it takes one look to make the stars worth reaching for | cook/archuleta | pg13
word count ~9400 (oh my god, i don’t even know how i did that, geez louize)
excerpt To say he knocks you breathless would be a vast understatement - it’s more like he splits you in half; cuts you open and riddles you apart.
notes first cook/archie fic! pretty pumped/nervous about posting it. <3 fic title and section titles are lyrics from various cook song performances. lyrics for “i am the rain” are owned by peter doherty. oh, also - this stuff probably never happened. i just pretend it did. psh who am i kidding, ALL OF THIS IS DEFINITELY REAL LIFE, IDEK.
also, i dedicate this fic to all of the cookleta authors and fans that i so much adore. i won’t namedrop any specific ones, because god knows i will forget someone, but just - basically, if you’ve ever written for or read cookleta ever, this goes out to you.
prologue. i haven't got a clue but let me start by saying hello
Before you head out with the rest of the Top 10 on the Idol summer tour, you and David have weeks of promotions and interviews to wade through. You’re not particularly thrilled with having to say what it was like to win American Idol a countless amount of times - but during one radio show you glance at David, and the realization fills you that he has to say, over and over again, what it was like to lose next to you. After that, you find it a lot easier to just suck up your egoistical misery.
After the Idol finale, you work on preparing yourself mentally for the swerving gravel road ahead, because you know that this month of promotion - and the following several months of the summer tour - will be hectic. You know that free time will be a distant, happy memory, and that sleep will no longer be a priority.
You don’t know that this summer will be the catalyst to spark the rest of your life.
i. every day, there's the sun to keep you warm
“Pizza?” you suggest, pointing toward a tiny Italian place and slurping a bit of your slushie.
David shrugs noncommittally. “Not really feeling pizza-y right now,” he says. “Thanks though,” he adds quietly, (you know he doesn’t want to seem anything remotely close to off-putting, or - God forbid - rude by just flat-out saying no I do not want pizza now leave me alone), and you two continue your casual stroll down the way too crowded airport terminal.
“You’ve got to eat something,” you say. “Flying with an empty stomach is oftentimes worse than flying full.”
He nods, and when he blinks, it’s slow and heavy.
“Actually, are you feeling okay, man?” You’re concerned now as you look down at him. Pale face and bloodshot eyes: a deadly combination. “Flying isn’t exactly your forte?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he says, scratching the nape of his neck awkwardly.
You feel yourself pause for a moment. “First time flyer?” you ask for clarification, the beginnings of a smile spreading across your face.
He nods again, glancing up at you from the corners of his eyes.
Your hands are in the air, ecstatic. “Archie!” you shout, a tad accusingly. You ignore the heads turning your way at your (probably uncalled for) outburst, and one of your security guards mutters something about controlling your noise level. “Why didn’t you tell me? This is phenomenal!”
“Phenomenal?” He eyes you doubtfully.
“Indubitably.” You make a show of standing stick-straight, and raise your arm slowly toward him. He’s still wary, but a slight giggle lets you know that you’re doing your job right.
You purse your lips. “Take my arm,” you say, now sporting a brilliant British accent. “You have given me the honor of accompanying you on your first journey by way of air motor carriage.” He guffaws, and you’d like to think it’s because he’s finally recognized your ingenious talent of speaking complete gibberish. “Now let me give you the honor of chauffeuring you around this hectic mess of an airport.”
There’s a long moment, and then, “Why of course, uh, fine sir.” He loops his arm through yours, and your heart catches in your throat.
By the time you’re situated in the plane, your slushie is half-empty and David’s got a muffin the size of Jupiter in one hand and an unopened water bottle in the other.
“How’s your head feeling?” you ask, still worried, as he takes his second bite of muffin.
He nods enthusiastically while he chews, then says, “Better, now that I’m eating.”
“Just let me know if you need Excedrin, because if you do - ” you shake a bottle of pills and then squeeze them back into your jeans pocket “ - I’m your guy.”
“You’re already my guy, Cook,” he throws back playfully with a grin, and when you smile back it’s like fire is searing through your veins and into your palms, and since when are you the one to be blushing and he the one smiling, and are you just imagining the subtle glint in his eyes?
You laugh awkwardly, muttering something about, “Mm, yeah, good,” before sinking back into the seat and hoping it’ll just put you out of your misery and swallow you whole.
The flight attendant’s voice comes over the speakers, and David casually flips through the safety leaflet, taking extra precaution considering that you two are in the row behind the side exits.
His fingers tremble just a bit as he flips a page. Something inside of you aches.
You lean over, wrapping your arm around his neck and bringing your mouth to his ear. “This is a no smoking flight,” you say low enough for only him to hear, cracking a grin, making your voice authoritative and scratchy like it’s flooding the loudspeaker. “Although do feel free to join me in the cockpit, where we’ve opened a window.”
Just as you’d expected (and wanted), he momentarily forgets that he’s even on a plane and instead dissolves into a heap of giggles, head lolling against your shoulder and eyes squeezed shut and the safety leaflet falling forgotten onto his lap.
You laugh along with him, because: one, the joke was decently hilarious, if you do say so yourself, and two, David’s laugh is kind of the most powerful trigger for your own laughter, so three, in hindsight, you really have no choice but to laugh while in the present of David Archuleta, which four, you’re sure not complaining about anytime soon.
“Cook,” he gasps, once he’s got his breath back and he’s looking at you with wide doe eyes. “That was actually a really good joke. Honestly, I’m, um, I’m kind of impressed.”
“Aw, thanks Archie,” you tease. You take a moment to wonder at how he could make an insult sound so much like a compliment, and look adorable doing it. “Too bad I didn’t come up with it myself,” you say a little sheepishly, but your smile is still proud. “Got it off a TV show my friend watches.”
“Well, your friend has pretty good taste in humor - unlike someone I know,” he says under his breath, his elbow nudging your ribs with faux-malicious intent.
You clutch at your chest. “Your words, they wound me.”
“Oh, and nice try at distracting me, by the way,” he says, eyeing you a little smugly. “But you haven’t completely diverted my mind from the fact that we’re about to go airborne in a machine that weighs so much, it should be, um, I don’t know, illegal to fly.”
The flight attendant’s voice cuts out and the plane rumbles to a start, your feet vibrating on the floor. You watch as David’s eyelids fall and his jaw clenches.
“I’m fine,” he whispers through gritted teeth, apparently able to feel his gaze on your face. “Really,” he adds, but his hands make tight fists when the plane begins to back away from the boarding tunnel.
“Archie,” you say, not to tease but to console, “you’ll be fine.”
“I know,” he says, but his voice is more high-pitched than usual, and the crease between his eyes is growing deeper by the second.
Unthinkingly, your hand moves to rest on top of one of his fists, and you try to ignore the hot churn in the pit of your stomach, and once his hand relaxes enough to be pliant, you ease your hands together, palm to palm, fingers laced.
“We’ll be fine,” you add.
He stares at you, wide-eyed and licking his lips with nervous fervor, and your stomach flips as you smile in a way that you hope is reassuring.
“Now close your eyes,” you say calmly, just as the plane has reached the end of the runway, and it pauses for a moment before takeoff - you know it’s the calm before the storm.
He does as he’s told.
“And don’t think - just feel.”
He sits, breathing shallow, fingers gripping yours and his head tilted back into his seat. You know this isn’t the time, that your mind should be focused on his comfort and not scrounging around in the gutter, but you can’t help but trace him with your eyes - a reverent memorizing of his profile: long eyelashes, button nose, full lips (red, pouted), and when you follow the line of his Adam’s apple, so masculine for a seventeen-year-old, you breath out unsteadily and try to swallow down the lewd words on the tip of your tongue.
David Archuleta, you are a fucking masterpiece.
The plane takes off at a pace that matches your pulse, and David’s hand clenches yours with a force to be reckoned with, and some small part of you thinks desperately, I am the only thing keeping him grounded; I am his anchor in this tumult that we call life.
His hand holds yours impossibly tighter with each second as the plane gains more and more speed, but then it’s like magic: the moment wheels leave pavement, his fingers are completely slack, and that crease between his eyes disappears.
You’re watching him when he slowly opens his eyes and turns to the window. The plane follows a slow curve to the right, and all that fills the window is sunny blue and smoky white.
“I really like this feeling,” David says, quiet, staring out into the sunlit sky. “Wow. You know how it, um, there’s this sort of swooping, like the bottom of your stomach is being pulled to your throat? And then it’s like the whole world is tilted on its . . . its axis - and it’s tilting only for you?” He plucks at his jeans with calm anxiety. “It’s a nice feeling.”
You stare at him, mouth dry and tongue heavy, your stomach swooping, and you know you don’t feel this way simply because you’re on a plane.
“Yeah,” you say a little thickly, squeezing his hand, because you’re sure he’s never been so right about a feeling before. “It’s definitely nice.”
And when David turns in his seat and looks at you with bright eyes and that grin you love that takes up half his face, you surrender, absolutely and completely.
ii. i swore that i would change the world when i grew up
After that flight, it becomes your personal obligation to share as many of David’s firsts with him as humanly possible.
You don’t really relish in wondering why you’ve taken to David so much - and to be quite honest, you don’t really want to think about why, either. Because if you think about it too much, you’ll realize that it’s illogical, and unnecessary, and a little immoral to boot.
All you know is that David’s first experiences are strangely important to you, and nothing else really matters for the time being.
One day, near the beginning of the summer tour, you wake up in the hotel, and when you look outside, it is beautiful and clear and positively lovely, and the worst day possible to be stuck in the rehearsals and practices, living off coffee and newspapers and Guitar Hero.
“Fuck it,” you whisper into your pillow, and then you get up and decide to seize the day with a Sharpie in one hand and David Archuleta in another.
Using a charming smile and just a touch of petulant prodding, you manage to wiggle your and David’s ways out of pre-show rehearsals. A brief, semi-awkward conversation with Jeff Archuleta ensues, though he doesn’t seem upset and for that you are unbelievably thankful, and then you’ve got a quickly jotted down schedule for your free time with David.
After breakfast, you tug David out of the hotel, the two of you standing on the sidewalk under a too-yellow sun.
“Prepare yourself for a spectacular day!” you tell him.
David heaves a melodramatic sigh. “What have you done now, Cook?”
“Oh, nothing too terrible, just a bit of fiddling with our free time.”
“Fiddling?” His eyes are happy. “Now you’ve got me worried, Cook - as far as I’m aware, you should just stick with guitaring.”
After a bursting laugh on your part, you sober up enough to say, “You should warn a guy before unleashing humor like that when it’s still in the AM.”
“I’ll try to remember that in the future.” He smiles. “Now, tell me what you’ve got planned before I just, well, give up and go back inside and sing like I’m supposed to.” It’s the boldest sentence you’ve heard him say, and you raise your eyebrows at him, impressed.
“Number one on our task list - ” you grandly pull out the folded sheet of paper from your jeans pocket and unfold it “ - we go to the mall.”
David stares at you, dumbfounded. “The mall?” You nod. “As in, the public place where hundreds of people shop each day?” You nod. “What are we going to do about all the hoards of girls just waiting to clobber us?” He blushes just saying it.
You laugh and wrap your arm around his waist, hugging him to your side. “They’re called security guards, and we’ve got loads of them.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, his eyes searching yours. “What’s number two on our list?”
“Nothing,” you shrug. “We’ve only got one thing on our agenda today, and that is a visit to the mall.”
“Why?”
“I’ve heard through the grapevine - and by grapevine, I mean reliable sources - that you have never, not once, taken photos in a photobooth before.”
His eyebrows rise.
“We are going to change that today.”
“How do you even know about my, uh, lack of photobooth expertise?”
“Oh, I’ve done my Archie research,” you tell him, waggling your eyebrows and bathing in the grin that he’s giving you.
“What has gotten into you today, Cook?” he muses, shaking his head lovingly.
You inhale, and all you can smell is his vanilla-scented shampoo. “It’s just a wonderful time of the year to be out and about, don’t you think? Early summer: time of warm and wet nights, the beginning of new things. It just - makes sense that we should be outside today.”
He nods warily, amused, in your direction.
“Disagree with me,” you warn, “and - forget about those girls - I’ll clobber you.”
“Oh, I’d like to see you try,” he sings giddily, skipping ahead of you.
You chase after him, engaging in a tickle fight once you reach him, because it seems like today, you can’t keep your hands off him.
The crowd at the mall shouldn’t surprise you anymore, but it absolutely does, and you feel your mind sort of blank as you make your way through hectic crowds: the arms pushing out sheets of paper and pens, screams of I love you David! and Marry me! and Oh my gosh, everybody just needs to calm down, you all should know by now that Archie is mine!
(At the latter comment, said Archie smiles with hollow eyes.
He’s walking behind you, and you reach back blindly and feel for his hand, and when you’ve got him, you tug him close enough to feel the heat of his chest seep along your spine.
He stutters out a, “Thanks,” and you whisper back a, “No problem,” and you’ve got his back while he’s pressed against yours.)
You learn something new today: fending off crazy Idol fans and sobbing teenage girls is a lot easier with David Archuleta by your side.
They section off the portion of the mall with the photobooth, and amid distant flashes and excited whispers and the occasional shout of love or marriage, you and David climb into the curtained booth. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but you openly embrace the fact that your arms are touching from shoulder to elbow, that your thighs are seamlessly against his, and that your heads are so close they’re nearly conjoined.
David doesn’t seem to be complaining about the close contact either, and that alone makes you grin.
“So - you get how this works, right?” you ask, retrieving loose change from your pocket and slipping it into the coin slot.
At a sideways glance, you see David roll his eyes. “Of course, Cook - I mean, I’ve seen other people’s, um, photo strips or whatever they’re called. I’ve just never, you know, actually done it.”
“Right. So it’ll tell you how long until the camera will go off, and you pose.” You smile at him. “Basic stuff, right?”
“Sounds simple enough,” he says, pointedly shrugging his shoulder against you, and you shrug back, waiting for a five second countdown.
When nothing appears on the screen for several seconds, you frown at it, prodding it with your finger, and you turn to David and say, “This is weird, something definitely should’ve hap - ”
The camera flashes.
“Oh no,” you say, eyes filling with dark spots, “this is the kind of photobooth that doesn’t warn you!”
David is cracking up beside you, swaying side to side with giggles.
“I honestly can’t believe these still exist!” You grin down at him. “I mean, really, hasn’t technology advanced just a little bit since I was in - ”
The light bulb goes off again, and David falls apart again.
“This is not a laughing matter,” you say, but you’re starting to laugh too. “I’m sure these will all be very attractive, you looking normal and me in the middle of talking, my mouth hanging open like a caught fish.”
He recovers enough to say, “I think you’re supposed to look here,” a little breathlessly, his finger pressing to a tiny lense, (and honestly, since when is he the photobooth expert and you the novice?) -
Another quick flash leaves you both blind for a moment.
“Oh my gosh,” David says, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“We’re hopeless!” You throw your hands up in the air, unthinkingly, and take out David’s face with your elbow. He staggers just a bit, knocking lightly against the wall.
“Ah, Christ,” you say under your breath, leaning in to inspect the damage. He’s still a giggling mess next to you, but you quickly spot the stark white place of impact on his jaw, near his lips, a clear contrast to his bright red cheeks.
“Are you okay?” you ask, touching the soon-to-be bruise with careful fingers, and David’s just grinning like a fool, and then something changes in his eyes, quick as a flash, as he whispers, “Just smile, Cook,” and you do, you grin so wide your cheeks hurt, because at this point you’ll probably do anything he asks.
The camera goes off one last time.
Except it really isn’t the last time, because you convince David to take another strip.
(“Come on,” you argue, “I wasn’t prepared for any of these!” You gesture to the comical picture strip in your hand.
David smiles mischievously up at you. “And is that really my fault in any way whatsoever?”
“Maybe if you weren’t distracting me with your relentless giggles - ” your hands fly to his face, the skin under his arms, the hollows above his hipbones, easily finding familiar ticklish spots, and he breaks into laughter and half-serious shouts of protest “ - then I’d take a good picture.”
You’re ready the second time through, and you and David coordinate so that you two match in each photo: pulling at the corners of lips, tongues sticking out; devil horns out of pointer fingers, and evil grins; faux-screaming at each other, palms to cheeks in true Macaulay Culkin fashion; and finally, two simple smiles at the camera, heads touching.)
“Oh, we are keepers.” You fiddle the photo strip between your fingers and take another casting glance at the pictures. You’ve got the original strip, and David’s looking over the second strip - the one where you actually knew what you were doing.
You glance fondly at the column of photos: the first one, where you’re in the middle of talking and David’s looking up at you, his mouth parted slightly. (You spend a solid four seconds staring at his lips.) The second one, where David’s laughing - you can practically feel his giggles rolling off the photo strip - and you’re still babbling away like a man who doesn’t know when to shut his mouth. The third one makes you pause for a moment and laugh, hard: only half the photo is visible, because the other half is an extreme close up of the tip of David’s finger. You’re both staring at the camera, fascinated.
When you reach the final photo, it’s like everything else in the world has gone blurry, like watercolors bleeding into each other. You and David are staring at each other, you with a grin and he with a smile, your fingertips on his jaw and your nose almost grazing his.
You hear David’s quiet laughter, and you look to see him staring at the other photo strip. “These are so amazing,” he says.
You hold out your photo strip, and he holds out his in return, and you two switch. You pretend to be looking at the photos, head dipped low, but your eyes are on David’s face. You watch the emotions fly through him at speeds too quick for deciphering, but he lingers on the last one, and his small smile is almost proud.
“Yeah,” you agree. You are.
On the walk back to the hotel, David spots a playground, and you and him collectively decide to hang out on the equipment, because it’s completely deserted, and because you figure goofing around for a little longer won’t hurt anyone, and also because you saw David’s beaming expression when he’d noticed the playground.
The security guards laze around the sandpit while you and David scamper about, mulch flying behind your feet, arms hooking around poles, and it’s all laughter and amazement and freedom, and you want to feel this way every day of your life.
You push an unwilling David on the tire swing, and he ducks his head like he’s afraid you’ll push him so high his head will crack against the top pole, but once you’ve got him spinning fast enough, his laughter breaks through his reluctance. You can’t get enough of the sound.
Once the tire swing slows enough for him to get off, (and you sure don’t make it easy for him to get down, seeing as you keep spinning and spinning and spinning), you make a mad dash. He’s chasing after you, with words like, “I’ll get you back, Cook!” and “Oh my heck, I will do unmentionable things to you,” and you laugh but you keep running away.
He catches up to you within fifteen seconds - runner’s legs, you remember fondly - and he snatches your shirt, kneels down, and grabs a fistful of mulch. His chest is barely moving, whereas you’re gulping down air like it’s your last Seven and Seven.
“Well?” You smile down at him expectantly, waiting for him to do something with that mulch in his hand.
After a long moment, a grin spreads across his face, and he says, “Never mind. I couldn’t never do anything to you, Cook.”
“Aw, Arch!” You ruffle his hair a bit. “As a reward - ” you turn your back to him and hunch down just a little “ - you get a free piggyback ride. Or, perhaps, Cookyback ride, if that’s your style.”
But you barely get out the last few words, because you feel your collar tighten around your chest and then just rough prickly heat is sliding your back, and you spin around to see David yards away from you, running and laughing breathlessly.
“People don’t give you nearly enough credit for being the heathen that you are!” You start after him, the mulch sliding out of your shirt and back on the ground where it rightfully belongs.
Eventually, after he spares mercy on you and slows enough for you to catch up and then you two engage in a tickle match, you sit down tiredly on one of the swings, and David occupies a swing next to you. The two of you sway comfortably.
“This has been a really nice afternoon,” David says in a voice so content, your heart clenches.
“It really truly has been.”
He smiles at you. “Thank you, Cook.”
“Anytime, anyplace, anything for you, Arch.”
“Do you want to get married?” you ask excitedly, dangling your legs back and forth.
The tips of his ears burn read. “Cook, I’m seventeen - I’m pretty sure that, well, marriage is something I don’t really have the opportunity to, uh, explore at the moment.”
You can’t help it: you break into reckless laughter, leaning against one of the chains on either side of the swing. With streaming eyes, you glance at David from your peripheral vision, and you find him smiling at you with confused eyes.
“No,” you clarify, a little out of breath, “I mean, do you want to be married on the swing set?”
He frowns, still confused, pondering.
“You know, like when you were a little kid?”
When he shakes his head, it’s an instant confirmation of what you’ll be doing for the next hour.
“Alright, marrying someone on the swings is the equivalent of swinging with them at exactly the same time and place.”
“Okay,” he says, slowly, disbelievingly.
You grab your swing’s chains. “Just start swinging and I’ll let you know when we’re married, how’s that sound?”
“Alright,” he says, smiling a little, and pushes off the ground silently. You smile and start picking up speed, falling quickly into the familiar rhythm.
You wait until you two are almost in perfect symmetry, then say, “Now, if you want to step outside the lines and go a little wild - ” you pause as he giggles “ - then right now, you could say that we’re dating. See how close we are to being exactly the same?”
He looks at you, following your swing’s motion, and nods.
“Now, if you speed up just a little bit . . .”
He starts pumping his legs back and forth, and you watch him soar through the air, wind whipping his hair into an even crazier state than it was before, and just a little harder, you think to yourself, and -
“There we go,” you say, your grin inconceivably huge, your cheeks hurting with the magnificence of it. You and David are perfectly aligned; perfectly together.
“So now we’re, um, married?” He shuffles sheepishly in his seat, but his eyes are still fixed brightly on you.
“Yup!” You stretch out your hand toward him, and he takes it immediately, no hesitation, because your fingers locked with his is practically second nature to you both by now. “What’s it feel like, being married for the first time?”
Redness floods his cheeks and neck, and his head ducks a little. His smile stays put. “Great,” you hear him say, and he starts swinging your hands back and forth with the tempo of your swings, and then it’s like the sun’s temperature has increased by one thousand degrees, because everything’s too hot.
You swing, side by side, palm to palm, heart to heart.
Sometime later, your swing starts to separate rhythm from his, and your hand is pulled from his, and you make some joke about being in a rocky relationship and then three seconds later you say you’re divorced, and David laughs and blushes.
After you jump off, you stand and wait for him, watching as he slows down and leans back until he’s arched over the swing, head brushing the mulch, feet dangling with ease, and you’ve never seen him so carefree or so beautiful.
You both walk back to the bus, hand in hand, and it’s like you were never divorced at all.
(interlude. i can walk these circles all night long
One night, when everyone is off in various corners of the tour bus, and Archie’s gone off to take a shower so you know that you’ve got at least fifteen minutes, you take a deep breath and pluck up the courage and join Johns in his bunk.
“Dave!”
He looks at you as you plop down onto the bed - takes note of your less than jovial expression - and closes his cell phone immediately, putting it into his pocket.
“Hey, can I talk to you about something?” you ask, curling back against the wall. You sound oddly formal to your own ears.
“Shoot,” he says, his tone less cheerful. He notices the mood, too.
You suck in a breath, and then exhale slowly. You don’t know where to start.
“Let me guess,” Johns says, and he scoots closer, patting your shoulder. “It’s got something to do with Little D.”
Your spine snaps straight so quickly it’s on the verge of comical. “Are you a psychic, Johns, or just a fucking lucky guesser?”
He chuckles. “Neither, Dave. My talent is the pleasure of sight.”
With a sigh, your head drops to your hands. “Is it that obvious?” you groan.
“It’s the way you look at him,” he says, softly, and you know that he’s on your side. “You watch him with the eyes of a guy who knows what he wants, and doesn’t think he deserves it.”
“That’s because I don’t,” you mumble into your palms.
“With an attitude like that, mate, there’s no way in fucking hell you’ve got even the slightest chance of snatching Archie up.”
“I’ve got no chance, period.”
You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge - always the person who people rely on to go for something, anything, and follow through with complete confidence and a vigor that just won’t quit.
David Archuleta is one huge exception to that reputation.
David Archuleta fills you with such passion, such verve, it’s like he makes the purest form of life pour from your fingertips and ooze from your skin, and to gather up any more strength would cause instantaneous combustion.
Johns scoffs. “Let’s hear your oh-so-wisdomly reasoning for that.”
“I’m twenty-five, he’s seventeen, for starters.”
“His birthday’s in, like, seven months. I’m sure you can keep hold of yourself long enough to wait.”
You try again, going with a different aspect. “I’m a bartender, he’s - he’s just - a kid in high school. Untainted.”
“Dave,” he says, a little bit pleading now. “For the love of all that is holy, don’t degrade yourself over Archie. It’s the last thing he’d want you to do for him, ever, in a million years.”
“I’m not worthy,” you say, and it’s the most self-deprecating thing you’ve ever said about yourself. It is also the truest.
“You know, Archie cares about you the way you care about him,” Johns says, a little too casually.
Your head shoots up from your hands. “What?”
“Oh, come on. I know you’re not blind. So why can’t you see the way Archie looks at you? The way he’s always staring up at you, smiling that cute little smile, blushing as red as a fucking tomato? Dave, I know you’re not that out of the loop.”
You stare at him.
Johns sighs. “Okay, and maybe Archie’s had a few talks with me.”
You’re done becoming surprised by this conversation. “Johns. Spill. Now.”
“We’ve talked, Archie and I. We’ve been talking since Top 11 week.”
“About what?”
“About lollipops and daffodils and rainbows. Give me a break - about you, you idiot. I’m like the fucking relationship doctor around here or something, Jesus. I’m helping everyone with their heart’s aches and pains and - Christ, I should get paid for this shit.”
You flip him the bird and then get back on task. “What did he say about me, MJ?”
“It’s really not my place to say.” You open your mouth to retaliate, but it’s as if Johns can see the words formulating on your tongue, and he says quickly, honestly, “Really mate - Archie and I agreed that we’d just keep it between ourselves. Just . . . just trust me when I say that the kid really adores you. He loves you.”
“I love him, too,” you say, because you do, and you’ve told each other that before. It’s not a secret by any definition of the word. “He’s just so young, and - innocent, and I can’t - ”
“No, no,” Johns interrupts you, “I’m sure he loves you and you love him too.” He pins you with his gaze. “No, Dave, he is in love with you.”
You suddenly find it difficult to breathe.
“And trust me again when I say that this isn’t some deranged form of teenage puppy love he’s feeling - the way he describes it, how he feels anytime you’re near and anytime he thinks about you - ” Johns blows out air, slow and steady, “ - what he’s feeling is legit.”
Your tongue weighs a thousand pounds.
“Have him, Dave. He wants you. He needs you. And I’m pretty sure that you need him more than anything in the world.”
“Yes.”
“Go.”)
iii. this moment is potent
Sometime, when it’s nearing the end of the tour and you all are suffering from exhaustion of a higher power, God decides to throw one more against you and the sunny sky cracks, and it pours down rain outside while you and the rest of the guys are lounging in a common room on the bus.
“Well isn’t this pleasant,” you mumble, watching raindrops streak down the windows.
“Maybe it’ll cause a lack of fans waiting for us outside,” Jason says hopefully, fingers trying out new melodies on his uke.
“Nah.” Chikezie shakes his head. “It’ll just increase the number of fans with umbrellas.”
“I see you’re quite the optimist, Chikezie,” Johns says, grinning brightly. “That’s lovely.”
You can’t blame Chikezie, though - he looks unusually tired, eyes drooping and blinking sluggish, and you feel as tired as he looks, and you’re pretty sure everyone else does, too.
“Anyone up for Guitar Hero?” you ask, wanting something - anything - to wake you up. You can’t stand feeling lethargic.
Johns raises his eyebrows at you. “Do we look like we’re up for Guitar Hero? Plus, you kick our asses every time. It’s beginning to lose its fun factor, and quickly becoming the David Cook Show.”
You summon enough energy to beam proudly at him.
“I’m singing in the rain,” Jason sings quietly as he plucks the chords. “Just singing in the rain.”
Everyone joins in, drawn and a little bored, but with quiet smiles: “What a glorious feeling and I’m happy again.” And then it seems like that bit of song has sucked the remaining get-up-and-go out of you and the guys, and the next several minutes are spent in companionable silence as you reenergize.
Jason sighs, after a bit. “I haven’t actually sung in the rain in forever.” Jason’s got a faraway look in his eyes.
Johns yawns and says, “Me neither, mate. It’s such a free feeling, yeah? I love it.”
“I can just see you,” Chikezie says, “strolling down a sidewalk with this huge grin on your face, all oh God I feel so fantastic right now, dripping wet and loving it.”
Johns makes a face and rubs his eyes. “Are you deliberately trying to make me sound like a pansy ass, or does it just come naturally?”
“I think you’re doing a pretty good job of making yourself sound like a pansy ass, to be quite honest, Johns.” Chikezie flashes him a friendly grin.
“Come on now,” Johns says, a tad defensive, “who hasn’t sung in the rain? Or danced in it? Or at least stood and done a little jig in it?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot David sort of sink against the back of the couch, his throat flexing with a swallow. He doesn’t need to say anything - it’s sort of clear that -
“There are some people who haven’t done anything in the rain,” you say, a little defensive yourself. “Sometimes opportunities don’t present themselves until you’re on the Idol tour and it’s raining cats and dogs outside.”
Everyone stares at you like you’re going mental - save David, who has visibly relaxed and has the beginnings of a shy smile on his lips. (Not that you’re paying attention to his lips or anything.
Oh, who are you trying to kid, you absolutely are.)
“Was that a backwards way of saying you haven’t sung in the rain, Dave?” Chikezie clarifies, looking somewhat shocked. It seems as though you’re the kind of guy whose image would pop up next to “Rain Shenanigans” in the dictionary.
“Yes,” you blurt out. It’s a lie, but now you know that: one, Johns is going to make Rick pull the bus over so you can all get out and get soaking wet and dance around like a group of girls, and two, if you hadn’t said yes, David would’ve never uttered a word, so three, you figure lying was the only way of sharing another first with David, which four, lest you forget, is now your official goal in life.
Your eyes are drawn to David, who’s staring intently at the carpet, smiling.
“Well that settles it, mate,” Johns says, hopping up from the floor to speak to the driver of the bus. You swear you could’ve made a living in precognition.
Within the course of ten minutes, your bus and the girls’ bus are parked on the edge of the road. The guys are out in the rain the moment the bus’s brakes are touched -
(The rain is shockingly cold at first, and for a few moments, all you can think about are the dull thuds of raindrops to your shoes, arms, hands, shoulders, and head. But by the time sixty seconds have gone by, you’re drenched to the bone, teeth chattering just a bit. You feel fantastic.)
- and the girls seem content to sit at the windows of their bus, faces pressed against the glass, fingers pointing at choice males and laughter bubbling out of their mouths. They look especially amused when Johns attempts a myriad of dances, like the Carlton dance, and a splash of Cabbage Patch.
You sing a bit, casually, walking without a purpose and weaving in and out of rich, rejuvenated conversations. “I am the rain, held in disdain, lotions and potions just add to my fame . . .”
Jason’s cupping his hands to collect water, and when his makeshift bowl is full, he tosses it at Johns, who does the same to him in return, and Chekezie busies himself by gesturing to the girls, asking them to join you guys. Jason and Johns grab hands and start spinning in a circle.
“They rhyme that in Spain, I fall on the plane . . .”
The girls shake their heads, Brooke laughing into her hands and Carly having some sort of hilarious conversation with Syesha. You look back at the guys, who are now huddled, staring at the bus, beckoning the girls out into the rain with wild arms. They’re making come hither gestures, and they’re flinging water everywhere. You chuckle at their endearing persistence.
And then you spot David.
“The truth is I’m ruthless, I can’t be contained.”
David is standing slightly away from the gang of guys, his arms spread wide like angel’s wings, eyes shut, t-shirt hanging off him, hands facing up to catch the rain, and he’s soaking wet and dripping perfection from his fingertips.
You feel yourself stare at him, palms hot and ears ringing.
A hand claps you on your back, lips press against your temple, and the unmistakable Australian lilt is there when Johns whispers, “Go.”
Before you realize it, without even knowing you’ve moved, you’re standing behind David, your chest touching his back, and you can feel his jeans against yours. Every detail of him has been magnified, unimaginably more ethereal up-close: you watch the rain cling to his long eyelashes, his lips parted just enough to catch droplets. You swallow.
And he’s too close, and beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover how he looks right now, and you can’t breathe.
Slowly, you bring shaking hands to his ribs, fingers fitting into the empty spaces between like you and him are two pieces of a puzzle that’s finally been solved.
His breath catches, and your fingers are desperately tight, and his shirt is drenched, and when his head tilts back to rest against your bare collarbone, his wet hair meets your skin, and he drowns you.
Your head falls back, eyes open and seeking out the sky, rain blurring your vision. You make a silent prayer to God: that this is your baptism, and David is your savior.
iv. i was a name across your lips
Then it’s over - the summer tour that you had so long prepared for and trudged through is at an end.
Everything you detest about the shows - the repetitive lyrics, tiring signings, and Meet & Greets that seemed to stretch on for hours - all the detestation is suddenly gone, and you sing your heart out in the penultimate show, no longer tired of it, but rather realizing that in one more show’s time, this entire Idol experience will be over with.
At the beginning of July, you’d been expecting to have a weight of epic proportions lifted off your shoulders at this moment in time, but like David said in his last video blog, it’s surprisingly bittersweet:
Sweet, because not having to sing the same set of songs six times a week will be a fucking blessing.
Bitter, because you’ve grown so used to seeing David every single day. And you know this won’t happen when you start your own individual tour, and he starts his. The thought of weeks - months - without seeing his grin or hearing his laughter sends a cold wave of nausea rolling through your gut, your throat aching.
The night of the final show, a couple hours before it begins, you and the rest of the Top 10 are all cooped up in the dining room of the hotel, drinking down choice wines and beers and sharing favorite times from the past two months. David sips gingerly at his Sprite, sitting across the table from you.
Everyone is grinning and pointing around the table, putting stories on display that make everyone blush and laugh and wince, and you hear your name thrown into the ring of conversation several times, and you listen just enough to know when to blush or laugh or wince, but the greater part of your mind (and heart) is focused on David. Your fingers itch for his skin.
Months without him is a mocking mantra that takes residence in your skull, and it reverberates annoyingly, and then the rest of the conversation includes itself into the loop of exasperation repeating in your head, and it becomes so loud you can’t stand it.
“Hey David,” you say, not caring that you’re interrupting Ramiele’s giggle-infused story about a fan who gave her boxers with Pink Panther print. “Come with me.” It was meant as a request, but it rolls off the tip of your tongue with a note of desperation, and you don’t miss the way David’s eyebrows furrow at you before he nods.
Everyone gives their have funs and see you in a bits, and a few people catcall jokingly - (you’re torn between blushing, and giving them death stares). You glance at Johns - he’s smiling knowingly and nods at you, as if to say good for you, mate.
You and David make your way to the elevator, and being inside the tiny space with him provides instant relief. You rub his shoulder, and the anxious feeling slips away even more.
“Any particular reason you brought me up to your - your hotel room?” David asks with red cheeks as you slip the card into the door and open it.
It’s at that moment you realize the only reason you have is because he makes you feel like the best possible version of yourself anytime he’s close to you. “No,” you say simply.
He shrugs easily, accepting it.
You spend some time playing Guitar Hero, and he manages to surprise you when he beats you on Hot For Teacher (though, in your defense, he is playing on Easy while you’re rocking out on Expert), and he stretches up high to pat your head consolingly, and then his eyes light up and he says, “Do you really have that gel hair stuff like you said you did on Best Week Ever?” Before you even have the chance to laugh, he slips the guitar off his shoulder and pads his way to your bathroom. You follow him. (As if you wouldn’t.)
He scrounges through the cabinet and briefly glances over the sink. “Nope,” he sighs, mock-sad.
“Sorry to disappoint you, man,” you say. “I know you really wanted to try out that gel, too. Damn!”
He laughs, and then the laughter dies away. “Eyeliner,” David says, eyes panning over your bathroom sink counter. It’s not a statement, and not exactly a question, either. You can’t define what you hear in his voice.
The idea comes to you almost instantaneously, and the image that follows just urges you on further. “Can I put some on you?”
His head snaps to face you. “Huh?”
“Will you let me put some eyeliner on you?” You’re creeping toward the eyeliner pencil as you talk.
“No,” he says. “No, no, no. No thanks.”
“Please? Just a little bit?”
“No,” he says again, but he sounds unsure this time, and he fiddles nervously with his jeans. Your fingers victoriously touch the pencil.
“Please?” you say, unleashing what you hope to be puppy eyes. “I just want to put eyeliner on you - we can take it off before the show, no one else has to see.” Your hand moves to rest on his shoulder. “It’s only for me.”
“Oh, Cook, the puppy dog eyes? Really? You, gosh, you know that face is my weakness,” David says, his eyes honed in on your lips, which you’ve got in a slight pout. “I can never say no when you pull it. You don’t play fair.”
“Is that the Archuleta way of saying yes, I consent, now slap some eyeliner on me?” You crack a grin at him.
“If I say that’s not what it means, would it really make a difference?” His eyes dance, and he licks his lips. Now it’s your turn to stare.
You shake your head.
“Well, I, um, yes, I consent!” He rubs his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Now slap some eyeliner on me.”
“I can’t refuse that demand,” you say, twisting the pencil between your fingers and standing so the edge of the sink juts against the small of your back. “Just turn a bit to the side,” you say.
He swivels so his right side is facing you.
Your knees bend to better accommodate the position, and he turns his head toward you just enough to meet your eyes and for you to see the smile that’s tugging up the corner of his mouth, and that’s when your breath leaves you: at this height, the two of you are eye to eye, equals - and this isn’t the sixteen-year-old kid that first auditioned, you’re looking at David Archuleta, a runner-up on American Idol - a man.
And you’re almost entirely sure that you’re in love with him.
You try to swallow, but your throat feels like sandpaper. “Now keep your eyes open nice and wide,” you say quietly. “And look up toward the ceiling, it’ll make it easier.” You place your hand on his face, thumb against his chin and fingers sliding around the bend of his jaw, and you can feel his pulse race.
The first swipe across David’s lower lash line makes him emit an awkward squeal and duck away from the inferior pointy object, and you can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t laugh at me, the pencil feels - weird,” he says.
“Oh, I know. I still haven’t forgotten the first time I put eyeliner on myself. The pencil slipped and touched my eye.” David’s wearing a sort of sorry expression, but you can see him holding back a smile. “Oh, don’t you laugh at me - I’m almost positive there’s a permanent black dot on my iris now!”
You both take a short break to laugh in the face of the fearful eyeliner, and then you say, “Okay, now keep still, look up, and try not to focus on the feel of it.”
Finishing his right eye takes several minutes, but you keep him occupied with lame jokes and childhood stories. After you put on the final touch, you lean back against the sink to admire your handiwork.
“Well?” David says, fidgeting. “How do I - how does it look?”
You were careful about how much eyeliner you applied - too much on David wouldn’t look well with the paleness of his skin - but you gave him just enough to make his eyelashes seem impossibly thicker, and his eyes even more stunning.
You let out a long, slow breath. “Excuse my language, David - prepare your innocent ears - but you look fucking incredible.”
There’s a flash of a wince on his face from your cuss of choice, but then it’s gone, and he looks so happy. “Yeah?”
“You have no idea.”
He leans to his left, curving around your side. “Can I look in the mirror?”
“Not yet, impatient young grasshopper.” Your hands are on his shoulders as you steer him back in front of you. “Wait until I’ve got your left eye finished, and then you can be blown away.”
Once you say that, he’s more enthusiastic than ever, and immediately turns so his un-Cookified eye is facing you, and you get to work again, the fingers of your free hand finding proverbial places on his jaw to rest. It’s quicker the second time, David being used to the feeling, and you being used to the feeling of him.
“Alright,” you say, his eyes looking inexplicably spectacular, and your fingers feel cold when you draw them away from the heat of his cheeks. You scoot to the side. “Have a look.”
And then he doesn’t move for forty-three seconds. He’s statue still, staring at his reflection, expressionless. His gaze is blank - a little calculating, perhaps - and his lips are quirked to the side, but ever so slightly.
You try to control yourself, but the silence quickly becomes too deafening to handle. “David,” you begin to say, moving toward him, but you’ve barely got his name out of your mouth when he raises his hand to his face.
His palm slides up his neck, still silent, inchworm-slow. It follows the line of his jaw, then sweeps up to the apple of his cheek. One finger runs under his eye, almost touching the eyeliner you drew.
“Wow,” he says, so quietly you strain to hear him. His hand runs over his mouth, eyes still focused on his reflection. “It looks - good. Really good.” When he looks at you, his eyes make the hairs on your arm rise. “I look like you,” he says lowly. “I love that.”
That’s what makes the strings inside of you break, and your conscience crumbles like you did on the Idol finale, and all the breath is gone from your body in a nanosecond, and you rush at David, throat thick and stomach churning. Your arms are around his neck, one hand sliding shakily up into his hair. You press your lips to the crown of his head, again and again and again, and you still can’t breathe, but if you figure if this is the way you die, it’d be a fucking divine way to go.
“Cook,” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer on his tongue. You can feel his hand against your chest, pressing against the shirt where he knows your heart tattoo lies beneath.
Your hand wraps around his, and you bring it up to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his fingertips. His breath stutters.
“Cook,” he whispers again.
His eyes are wide and shining, and so trusting, and you lean in and touch your lips to his forehead. For a second, all you can think about is how warm and soft his skin is, and how much it feels like home, and your entire body is tingling.
For the next few moments that seem to flash by all too fast, you’re like a crazed man, desperately thirsty, and David is the waterfall in your isolated desert. You press your lips to his right cheek, and then the other, and then his nose, and his chin, and his jaw, avoiding the one place you want to kiss him most, because - holy shit, you’re not sure you can trust yourself if you do.
With restraint that you thought only Superman could acquire, you pull away from him, putting mere inches between your faces, and it feels like a mile separates you from him.
He stares at you, his mouth parted slightly and his eyes unreadable, and for a split second you’re ready to backtrack your steps and apologize profusely and gently kick David out of your hotel room so you can have a freezing cold shower, but just as you open your mouth, this winning smile grows across his face, and his soul falls open like the pages of your favorite novel.
To say he knocks you breathless would be a vast understatement - it’s more like he splits you in half; cuts you open and riddles you apart.
He leans forward and presses a calm kiss to your cheek, and your heart falters.
And then his arms are around you, and you can feel his hot breath against your neck, and you wrap your arms around his waist and pick him up and spin, and spin and spin and spin, and the world’s never seemed so still.
“Oh my gosh,” he breathes against your skin at the same time you whisper, “Oh my God,” into his hair, and he laughs breathlessly, and it makes you want to squeeze him tighter, so you do.
He pulls back just enough to look at you and say, “You know that whole, your-lips-on-my-face thing you just did?”
Your laugh is the equivalent of a nod.
“That should - um - you should never ever stop.” He laughs, eager. “You should just keep doing that for forever - ”
So you do, for the next eight minutes, and he giggles, and squirms, and when you follow his spine with the pads of your fingers he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, and he flinches away with a gasping laugh when you find a particularly ticklish spot on the skin behind his ear. And the next eight minutes feel like forever - beautiful and unrushed.
You’re standing with him still, twenty-three minutes later, your arms still around him and his head tilted back to look at you.
“That was, like, eleven firsts in one night,” David says, staring at you in wonder, his face flushed. A cheeky grin is stretching across his face. “I think you’re on a roll, Cook.”
You smile widely, one hand lifting to cup the nape of his neck, the other smoothing back his hair. You touch your forehead to his. “I certainly hope so.”
epilogue. you alone can make my song take flight
In a handful of weeks, you will be sitting with David in a hotel room, and Crush will start playing on a music video show. His cheeks will burn red with embarrassment, but a heartbreaking grin will spread across his face.
You’ll stand and pull him up into a hug, whispering I’m so proud of you and look what you’ve accomplished and you are amazing, David and I can’t believe it’s possible to love you as much as I do right now.
And he’ll untuck his face from the crook of your neck and look up at you, eyes bright and wide, and he’ll lean onto his tiptoes and touch his lips to yours, and you’ll slowly realize, amid quiet breathing and your palms hot against his hips and his hands curling the hair at the nape of your neck, that this is his first kiss.
And you will decide that this is the best first of all.
-
excerpt To say he knocks you breathless would be a vast understatement - it’s more like he splits you in half; cuts you open and riddles you apart.
notes first cook/archie fic! pretty pumped/nervous about posting it. <3 fic title and section titles are lyrics from various cook song performances. lyrics for “i am the rain” are owned by peter doherty. oh, also - this stuff probably never happened. i just pretend it did. psh who am i kidding, ALL OF THIS IS DEFINITELY REAL LIFE, IDEK.
also, i dedicate this fic to all of the cookleta authors and fans that i so much adore. i won’t namedrop any specific ones, because god knows i will forget someone, but just - basically, if you’ve ever written for or read cookleta ever, this goes out to you.
prologue. i haven't got a clue but let me start by saying hello
Before you head out with the rest of the Top 10 on the Idol summer tour, you and David have weeks of promotions and interviews to wade through. You’re not particularly thrilled with having to say what it was like to win American Idol a countless amount of times - but during one radio show you glance at David, and the realization fills you that he has to say, over and over again, what it was like to lose next to you. After that, you find it a lot easier to just suck up your egoistical misery.
After the Idol finale, you work on preparing yourself mentally for the swerving gravel road ahead, because you know that this month of promotion - and the following several months of the summer tour - will be hectic. You know that free time will be a distant, happy memory, and that sleep will no longer be a priority.
You don’t know that this summer will be the catalyst to spark the rest of your life.
i. every day, there's the sun to keep you warm
“Pizza?” you suggest, pointing toward a tiny Italian place and slurping a bit of your slushie.
David shrugs noncommittally. “Not really feeling pizza-y right now,” he says. “Thanks though,” he adds quietly, (you know he doesn’t want to seem anything remotely close to off-putting, or - God forbid - rude by just flat-out saying no I do not want pizza now leave me alone), and you two continue your casual stroll down the way too crowded airport terminal.
“You’ve got to eat something,” you say. “Flying with an empty stomach is oftentimes worse than flying full.”
He nods, and when he blinks, it’s slow and heavy.
“Actually, are you feeling okay, man?” You’re concerned now as you look down at him. Pale face and bloodshot eyes: a deadly combination. “Flying isn’t exactly your forte?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he says, scratching the nape of his neck awkwardly.
You feel yourself pause for a moment. “First time flyer?” you ask for clarification, the beginnings of a smile spreading across your face.
He nods again, glancing up at you from the corners of his eyes.
Your hands are in the air, ecstatic. “Archie!” you shout, a tad accusingly. You ignore the heads turning your way at your (probably uncalled for) outburst, and one of your security guards mutters something about controlling your noise level. “Why didn’t you tell me? This is phenomenal!”
“Phenomenal?” He eyes you doubtfully.
“Indubitably.” You make a show of standing stick-straight, and raise your arm slowly toward him. He’s still wary, but a slight giggle lets you know that you’re doing your job right.
You purse your lips. “Take my arm,” you say, now sporting a brilliant British accent. “You have given me the honor of accompanying you on your first journey by way of air motor carriage.” He guffaws, and you’d like to think it’s because he’s finally recognized your ingenious talent of speaking complete gibberish. “Now let me give you the honor of chauffeuring you around this hectic mess of an airport.”
There’s a long moment, and then, “Why of course, uh, fine sir.” He loops his arm through yours, and your heart catches in your throat.
By the time you’re situated in the plane, your slushie is half-empty and David’s got a muffin the size of Jupiter in one hand and an unopened water bottle in the other.
“How’s your head feeling?” you ask, still worried, as he takes his second bite of muffin.
He nods enthusiastically while he chews, then says, “Better, now that I’m eating.”
“Just let me know if you need Excedrin, because if you do - ” you shake a bottle of pills and then squeeze them back into your jeans pocket “ - I’m your guy.”
“You’re already my guy, Cook,” he throws back playfully with a grin, and when you smile back it’s like fire is searing through your veins and into your palms, and since when are you the one to be blushing and he the one smiling, and are you just imagining the subtle glint in his eyes?
You laugh awkwardly, muttering something about, “Mm, yeah, good,” before sinking back into the seat and hoping it’ll just put you out of your misery and swallow you whole.
The flight attendant’s voice comes over the speakers, and David casually flips through the safety leaflet, taking extra precaution considering that you two are in the row behind the side exits.
His fingers tremble just a bit as he flips a page. Something inside of you aches.
You lean over, wrapping your arm around his neck and bringing your mouth to his ear. “This is a no smoking flight,” you say low enough for only him to hear, cracking a grin, making your voice authoritative and scratchy like it’s flooding the loudspeaker. “Although do feel free to join me in the cockpit, where we’ve opened a window.”
Just as you’d expected (and wanted), he momentarily forgets that he’s even on a plane and instead dissolves into a heap of giggles, head lolling against your shoulder and eyes squeezed shut and the safety leaflet falling forgotten onto his lap.
You laugh along with him, because: one, the joke was decently hilarious, if you do say so yourself, and two, David’s laugh is kind of the most powerful trigger for your own laughter, so three, in hindsight, you really have no choice but to laugh while in the present of David Archuleta, which four, you’re sure not complaining about anytime soon.
“Cook,” he gasps, once he’s got his breath back and he’s looking at you with wide doe eyes. “That was actually a really good joke. Honestly, I’m, um, I’m kind of impressed.”
“Aw, thanks Archie,” you tease. You take a moment to wonder at how he could make an insult sound so much like a compliment, and look adorable doing it. “Too bad I didn’t come up with it myself,” you say a little sheepishly, but your smile is still proud. “Got it off a TV show my friend watches.”
“Well, your friend has pretty good taste in humor - unlike someone I know,” he says under his breath, his elbow nudging your ribs with faux-malicious intent.
You clutch at your chest. “Your words, they wound me.”
“Oh, and nice try at distracting me, by the way,” he says, eyeing you a little smugly. “But you haven’t completely diverted my mind from the fact that we’re about to go airborne in a machine that weighs so much, it should be, um, I don’t know, illegal to fly.”
The flight attendant’s voice cuts out and the plane rumbles to a start, your feet vibrating on the floor. You watch as David’s eyelids fall and his jaw clenches.
“I’m fine,” he whispers through gritted teeth, apparently able to feel his gaze on your face. “Really,” he adds, but his hands make tight fists when the plane begins to back away from the boarding tunnel.
“Archie,” you say, not to tease but to console, “you’ll be fine.”
“I know,” he says, but his voice is more high-pitched than usual, and the crease between his eyes is growing deeper by the second.
Unthinkingly, your hand moves to rest on top of one of his fists, and you try to ignore the hot churn in the pit of your stomach, and once his hand relaxes enough to be pliant, you ease your hands together, palm to palm, fingers laced.
“We’ll be fine,” you add.
He stares at you, wide-eyed and licking his lips with nervous fervor, and your stomach flips as you smile in a way that you hope is reassuring.
“Now close your eyes,” you say calmly, just as the plane has reached the end of the runway, and it pauses for a moment before takeoff - you know it’s the calm before the storm.
He does as he’s told.
“And don’t think - just feel.”
He sits, breathing shallow, fingers gripping yours and his head tilted back into his seat. You know this isn’t the time, that your mind should be focused on his comfort and not scrounging around in the gutter, but you can’t help but trace him with your eyes - a reverent memorizing of his profile: long eyelashes, button nose, full lips (red, pouted), and when you follow the line of his Adam’s apple, so masculine for a seventeen-year-old, you breath out unsteadily and try to swallow down the lewd words on the tip of your tongue.
David Archuleta, you are a fucking masterpiece.
The plane takes off at a pace that matches your pulse, and David’s hand clenches yours with a force to be reckoned with, and some small part of you thinks desperately, I am the only thing keeping him grounded; I am his anchor in this tumult that we call life.
His hand holds yours impossibly tighter with each second as the plane gains more and more speed, but then it’s like magic: the moment wheels leave pavement, his fingers are completely slack, and that crease between his eyes disappears.
You’re watching him when he slowly opens his eyes and turns to the window. The plane follows a slow curve to the right, and all that fills the window is sunny blue and smoky white.
“I really like this feeling,” David says, quiet, staring out into the sunlit sky. “Wow. You know how it, um, there’s this sort of swooping, like the bottom of your stomach is being pulled to your throat? And then it’s like the whole world is tilted on its . . . its axis - and it’s tilting only for you?” He plucks at his jeans with calm anxiety. “It’s a nice feeling.”
You stare at him, mouth dry and tongue heavy, your stomach swooping, and you know you don’t feel this way simply because you’re on a plane.
“Yeah,” you say a little thickly, squeezing his hand, because you’re sure he’s never been so right about a feeling before. “It’s definitely nice.”
And when David turns in his seat and looks at you with bright eyes and that grin you love that takes up half his face, you surrender, absolutely and completely.
ii. i swore that i would change the world when i grew up
After that flight, it becomes your personal obligation to share as many of David’s firsts with him as humanly possible.
You don’t really relish in wondering why you’ve taken to David so much - and to be quite honest, you don’t really want to think about why, either. Because if you think about it too much, you’ll realize that it’s illogical, and unnecessary, and a little immoral to boot.
All you know is that David’s first experiences are strangely important to you, and nothing else really matters for the time being.
One day, near the beginning of the summer tour, you wake up in the hotel, and when you look outside, it is beautiful and clear and positively lovely, and the worst day possible to be stuck in the rehearsals and practices, living off coffee and newspapers and Guitar Hero.
“Fuck it,” you whisper into your pillow, and then you get up and decide to seize the day with a Sharpie in one hand and David Archuleta in another.
Using a charming smile and just a touch of petulant prodding, you manage to wiggle your and David’s ways out of pre-show rehearsals. A brief, semi-awkward conversation with Jeff Archuleta ensues, though he doesn’t seem upset and for that you are unbelievably thankful, and then you’ve got a quickly jotted down schedule for your free time with David.
After breakfast, you tug David out of the hotel, the two of you standing on the sidewalk under a too-yellow sun.
“Prepare yourself for a spectacular day!” you tell him.
David heaves a melodramatic sigh. “What have you done now, Cook?”
“Oh, nothing too terrible, just a bit of fiddling with our free time.”
“Fiddling?” His eyes are happy. “Now you’ve got me worried, Cook - as far as I’m aware, you should just stick with guitaring.”
After a bursting laugh on your part, you sober up enough to say, “You should warn a guy before unleashing humor like that when it’s still in the AM.”
“I’ll try to remember that in the future.” He smiles. “Now, tell me what you’ve got planned before I just, well, give up and go back inside and sing like I’m supposed to.” It’s the boldest sentence you’ve heard him say, and you raise your eyebrows at him, impressed.
“Number one on our task list - ” you grandly pull out the folded sheet of paper from your jeans pocket and unfold it “ - we go to the mall.”
David stares at you, dumbfounded. “The mall?” You nod. “As in, the public place where hundreds of people shop each day?” You nod. “What are we going to do about all the hoards of girls just waiting to clobber us?” He blushes just saying it.
You laugh and wrap your arm around his waist, hugging him to your side. “They’re called security guards, and we’ve got loads of them.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, his eyes searching yours. “What’s number two on our list?”
“Nothing,” you shrug. “We’ve only got one thing on our agenda today, and that is a visit to the mall.”
“Why?”
“I’ve heard through the grapevine - and by grapevine, I mean reliable sources - that you have never, not once, taken photos in a photobooth before.”
His eyebrows rise.
“We are going to change that today.”
“How do you even know about my, uh, lack of photobooth expertise?”
“Oh, I’ve done my Archie research,” you tell him, waggling your eyebrows and bathing in the grin that he’s giving you.
“What has gotten into you today, Cook?” he muses, shaking his head lovingly.
You inhale, and all you can smell is his vanilla-scented shampoo. “It’s just a wonderful time of the year to be out and about, don’t you think? Early summer: time of warm and wet nights, the beginning of new things. It just - makes sense that we should be outside today.”
He nods warily, amused, in your direction.
“Disagree with me,” you warn, “and - forget about those girls - I’ll clobber you.”
“Oh, I’d like to see you try,” he sings giddily, skipping ahead of you.
You chase after him, engaging in a tickle fight once you reach him, because it seems like today, you can’t keep your hands off him.
The crowd at the mall shouldn’t surprise you anymore, but it absolutely does, and you feel your mind sort of blank as you make your way through hectic crowds: the arms pushing out sheets of paper and pens, screams of I love you David! and Marry me! and Oh my gosh, everybody just needs to calm down, you all should know by now that Archie is mine!
(At the latter comment, said Archie smiles with hollow eyes.
He’s walking behind you, and you reach back blindly and feel for his hand, and when you’ve got him, you tug him close enough to feel the heat of his chest seep along your spine.
He stutters out a, “Thanks,” and you whisper back a, “No problem,” and you’ve got his back while he’s pressed against yours.)
You learn something new today: fending off crazy Idol fans and sobbing teenage girls is a lot easier with David Archuleta by your side.
They section off the portion of the mall with the photobooth, and amid distant flashes and excited whispers and the occasional shout of love or marriage, you and David climb into the curtained booth. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but you openly embrace the fact that your arms are touching from shoulder to elbow, that your thighs are seamlessly against his, and that your heads are so close they’re nearly conjoined.
David doesn’t seem to be complaining about the close contact either, and that alone makes you grin.
“So - you get how this works, right?” you ask, retrieving loose change from your pocket and slipping it into the coin slot.
At a sideways glance, you see David roll his eyes. “Of course, Cook - I mean, I’ve seen other people’s, um, photo strips or whatever they’re called. I’ve just never, you know, actually done it.”
“Right. So it’ll tell you how long until the camera will go off, and you pose.” You smile at him. “Basic stuff, right?”
“Sounds simple enough,” he says, pointedly shrugging his shoulder against you, and you shrug back, waiting for a five second countdown.
When nothing appears on the screen for several seconds, you frown at it, prodding it with your finger, and you turn to David and say, “This is weird, something definitely should’ve hap - ”
The camera flashes.
“Oh no,” you say, eyes filling with dark spots, “this is the kind of photobooth that doesn’t warn you!”
David is cracking up beside you, swaying side to side with giggles.
“I honestly can’t believe these still exist!” You grin down at him. “I mean, really, hasn’t technology advanced just a little bit since I was in - ”
The light bulb goes off again, and David falls apart again.
“This is not a laughing matter,” you say, but you’re starting to laugh too. “I’m sure these will all be very attractive, you looking normal and me in the middle of talking, my mouth hanging open like a caught fish.”
He recovers enough to say, “I think you’re supposed to look here,” a little breathlessly, his finger pressing to a tiny lense, (and honestly, since when is he the photobooth expert and you the novice?) -
Another quick flash leaves you both blind for a moment.
“Oh my gosh,” David says, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“We’re hopeless!” You throw your hands up in the air, unthinkingly, and take out David’s face with your elbow. He staggers just a bit, knocking lightly against the wall.
“Ah, Christ,” you say under your breath, leaning in to inspect the damage. He’s still a giggling mess next to you, but you quickly spot the stark white place of impact on his jaw, near his lips, a clear contrast to his bright red cheeks.
“Are you okay?” you ask, touching the soon-to-be bruise with careful fingers, and David’s just grinning like a fool, and then something changes in his eyes, quick as a flash, as he whispers, “Just smile, Cook,” and you do, you grin so wide your cheeks hurt, because at this point you’ll probably do anything he asks.
The camera goes off one last time.
Except it really isn’t the last time, because you convince David to take another strip.
(“Come on,” you argue, “I wasn’t prepared for any of these!” You gesture to the comical picture strip in your hand.
David smiles mischievously up at you. “And is that really my fault in any way whatsoever?”
“Maybe if you weren’t distracting me with your relentless giggles - ” your hands fly to his face, the skin under his arms, the hollows above his hipbones, easily finding familiar ticklish spots, and he breaks into laughter and half-serious shouts of protest “ - then I’d take a good picture.”
You’re ready the second time through, and you and David coordinate so that you two match in each photo: pulling at the corners of lips, tongues sticking out; devil horns out of pointer fingers, and evil grins; faux-screaming at each other, palms to cheeks in true Macaulay Culkin fashion; and finally, two simple smiles at the camera, heads touching.)
“Oh, we are keepers.” You fiddle the photo strip between your fingers and take another casting glance at the pictures. You’ve got the original strip, and David’s looking over the second strip - the one where you actually knew what you were doing.
You glance fondly at the column of photos: the first one, where you’re in the middle of talking and David’s looking up at you, his mouth parted slightly. (You spend a solid four seconds staring at his lips.) The second one, where David’s laughing - you can practically feel his giggles rolling off the photo strip - and you’re still babbling away like a man who doesn’t know when to shut his mouth. The third one makes you pause for a moment and laugh, hard: only half the photo is visible, because the other half is an extreme close up of the tip of David’s finger. You’re both staring at the camera, fascinated.
When you reach the final photo, it’s like everything else in the world has gone blurry, like watercolors bleeding into each other. You and David are staring at each other, you with a grin and he with a smile, your fingertips on his jaw and your nose almost grazing his.
You hear David’s quiet laughter, and you look to see him staring at the other photo strip. “These are so amazing,” he says.
You hold out your photo strip, and he holds out his in return, and you two switch. You pretend to be looking at the photos, head dipped low, but your eyes are on David’s face. You watch the emotions fly through him at speeds too quick for deciphering, but he lingers on the last one, and his small smile is almost proud.
“Yeah,” you agree. You are.
On the walk back to the hotel, David spots a playground, and you and him collectively decide to hang out on the equipment, because it’s completely deserted, and because you figure goofing around for a little longer won’t hurt anyone, and also because you saw David’s beaming expression when he’d noticed the playground.
The security guards laze around the sandpit while you and David scamper about, mulch flying behind your feet, arms hooking around poles, and it’s all laughter and amazement and freedom, and you want to feel this way every day of your life.
You push an unwilling David on the tire swing, and he ducks his head like he’s afraid you’ll push him so high his head will crack against the top pole, but once you’ve got him spinning fast enough, his laughter breaks through his reluctance. You can’t get enough of the sound.
Once the tire swing slows enough for him to get off, (and you sure don’t make it easy for him to get down, seeing as you keep spinning and spinning and spinning), you make a mad dash. He’s chasing after you, with words like, “I’ll get you back, Cook!” and “Oh my heck, I will do unmentionable things to you,” and you laugh but you keep running away.
He catches up to you within fifteen seconds - runner’s legs, you remember fondly - and he snatches your shirt, kneels down, and grabs a fistful of mulch. His chest is barely moving, whereas you’re gulping down air like it’s your last Seven and Seven.
“Well?” You smile down at him expectantly, waiting for him to do something with that mulch in his hand.
After a long moment, a grin spreads across his face, and he says, “Never mind. I couldn’t never do anything to you, Cook.”
“Aw, Arch!” You ruffle his hair a bit. “As a reward - ” you turn your back to him and hunch down just a little “ - you get a free piggyback ride. Or, perhaps, Cookyback ride, if that’s your style.”
But you barely get out the last few words, because you feel your collar tighten around your chest and then just rough prickly heat is sliding your back, and you spin around to see David yards away from you, running and laughing breathlessly.
“People don’t give you nearly enough credit for being the heathen that you are!” You start after him, the mulch sliding out of your shirt and back on the ground where it rightfully belongs.
Eventually, after he spares mercy on you and slows enough for you to catch up and then you two engage in a tickle match, you sit down tiredly on one of the swings, and David occupies a swing next to you. The two of you sway comfortably.
“This has been a really nice afternoon,” David says in a voice so content, your heart clenches.
“It really truly has been.”
He smiles at you. “Thank you, Cook.”
“Anytime, anyplace, anything for you, Arch.”
“Do you want to get married?” you ask excitedly, dangling your legs back and forth.
The tips of his ears burn read. “Cook, I’m seventeen - I’m pretty sure that, well, marriage is something I don’t really have the opportunity to, uh, explore at the moment.”
You can’t help it: you break into reckless laughter, leaning against one of the chains on either side of the swing. With streaming eyes, you glance at David from your peripheral vision, and you find him smiling at you with confused eyes.
“No,” you clarify, a little out of breath, “I mean, do you want to be married on the swing set?”
He frowns, still confused, pondering.
“You know, like when you were a little kid?”
When he shakes his head, it’s an instant confirmation of what you’ll be doing for the next hour.
“Alright, marrying someone on the swings is the equivalent of swinging with them at exactly the same time and place.”
“Okay,” he says, slowly, disbelievingly.
You grab your swing’s chains. “Just start swinging and I’ll let you know when we’re married, how’s that sound?”
“Alright,” he says, smiling a little, and pushes off the ground silently. You smile and start picking up speed, falling quickly into the familiar rhythm.
You wait until you two are almost in perfect symmetry, then say, “Now, if you want to step outside the lines and go a little wild - ” you pause as he giggles “ - then right now, you could say that we’re dating. See how close we are to being exactly the same?”
He looks at you, following your swing’s motion, and nods.
“Now, if you speed up just a little bit . . .”
He starts pumping his legs back and forth, and you watch him soar through the air, wind whipping his hair into an even crazier state than it was before, and just a little harder, you think to yourself, and -
“There we go,” you say, your grin inconceivably huge, your cheeks hurting with the magnificence of it. You and David are perfectly aligned; perfectly together.
“So now we’re, um, married?” He shuffles sheepishly in his seat, but his eyes are still fixed brightly on you.
“Yup!” You stretch out your hand toward him, and he takes it immediately, no hesitation, because your fingers locked with his is practically second nature to you both by now. “What’s it feel like, being married for the first time?”
Redness floods his cheeks and neck, and his head ducks a little. His smile stays put. “Great,” you hear him say, and he starts swinging your hands back and forth with the tempo of your swings, and then it’s like the sun’s temperature has increased by one thousand degrees, because everything’s too hot.
You swing, side by side, palm to palm, heart to heart.
Sometime later, your swing starts to separate rhythm from his, and your hand is pulled from his, and you make some joke about being in a rocky relationship and then three seconds later you say you’re divorced, and David laughs and blushes.
After you jump off, you stand and wait for him, watching as he slows down and leans back until he’s arched over the swing, head brushing the mulch, feet dangling with ease, and you’ve never seen him so carefree or so beautiful.
You both walk back to the bus, hand in hand, and it’s like you were never divorced at all.
(interlude. i can walk these circles all night long
One night, when everyone is off in various corners of the tour bus, and Archie’s gone off to take a shower so you know that you’ve got at least fifteen minutes, you take a deep breath and pluck up the courage and join Johns in his bunk.
“Dave!”
He looks at you as you plop down onto the bed - takes note of your less than jovial expression - and closes his cell phone immediately, putting it into his pocket.
“Hey, can I talk to you about something?” you ask, curling back against the wall. You sound oddly formal to your own ears.
“Shoot,” he says, his tone less cheerful. He notices the mood, too.
You suck in a breath, and then exhale slowly. You don’t know where to start.
“Let me guess,” Johns says, and he scoots closer, patting your shoulder. “It’s got something to do with Little D.”
Your spine snaps straight so quickly it’s on the verge of comical. “Are you a psychic, Johns, or just a fucking lucky guesser?”
He chuckles. “Neither, Dave. My talent is the pleasure of sight.”
With a sigh, your head drops to your hands. “Is it that obvious?” you groan.
“It’s the way you look at him,” he says, softly, and you know that he’s on your side. “You watch him with the eyes of a guy who knows what he wants, and doesn’t think he deserves it.”
“That’s because I don’t,” you mumble into your palms.
“With an attitude like that, mate, there’s no way in fucking hell you’ve got even the slightest chance of snatching Archie up.”
“I’ve got no chance, period.”
You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge - always the person who people rely on to go for something, anything, and follow through with complete confidence and a vigor that just won’t quit.
David Archuleta is one huge exception to that reputation.
David Archuleta fills you with such passion, such verve, it’s like he makes the purest form of life pour from your fingertips and ooze from your skin, and to gather up any more strength would cause instantaneous combustion.
Johns scoffs. “Let’s hear your oh-so-wisdomly reasoning for that.”
“I’m twenty-five, he’s seventeen, for starters.”
“His birthday’s in, like, seven months. I’m sure you can keep hold of yourself long enough to wait.”
You try again, going with a different aspect. “I’m a bartender, he’s - he’s just - a kid in high school. Untainted.”
“Dave,” he says, a little bit pleading now. “For the love of all that is holy, don’t degrade yourself over Archie. It’s the last thing he’d want you to do for him, ever, in a million years.”
“I’m not worthy,” you say, and it’s the most self-deprecating thing you’ve ever said about yourself. It is also the truest.
“You know, Archie cares about you the way you care about him,” Johns says, a little too casually.
Your head shoots up from your hands. “What?”
“Oh, come on. I know you’re not blind. So why can’t you see the way Archie looks at you? The way he’s always staring up at you, smiling that cute little smile, blushing as red as a fucking tomato? Dave, I know you’re not that out of the loop.”
You stare at him.
Johns sighs. “Okay, and maybe Archie’s had a few talks with me.”
You’re done becoming surprised by this conversation. “Johns. Spill. Now.”
“We’ve talked, Archie and I. We’ve been talking since Top 11 week.”
“About what?”
“About lollipops and daffodils and rainbows. Give me a break - about you, you idiot. I’m like the fucking relationship doctor around here or something, Jesus. I’m helping everyone with their heart’s aches and pains and - Christ, I should get paid for this shit.”
You flip him the bird and then get back on task. “What did he say about me, MJ?”
“It’s really not my place to say.” You open your mouth to retaliate, but it’s as if Johns can see the words formulating on your tongue, and he says quickly, honestly, “Really mate - Archie and I agreed that we’d just keep it between ourselves. Just . . . just trust me when I say that the kid really adores you. He loves you.”
“I love him, too,” you say, because you do, and you’ve told each other that before. It’s not a secret by any definition of the word. “He’s just so young, and - innocent, and I can’t - ”
“No, no,” Johns interrupts you, “I’m sure he loves you and you love him too.” He pins you with his gaze. “No, Dave, he is in love with you.”
You suddenly find it difficult to breathe.
“And trust me again when I say that this isn’t some deranged form of teenage puppy love he’s feeling - the way he describes it, how he feels anytime you’re near and anytime he thinks about you - ” Johns blows out air, slow and steady, “ - what he’s feeling is legit.”
Your tongue weighs a thousand pounds.
“Have him, Dave. He wants you. He needs you. And I’m pretty sure that you need him more than anything in the world.”
“Yes.”
“Go.”)
iii. this moment is potent
Sometime, when it’s nearing the end of the tour and you all are suffering from exhaustion of a higher power, God decides to throw one more against you and the sunny sky cracks, and it pours down rain outside while you and the rest of the guys are lounging in a common room on the bus.
“Well isn’t this pleasant,” you mumble, watching raindrops streak down the windows.
“Maybe it’ll cause a lack of fans waiting for us outside,” Jason says hopefully, fingers trying out new melodies on his uke.
“Nah.” Chikezie shakes his head. “It’ll just increase the number of fans with umbrellas.”
“I see you’re quite the optimist, Chikezie,” Johns says, grinning brightly. “That’s lovely.”
You can’t blame Chikezie, though - he looks unusually tired, eyes drooping and blinking sluggish, and you feel as tired as he looks, and you’re pretty sure everyone else does, too.
“Anyone up for Guitar Hero?” you ask, wanting something - anything - to wake you up. You can’t stand feeling lethargic.
Johns raises his eyebrows at you. “Do we look like we’re up for Guitar Hero? Plus, you kick our asses every time. It’s beginning to lose its fun factor, and quickly becoming the David Cook Show.”
You summon enough energy to beam proudly at him.
“I’m singing in the rain,” Jason sings quietly as he plucks the chords. “Just singing in the rain.”
Everyone joins in, drawn and a little bored, but with quiet smiles: “What a glorious feeling and I’m happy again.” And then it seems like that bit of song has sucked the remaining get-up-and-go out of you and the guys, and the next several minutes are spent in companionable silence as you reenergize.
Jason sighs, after a bit. “I haven’t actually sung in the rain in forever.” Jason’s got a faraway look in his eyes.
Johns yawns and says, “Me neither, mate. It’s such a free feeling, yeah? I love it.”
“I can just see you,” Chikezie says, “strolling down a sidewalk with this huge grin on your face, all oh God I feel so fantastic right now, dripping wet and loving it.”
Johns makes a face and rubs his eyes. “Are you deliberately trying to make me sound like a pansy ass, or does it just come naturally?”
“I think you’re doing a pretty good job of making yourself sound like a pansy ass, to be quite honest, Johns.” Chikezie flashes him a friendly grin.
“Come on now,” Johns says, a tad defensive, “who hasn’t sung in the rain? Or danced in it? Or at least stood and done a little jig in it?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot David sort of sink against the back of the couch, his throat flexing with a swallow. He doesn’t need to say anything - it’s sort of clear that -
“There are some people who haven’t done anything in the rain,” you say, a little defensive yourself. “Sometimes opportunities don’t present themselves until you’re on the Idol tour and it’s raining cats and dogs outside.”
Everyone stares at you like you’re going mental - save David, who has visibly relaxed and has the beginnings of a shy smile on his lips. (Not that you’re paying attention to his lips or anything.
Oh, who are you trying to kid, you absolutely are.)
“Was that a backwards way of saying you haven’t sung in the rain, Dave?” Chikezie clarifies, looking somewhat shocked. It seems as though you’re the kind of guy whose image would pop up next to “Rain Shenanigans” in the dictionary.
“Yes,” you blurt out. It’s a lie, but now you know that: one, Johns is going to make Rick pull the bus over so you can all get out and get soaking wet and dance around like a group of girls, and two, if you hadn’t said yes, David would’ve never uttered a word, so three, you figure lying was the only way of sharing another first with David, which four, lest you forget, is now your official goal in life.
Your eyes are drawn to David, who’s staring intently at the carpet, smiling.
“Well that settles it, mate,” Johns says, hopping up from the floor to speak to the driver of the bus. You swear you could’ve made a living in precognition.
Within the course of ten minutes, your bus and the girls’ bus are parked on the edge of the road. The guys are out in the rain the moment the bus’s brakes are touched -
(The rain is shockingly cold at first, and for a few moments, all you can think about are the dull thuds of raindrops to your shoes, arms, hands, shoulders, and head. But by the time sixty seconds have gone by, you’re drenched to the bone, teeth chattering just a bit. You feel fantastic.)
- and the girls seem content to sit at the windows of their bus, faces pressed against the glass, fingers pointing at choice males and laughter bubbling out of their mouths. They look especially amused when Johns attempts a myriad of dances, like the Carlton dance, and a splash of Cabbage Patch.
You sing a bit, casually, walking without a purpose and weaving in and out of rich, rejuvenated conversations. “I am the rain, held in disdain, lotions and potions just add to my fame . . .”
Jason’s cupping his hands to collect water, and when his makeshift bowl is full, he tosses it at Johns, who does the same to him in return, and Chekezie busies himself by gesturing to the girls, asking them to join you guys. Jason and Johns grab hands and start spinning in a circle.
“They rhyme that in Spain, I fall on the plane . . .”
The girls shake their heads, Brooke laughing into her hands and Carly having some sort of hilarious conversation with Syesha. You look back at the guys, who are now huddled, staring at the bus, beckoning the girls out into the rain with wild arms. They’re making come hither gestures, and they’re flinging water everywhere. You chuckle at their endearing persistence.
And then you spot David.
“The truth is I’m ruthless, I can’t be contained.”
David is standing slightly away from the gang of guys, his arms spread wide like angel’s wings, eyes shut, t-shirt hanging off him, hands facing up to catch the rain, and he’s soaking wet and dripping perfection from his fingertips.
You feel yourself stare at him, palms hot and ears ringing.
A hand claps you on your back, lips press against your temple, and the unmistakable Australian lilt is there when Johns whispers, “Go.”
Before you realize it, without even knowing you’ve moved, you’re standing behind David, your chest touching his back, and you can feel his jeans against yours. Every detail of him has been magnified, unimaginably more ethereal up-close: you watch the rain cling to his long eyelashes, his lips parted just enough to catch droplets. You swallow.
And he’s too close, and beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover how he looks right now, and you can’t breathe.
Slowly, you bring shaking hands to his ribs, fingers fitting into the empty spaces between like you and him are two pieces of a puzzle that’s finally been solved.
His breath catches, and your fingers are desperately tight, and his shirt is drenched, and when his head tilts back to rest against your bare collarbone, his wet hair meets your skin, and he drowns you.
Your head falls back, eyes open and seeking out the sky, rain blurring your vision. You make a silent prayer to God: that this is your baptism, and David is your savior.
iv. i was a name across your lips
Then it’s over - the summer tour that you had so long prepared for and trudged through is at an end.
Everything you detest about the shows - the repetitive lyrics, tiring signings, and Meet & Greets that seemed to stretch on for hours - all the detestation is suddenly gone, and you sing your heart out in the penultimate show, no longer tired of it, but rather realizing that in one more show’s time, this entire Idol experience will be over with.
At the beginning of July, you’d been expecting to have a weight of epic proportions lifted off your shoulders at this moment in time, but like David said in his last video blog, it’s surprisingly bittersweet:
Sweet, because not having to sing the same set of songs six times a week will be a fucking blessing.
Bitter, because you’ve grown so used to seeing David every single day. And you know this won’t happen when you start your own individual tour, and he starts his. The thought of weeks - months - without seeing his grin or hearing his laughter sends a cold wave of nausea rolling through your gut, your throat aching.
The night of the final show, a couple hours before it begins, you and the rest of the Top 10 are all cooped up in the dining room of the hotel, drinking down choice wines and beers and sharing favorite times from the past two months. David sips gingerly at his Sprite, sitting across the table from you.
Everyone is grinning and pointing around the table, putting stories on display that make everyone blush and laugh and wince, and you hear your name thrown into the ring of conversation several times, and you listen just enough to know when to blush or laugh or wince, but the greater part of your mind (and heart) is focused on David. Your fingers itch for his skin.
Months without him is a mocking mantra that takes residence in your skull, and it reverberates annoyingly, and then the rest of the conversation includes itself into the loop of exasperation repeating in your head, and it becomes so loud you can’t stand it.
“Hey David,” you say, not caring that you’re interrupting Ramiele’s giggle-infused story about a fan who gave her boxers with Pink Panther print. “Come with me.” It was meant as a request, but it rolls off the tip of your tongue with a note of desperation, and you don’t miss the way David’s eyebrows furrow at you before he nods.
Everyone gives their have funs and see you in a bits, and a few people catcall jokingly - (you’re torn between blushing, and giving them death stares). You glance at Johns - he’s smiling knowingly and nods at you, as if to say good for you, mate.
You and David make your way to the elevator, and being inside the tiny space with him provides instant relief. You rub his shoulder, and the anxious feeling slips away even more.
“Any particular reason you brought me up to your - your hotel room?” David asks with red cheeks as you slip the card into the door and open it.
It’s at that moment you realize the only reason you have is because he makes you feel like the best possible version of yourself anytime he’s close to you. “No,” you say simply.
He shrugs easily, accepting it.
You spend some time playing Guitar Hero, and he manages to surprise you when he beats you on Hot For Teacher (though, in your defense, he is playing on Easy while you’re rocking out on Expert), and he stretches up high to pat your head consolingly, and then his eyes light up and he says, “Do you really have that gel hair stuff like you said you did on Best Week Ever?” Before you even have the chance to laugh, he slips the guitar off his shoulder and pads his way to your bathroom. You follow him. (As if you wouldn’t.)
He scrounges through the cabinet and briefly glances over the sink. “Nope,” he sighs, mock-sad.
“Sorry to disappoint you, man,” you say. “I know you really wanted to try out that gel, too. Damn!”
He laughs, and then the laughter dies away. “Eyeliner,” David says, eyes panning over your bathroom sink counter. It’s not a statement, and not exactly a question, either. You can’t define what you hear in his voice.
The idea comes to you almost instantaneously, and the image that follows just urges you on further. “Can I put some on you?”
His head snaps to face you. “Huh?”
“Will you let me put some eyeliner on you?” You’re creeping toward the eyeliner pencil as you talk.
“No,” he says. “No, no, no. No thanks.”
“Please? Just a little bit?”
“No,” he says again, but he sounds unsure this time, and he fiddles nervously with his jeans. Your fingers victoriously touch the pencil.
“Please?” you say, unleashing what you hope to be puppy eyes. “I just want to put eyeliner on you - we can take it off before the show, no one else has to see.” Your hand moves to rest on his shoulder. “It’s only for me.”
“Oh, Cook, the puppy dog eyes? Really? You, gosh, you know that face is my weakness,” David says, his eyes honed in on your lips, which you’ve got in a slight pout. “I can never say no when you pull it. You don’t play fair.”
“Is that the Archuleta way of saying yes, I consent, now slap some eyeliner on me?” You crack a grin at him.
“If I say that’s not what it means, would it really make a difference?” His eyes dance, and he licks his lips. Now it’s your turn to stare.
You shake your head.
“Well, I, um, yes, I consent!” He rubs his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Now slap some eyeliner on me.”
“I can’t refuse that demand,” you say, twisting the pencil between your fingers and standing so the edge of the sink juts against the small of your back. “Just turn a bit to the side,” you say.
He swivels so his right side is facing you.
Your knees bend to better accommodate the position, and he turns his head toward you just enough to meet your eyes and for you to see the smile that’s tugging up the corner of his mouth, and that’s when your breath leaves you: at this height, the two of you are eye to eye, equals - and this isn’t the sixteen-year-old kid that first auditioned, you’re looking at David Archuleta, a runner-up on American Idol - a man.
And you’re almost entirely sure that you’re in love with him.
You try to swallow, but your throat feels like sandpaper. “Now keep your eyes open nice and wide,” you say quietly. “And look up toward the ceiling, it’ll make it easier.” You place your hand on his face, thumb against his chin and fingers sliding around the bend of his jaw, and you can feel his pulse race.
The first swipe across David’s lower lash line makes him emit an awkward squeal and duck away from the inferior pointy object, and you can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t laugh at me, the pencil feels - weird,” he says.
“Oh, I know. I still haven’t forgotten the first time I put eyeliner on myself. The pencil slipped and touched my eye.” David’s wearing a sort of sorry expression, but you can see him holding back a smile. “Oh, don’t you laugh at me - I’m almost positive there’s a permanent black dot on my iris now!”
You both take a short break to laugh in the face of the fearful eyeliner, and then you say, “Okay, now keep still, look up, and try not to focus on the feel of it.”
Finishing his right eye takes several minutes, but you keep him occupied with lame jokes and childhood stories. After you put on the final touch, you lean back against the sink to admire your handiwork.
“Well?” David says, fidgeting. “How do I - how does it look?”
You were careful about how much eyeliner you applied - too much on David wouldn’t look well with the paleness of his skin - but you gave him just enough to make his eyelashes seem impossibly thicker, and his eyes even more stunning.
You let out a long, slow breath. “Excuse my language, David - prepare your innocent ears - but you look fucking incredible.”
There’s a flash of a wince on his face from your cuss of choice, but then it’s gone, and he looks so happy. “Yeah?”
“You have no idea.”
He leans to his left, curving around your side. “Can I look in the mirror?”
“Not yet, impatient young grasshopper.” Your hands are on his shoulders as you steer him back in front of you. “Wait until I’ve got your left eye finished, and then you can be blown away.”
Once you say that, he’s more enthusiastic than ever, and immediately turns so his un-Cookified eye is facing you, and you get to work again, the fingers of your free hand finding proverbial places on his jaw to rest. It’s quicker the second time, David being used to the feeling, and you being used to the feeling of him.
“Alright,” you say, his eyes looking inexplicably spectacular, and your fingers feel cold when you draw them away from the heat of his cheeks. You scoot to the side. “Have a look.”
And then he doesn’t move for forty-three seconds. He’s statue still, staring at his reflection, expressionless. His gaze is blank - a little calculating, perhaps - and his lips are quirked to the side, but ever so slightly.
You try to control yourself, but the silence quickly becomes too deafening to handle. “David,” you begin to say, moving toward him, but you’ve barely got his name out of your mouth when he raises his hand to his face.
His palm slides up his neck, still silent, inchworm-slow. It follows the line of his jaw, then sweeps up to the apple of his cheek. One finger runs under his eye, almost touching the eyeliner you drew.
“Wow,” he says, so quietly you strain to hear him. His hand runs over his mouth, eyes still focused on his reflection. “It looks - good. Really good.” When he looks at you, his eyes make the hairs on your arm rise. “I look like you,” he says lowly. “I love that.”
That’s what makes the strings inside of you break, and your conscience crumbles like you did on the Idol finale, and all the breath is gone from your body in a nanosecond, and you rush at David, throat thick and stomach churning. Your arms are around his neck, one hand sliding shakily up into his hair. You press your lips to the crown of his head, again and again and again, and you still can’t breathe, but if you figure if this is the way you die, it’d be a fucking divine way to go.
“Cook,” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer on his tongue. You can feel his hand against your chest, pressing against the shirt where he knows your heart tattoo lies beneath.
Your hand wraps around his, and you bring it up to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his fingertips. His breath stutters.
“Cook,” he whispers again.
His eyes are wide and shining, and so trusting, and you lean in and touch your lips to his forehead. For a second, all you can think about is how warm and soft his skin is, and how much it feels like home, and your entire body is tingling.
For the next few moments that seem to flash by all too fast, you’re like a crazed man, desperately thirsty, and David is the waterfall in your isolated desert. You press your lips to his right cheek, and then the other, and then his nose, and his chin, and his jaw, avoiding the one place you want to kiss him most, because - holy shit, you’re not sure you can trust yourself if you do.
With restraint that you thought only Superman could acquire, you pull away from him, putting mere inches between your faces, and it feels like a mile separates you from him.
He stares at you, his mouth parted slightly and his eyes unreadable, and for a split second you’re ready to backtrack your steps and apologize profusely and gently kick David out of your hotel room so you can have a freezing cold shower, but just as you open your mouth, this winning smile grows across his face, and his soul falls open like the pages of your favorite novel.
To say he knocks you breathless would be a vast understatement - it’s more like he splits you in half; cuts you open and riddles you apart.
He leans forward and presses a calm kiss to your cheek, and your heart falters.
And then his arms are around you, and you can feel his hot breath against your neck, and you wrap your arms around his waist and pick him up and spin, and spin and spin and spin, and the world’s never seemed so still.
“Oh my gosh,” he breathes against your skin at the same time you whisper, “Oh my God,” into his hair, and he laughs breathlessly, and it makes you want to squeeze him tighter, so you do.
He pulls back just enough to look at you and say, “You know that whole, your-lips-on-my-face thing you just did?”
Your laugh is the equivalent of a nod.
“That should - um - you should never ever stop.” He laughs, eager. “You should just keep doing that for forever - ”
So you do, for the next eight minutes, and he giggles, and squirms, and when you follow his spine with the pads of your fingers he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, and he flinches away with a gasping laugh when you find a particularly ticklish spot on the skin behind his ear. And the next eight minutes feel like forever - beautiful and unrushed.
You’re standing with him still, twenty-three minutes later, your arms still around him and his head tilted back to look at you.
“That was, like, eleven firsts in one night,” David says, staring at you in wonder, his face flushed. A cheeky grin is stretching across his face. “I think you’re on a roll, Cook.”
You smile widely, one hand lifting to cup the nape of his neck, the other smoothing back his hair. You touch your forehead to his. “I certainly hope so.”
epilogue. you alone can make my song take flight
In a handful of weeks, you will be sitting with David in a hotel room, and Crush will start playing on a music video show. His cheeks will burn red with embarrassment, but a heartbreaking grin will spread across his face.
You’ll stand and pull him up into a hug, whispering I’m so proud of you and look what you’ve accomplished and you are amazing, David and I can’t believe it’s possible to love you as much as I do right now.
And he’ll untuck his face from the crook of your neck and look up at you, eyes bright and wide, and he’ll lean onto his tiptoes and touch his lips to yours, and you’ll slowly realize, amid quiet breathing and your palms hot against his hips and his hands curling the hair at the nape of your neck, that this is his first kiss.
And you will decide that this is the best first of all.
-