David looks down at his hands.

The covers rustle, and Cook's voice is impossibly close when he says, "You never told me--"

"I'm getting better," David says, fiercely. His eyes are totally dry when he looks up. Totally.

Cook stands there for a long moment, just watching him, and David thinks he sees -- but then Cook nods, gently, and reaches briefly for his hand. "Okay."

It's quiet for a little while after that. David's lost the music again, but he's not worried this time, not really, and Cook's just sitting beside him, one shoulder pressed warm and firm against his own, and eventually David's eyes stop stinging, and he clears his throat and says, "You should--"

Cook turns to him, and David tries not to drop his gaze.

"You should tell me something," he continues. "About you. I mean, um, that I don't know yet. Because you totally know all this stuff about me now, and you're meeting my family, and - and you're going to see my sister walk down the aisle, oh my gosh, and--"

"Arch," Cook says, grinning. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

David worries at his lower lip. "Tell me about the guy."

"Which one?" Cook says, but even David can tell he's not really trying.

"The one that made you burn your suits."

Cook huffs, this quiet sound. It's - it doesn't sound like a laugh. "Should've seen that one coming," he mutters.

"If you don't want to," David says, hesitantly. He's - he could be doing this all wrong. They're still not friends, or anything even remotely like it, and--

"He was a client," Cook says. David's eyes snap towards him, but Cook's looking out the window, watching the sun go down. The dusk lights shadows on his face, deepening the ones in the curve of his mouth, and he looks so, so tired. "That's how it started. He said it was a one-time thing when I got there, just a couple of hours shmaltzing with his business associates. It should've been easy, I guess. Textbook case." Cook stops, as abruptly as he began, then laughs and runs a hand through his hair. "But I got stupid."

"Cook," David says.

"Come on," Cook interrupts. The sun's almost completely set now, and when Cook turns to face him, his eyes are hooded. "All talk and no play's gotta make David a hungry boy."

"Um," David says. "Are you going to try to talk me into that strip club again?"

Cook tips his head back against his seat, then, half choking on his laughter, and the moment's gone.

David remembers it, though, later. He spends the remainder of that night restless, dreaming of weddings, and Cook's smile, and dark, blurry faces he doesn't know. When David wakes up the next morning, panting and sweaty, he decides that anonymity is a really awesome thing.

Then they meet the groom's side of the family for lunch, and it's all downhill from there.

On to Part Five.