american idol // cook&skib // five times.
five times david cook almost kisses andy skib.
(and one time andy kisses him.)
pairing: andy skib/david cook.
rating: pg13.
~5307 words.
i.
Andy Skib is short and skinny and looks a little bit like what's-his-name, that famous actor in that one movie, and David is only twenty and hasn't mastered the skill of thinking before he speaks, so when they meet for the first time, at a party at a friend-of-a-friend's house, he accidentally tells Andy this.
But Andy just laughs and purses his lips together and says, jokingly, "Which actor? Is he good-looking?" and if he were a girl, David would have definitely thought he was flirting. He's not though, he's a guy, unquestionably a guy, so David blinks a few times and sort of shrugs his shoulders, for once in his life, lost for words. The other guys laugh ("gullible," they tell Andy, "Dave is so fuckin' gullible," but he's not, or at least he doesn't think he is) and Andy just grins like hey, it's cool, I get it.
"I hear you're a singer," David says, when he remembers that thing called conversation and how, at one point, he used to be really good at it. The other guys have moved on, gravitated towards girlfriends or drinking buddies or maybe just to pass out in the bathroom, but he and Andy are just standing in the kitchen, sipping their beers like they're not both underage (Andy by a long-shot; David learns later that he's only seventeen).
"Sometimes," Andy replies with a vague smile, and then he's setting his cup down and gesturing to the stairs and telling David about this room he found, in the attic, and he should come check it out, seriously, it's fucking cool. And David's not nearly drunk enough to stumble upstairs alone with a guy he's just met, but he does it anyway, because truthfully he's still trying to think of that actor's name (it's on the tip of his tongue, he knows it is), and leaving the party is no big deal, either, since there are no hot chicks here.
The attic isn't nearly as cool as Andy thinks it is, but David pretends it's amazing, for his sake. They sit on these little wooden box-looking things, except there are only two in the room and they're, like, an inch apart so they turn at awkward angles to make sure their legs don't touch. They talk almost for an hour about mindless, vapid things like the best guitar solos in the history of music and whether or not the Rolling Stones were overrated ("they so were, dude," Andy says, and David threatens to punch him) and then, and only then, they talk about themselves.
"I sing too," Dave offers first, but Andy just flashes him that mysterious fucking grin again and says, "I know," and they sit in silence for a while before David cuts in with, "What I do is called rock, though, have you heard of it?"
Andy's not insulted but he pretends to be, draws his shoulders up and feigns a wounded expression, says, "What's that supposed to mean?" except the corners of his mouths are curling up.
"Oh, it's nothing," Dave says, and wonders if it's too early on in their friendship-acquaintanceship?-to be joking like this. He decides he doesn't care. "Just, you know, the fact that you could pass as the lead singer of the Backstreet Boys."
Indignantly at that, Andy rocks his elbow into David's side and then, simultaneously, even though it's totally not on purpose, they fall off their respective boxes and onto the floor. David, considerably larger than Andy, actually takes a chunk out of the wooden floorboard. They stare at the spot in horrified silence for about half a second before completely dissolving into laughter. It's the loud, shoulder-shaking kind of laughter, the kind that's mostly guided by the four or five beers they've each had, and when finally they collect themselves, Andy drapes a lazy arm around David's shoulder and tells him, sincerely, "I like you, David Cook. I think I'll keep you."
And David's laying on the floor next to this dude who looks like that actor he really likes and if he was the kind of guy who kissed other guys-or if he'd had one more beer, maybe-then now would be his perfect opportunity and he tilts his head to the side a little before he remembers he's not that kind of guy and he hasn't had enough beer, so. Andy exhales and meets his eyes like he knows what David was about to do (even though he wasn't going to, seriously, it only crossed his mind for like, half a second) and he smiles and says they should go back downstairs now probably, and if he's up to it, he will totally cream his ass in beer pong.
"Yeah, sure, you can try," David says, and they stand up and go (David stumbles a little bit and Andy grabs him by the shirt until he's upright again) and Andy does kick his ass in beer pong and at the end of the night, they exchange numbers like totally normal straight dudes who have a bunch of stuff in common. Twenty minutes after they leave the party separately, Andy sends him a text that says how about a rematch? and David, even though he feels a little nauseous, manages to send one back that says only if you let me win.
ii.
"It's getting worse," David says, and he feels like one of those girls in the movies because he's crammed into the little phone booth outside the hospital and his voice is cracking like he's on the verge of tears, except that he refuses to give into them. His knees are buckling and the only thing keeping him standing is his grip on the receiver; if he lets go, he'll fall backwards, hard. There's nothing there to catch him.
Andy doesn't have to ask what he means. He just lets out a sharp breath and says, "Shit," like it's his brother's prognosis, his brother that's suffering from cancer that refuses to go away. It doesn't at all sound like false sympathy (it never is with him) and David closes his eyes in gratitude.
"Yeah," David agrees, because shit pretty much sums it up. He clears his throat, trying to sound manlier (even though he knows he doesn't have to fake it around Andy; it's been a year since they met and already Andy knows everything about him) and says he should get back inside, probably, his family is waiting for him.
They hang up at the same time and David heads into the hospital, concentrated on breathing steadily, sucking in huge gulps of air and letting them out through his nose. He doesn't know why he called Andy except that as soon as he found out, he just wanted him to know, had this itchy need to tell him, or else he might have exploded with the news. Because they're as close as brothers, too, even though Andy's just out of high school and David's heading into his senior year of college, but if anyone would get it, it's Andy. He's eighteen-going-on-thirty most of the time, or at least that's what David's mom says, and he always knows what to say.
David sits in one of those crappy plastic waiting room chairs, next to Andrew (who's sixteen and still slightly awkward, probably doesn't really comprehend what's going on), and listens in vaguely while his parents make calls to distance relatives for-for what, exactly? Pity donations, charity? Maybe just to have someone to talk to.
If there's one thing David hates it's being made to simply sit and wait, and that's all he does for a long time, aggravated by the lack of communication they're receiving from the doctors and practically bored into submission, when the hospital doors slide open and he just happens to glance up and holy shit, there's Andy, backpack slung over one shoulder, beanie pulled low on his forehead. He shouldn't be as surprised as he is because Andy would drive an hour away to be with him now, of course he would.
"Seat taken?" Andy says casually, pointing to the chair next to David's with a sad kind of smile, and David forgets, for a second, how to joke back and instead stands and pulls Andy into what might be the biggest hug of his life. He buries his head into Andy's neck, all thoughts of being manly forgotten, and Andy wraps his arms around David's trembling shoulders and pats his back like this is no big deal to him, really, he does this all the time.
"He's going to be okay," Andy murmurs into David's ear, sounds completely confident about it, and even though his parents and the doctors have been saying it all day, this is the first time David really believes it, because Andy wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it. Andy doesn't bullshit, didn't say how are you doing, David? like everyone else has, because he knows that no, right now, he's not fucking okay. But he doesn't have to be. With Andy by his side, he doesn't have to be anything.
This is maybe the second time in his life David has the impulse to kiss Andy (truthfully, it's probably way more than that, but this is only the second time he's felt it so strongly) and if they weren't in a crowded hospital, if the timing was better or if his parents weren't five feet away, maybe he would have. He thinks about it, even, how easy it would be to pull back and capture Andy's lips with his own-
He doesn't do it, though, he just pushes the thought away and gives Andy another squeeze, closes his eyes, and maybe mumbles, "Thanks for coming, man," to which Andy just grins like you knew I would and it's true, he did know. He knew all along.
That night he writes the lyrics to AC, and the song is about his brother, undoubtedly about him, but it's not Adam's face he's picturing when he pens the words you're always on my mind.
iii.
Playing with Axium is a dream come true, it really is, and Andy's at almost every show. He's got his own little side-project, a band that changes names at least once a week, and he sings and he sounds amazing, seriously, and Dave has considered asking him to merge with him like, a million times, but he knows the other dudes wouldn't like the idea too much and so he doesn't.
He helps Andy, though, or at least he tries to, and they'll spend the night at each other's houses and jam on their guitars or write songs together even though just about ninety percent of them end up either in the trashcan or at the tail end of an inside joke that no one else thinks is funny. Sometimes Andy and his band-of-the-month will play publicly-birthday parties, for example, and once there was a free concert at the elementary school Fall Festival-and no matter how lame the venue is, David tries to go. The guitarist needs a little work and the drummer is always a second or two behind, but Andy manages to be spot-on, just, always. David has his rough days and then his rough days (usually following a rambunctious night out with the boys) and he knows his limits, but Andy's just… he's so good. When David's playing with his own band, he thinks of him and uses that as some kind of… inspiration, or something equally dumb that he'll never, ever say out loud.
There used to be order, a sort of set schedule for the nights they play at the bars ("yeah," Andy jokes one time, "it's really hard to impress twenty drunk people") but when Andy's there-if he's sitting on a barstool and sipping mixed drinks, or if he's at the merchandise table like a good friend and shoving their CD at everyone that passes-things are different. Mostly in the girl department, because when you're the lead singer of a band, despite how shitty you sound that night or even if you forgot to shower, girls will want to hook up with you and, well, when Andy's not around, David sort of takes advantage of that fact. When Andy is there, though, it's like suddenly he's got standards or morals or whatever, and they go home together and drink and pass out in the same bed instead of David ending the night pressed against a dirty bathroom stall with a blonde girl between his legs.
At one particular show, David has maybe a few too many tequila shots (the last one from the belly-button of a drunk girl with a butterfly tattoo, and he doesn’t have to even look up to see Andy’s disapproving face, because it’s already there, etched in his mind) and when he climbs back onstage for the second set, he forgets most of the words to the songs he’s supposed to sing, and also maybe how to play guitar. He stands up there for a minute at most, looking at his bandmates and giggling conspicuously, before Andy saves him.
He hops on the stage, pointedly ignoring the booing from the crowd, loops an arm around David’s neck, and guides him towards the door, patting his arm lightly and saying, while fighting to keep a straight face, “Let’s get you home, Dave, I think you’ve had enough.”
David leans, like, half of his weight against Andy on the way there-it’s a five-minute walk from his apartment-and even though Andy is still short and skinny, he manages to hold him up, arm around him the entire way. “You’re such a good friend,” David tells him happily, leaning his head against Andy’s in a way that’s just awkward enough to throw them off-balance, and they both almost trip over the curb.
“Yeah, yeah,” Andy says, but he’s smiling and not pushing him away, and then he turns the doorknob and helps David inside and they stand in the living room and look at each other for a moment, because there’s nothing else to do and David doesn’t really remember what to do with his hands, even in his own apartment.
“I mean it,” David says finally, and he’s only slurring his words a little bit, but there’s definitely an underlying truthfulness in what he’s saying. “Andy… you’re my best friend.” He steps a little closer and curls his hand around Andy’s neck, and his fingers are trembling, a little, and why has he never noticed how amazing Andy’s eyes are before? They’re following his every movement, and okay, he’s wondering how much he can get away with, being completely wasted and all. Like if Andy will let him close the gap between their bodies-he does, and there’s no way he’s just imagining how perfectly they fit-and if he’s allowed to lean in, slowly, press his forehead against Andy’s.
“Dave,” Andy breathes, but he doesn’t think it’s the kind of Dave that means no, necessarily, except that he’s a lot less drunk and he probably doesn’t want this to happen. If he does, he’s certainly better at masking it, because David is feeling courageous and his lips are already parted and he’s centimeters away when Andy turns his head and says again, softer this time, “Dave.”
Slow to react, David’s mouth brushes against Andy’s cheek and-oh shit, what has he done?-horrifed, he jerks away and stumbles back a step, barely managing to stay on his feet. “Andy, I, uh-" he manages to force out before being hit with a wave of nausea that sends him running towards the bathroom and just barely making it in time, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet to empty his stomach of alcohol, fried food, and shame.
A few seconds later there’s a warm washcloth being pressed against his neck and a soothing hand against his back, and it doesn’t surprise him, not really, that Andy’s still there, and later when he half-carries him to bed, David says thanks, man for a million different reasons, and Andy just smiles and says, once again, it’s no big deal.
iv.
For a while, David thinks he has a shred of dignity. He's fooling himself, of course he is, because he gets a call one day and it's Andy and he's all, "Come play for this band, we need an amazing guitarist," and even if the compliment hadn't been there, David would have agreed, anyway. Even though he’s supposed to be the polished musician. Even though more time alone with Andy is the last thing he needs. But no, he says okay, you got it, when do you need me? and Andy laughs, coolly, and tells him as soon as he can haul his ass out there.
As soon as he can haul his ass out there turns out to be, pathetically enough, fifty-eight minutes and twenty-two seconds, and that’s including a quick shower and a lot of time in front of the mirror, messing with his hair. He doesn’t count the minutes, okay, he just keeps glancing at his watch every two seconds and unconsciously checking the time. It’s weird; as much as he doesn’t need to be around Andy, he wants to be, like, always. Andy is his best friend, that’s all. It’s totally natural.
Going into this, David’s pretty sure playing with these guys-Midwest Kings, they’re calling themselves-will only be a one or two week stint. A month later, he rents an apartment in Tulsa, gets a bartending job down the street, and spends his days playing guitar with his new band, recording songs and booking shows. It’s weird, not being the lead singer, but it’s a welcome kind of weird. Especially when Andy’s the one taking over, singing the lyrics they write together during slow shifts at the bar.
And David knows he’s some kind of pervert or something, because watching Andy sing, gripping the microphone in his left hand, does something to him that he can’t put into words. He gets these chills, okay, and his eyes are drawn to Andy’s neck, sometimes, glistening with sweat, or other times when Andy gets really into it, and his shirt will ride up, and-
He’s not supposed to have these thoughts, not about his best male friend, and he knows this. And, well, maybe he would try a little harder to push them away if sometimes-and only sometimes, so maybe he is fabricating it-he wasn’t completely sure that Andy was looking back.
Small glimpses, always small, but there nonetheless. There’s this one time where halfway into a guitar riff on one of his favorite songs, David pulls away, because he feels someone looking at him, and when he glances up, he and Andy lock eyes and there’s this moment that passes between them, some silent understanding, a yeah, you caught me.
But the moment passes like they always do and David has to wonder-and he does wonder, for many nights afterward-if he made it up. He considers just asking Andy, pulling him aside during practice, but how do you say that? Hey dude, nice job, and by the way, have you been checking me out? just won’t cut it. So he says nothing, and waits for the next moment to arrive.
It happens on a Thursday, and that’s the only detail David remembers, even though he’s totally sober and wide-awake from his third cup of coffee that night. It’s a band practice that quickly dissolves into a poker tournament which turns into an order-pizza-and-light-cigars night, and Justin and Neal disappear into the basement, looking for matches, so Andy and David are alone.
“I’m freezing,” Andy says, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them (“what exactly is that supposed to do?” David questions, and Andy doesn’t have an answer for him) and he shivers for a moment before David peels his sweatshirt off and tosses it at Andy’s face. “No, dude, I can’t-” Andy protests at first, but David just rolls his eyes like he’s being a baby and Andy gives in, pulls it over his head, and it’s a little loose (particularly around the stomach area) and yet somehow still looks better on him.
“The hoodie matches your eyes,” David accidentally says out loud, because it’s been a few years and he still hasn’t mastered that brain filter thing, and Andy kind of lifts his eyebrows and fuck, he really does have awesome eyes, and David sort of inches forward on the couch and Andy watches him and doesn’t react, much, except for a smile that threatens to break through.
This is the part where David’s brain takes over, stops him from making a fool of himself, forces him to lean away and think about something gross and unattractive like, he doesn’t know, Neal’s mom, but this time, it doesn’t. There is literally nothing stopping him from leaning in and kissing Andy, no doubt running through his mind at all. And it’s surprising but pleasant and Andy’s just sitting there, patiently, like he’s not sure what’s going to happen but he’s anticipating it, too. So David swallows the lump in his throat and scoots in and they’re so close and his eyes are already closing when the basement door slams open and Neal and Justin come thundering back into the room.
“Found ‘em!” Neal says triumphantly, waving the matches over his head, and they both look so clueless, even though David and Andy jumped to opposite ends of the couch the moment they entered, and there’s no way they know that they just interrupted an almost-dude-on-dude kiss, and Andy just clears his throat, pulls David’s hood up over his head, and asks who’s up for a beer, because he sure as hell is.
The next morning, David gets the guys together and tells him he’s leaving Midwest Kings-not for any particular reason, he’s just run his course, and he wants to try something on his own. Has all these ideas for a solo career, wants to execute them before he gets too old, and shit, he’ll miss them but it’s just something he has to do. Andy understands, more than he should, probably, and he pulls David into a hug and wishes him luck and jokes I guess you’ve outgrown me, Cook and David just shakes his head and says no way, Andy, I couldn’t if I tried.
v.
It’s Andrew’s fault, and he’ll say that until the day he dies, but Andy, of course, thinks it’s a good idea too. “Just try out, man,” he tells David the morning before the auditions, and David rolls his eyes dramatically and says yeah, right, doesn’t he just look like the ideal American Idol? He’s only going because it’s his brother, and brothers do things like this for each other, and also maybe because his mom slipped him thirty bucks last week so she wouldn’t have to be stuck with all the freaks she just knows will be there.
He gets coerced into it, against his own will, and when the whole process is over-somehow he’s handed that yellow piece of paper, and as soon as he walks out the doors his heart gives a little involuntary flitter-he’s faced with the decision of who he wants to tell, who he’s going to call and say, “Hey, guess what, I’m going to be on American Idol” and then he’ll almost definitely have to add, “no, shut up, I’m not fucking kidding.”
His friends will never let him live this down, even if he doesn’t make it past the first round, because they’re assholes (he loves them to death, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re assholes) and things like American Idol and Ryan Seacrest just aren’t topics they’re likely to bring up. So he doesn’t call any of them, doesn’t even send out a single text, just waits until he gets home and he and Andy hang out and then, very casually, he drops it mid-conversation.
And Andy’s all excited for him, maybe more than expected, and he whoops and jumps into David’s arms, and starts singing that one song-the song that the chick won with, the first chick, what’s-her-face (“how the hell do you even know that song?” David demands, but Andy’s too busy finishing with, “some people wait a lifetime… for a moment… LIKE THIIIIS!”) and they’re in the middle of the mall and people are staring, but like that’s ever stopped him before.
The day David has to leave for Hollywood, Andy drives him to the airport, even though his parents are totally fine with doing it and they’re going to meet him there anyway, but Andy insists; he’s all if you don’t let me drive, we’re never going to see each other again, I swear and so David folds and throws his bag into the backseat of Andy’s piece-of-shit car. They stop, like, twenty times before they even make it-a Starbucks run, very crucial, and then David remembers he left something at home, so they have to go back for it, and then they pass a Krispy Kreme and come on, how could they not?-and they arrive at the airport with barely enough time to find his parents and board the plane.
Andy stops him before he has the chance to gesture to them, grabs David's arm and forces him towards him, and he steps closer and sighs and says, “Can I stay with you? Can I get a little taste of American Idol too?” and David just laughs and agrees, of course he can, as long as he behaves.
There’s this totally weird moment, then, where they actually look into each other’s eyes (which is totally different than anytime before because those had always been accidents, and this time, neither of them are glancing away) and David thinks about the airport scenes on TV shows, the dramatic hugs, the farewell kiss. He wonders, not for the first time, of course, if he kisses Andy now, just a quick peck to the lips, if anyone will notice or care. If Andy would notice or care, or if he’d kiss him back, finally, because David has wanted to do this for, like, years.
He’s used to disappointment, used to setting himself up for failure, and he chickens out and tugs Andy into a half-hug and he actually keeps his arm between their bodies (those typical man-hugs that he hates, because they’re so fake, and yet here he’s handed opportunity and he does something stupid like this) and Andy winks at him and pats him on the back twice.
“You’re going to be a superstar,” Andy tells him when they pull away, and David smiles and there’s a million things he wants to say right now, but his gate is boarding, and his parents are waving him over frantically, and so he reaches down and loops his arm through his duffel bag and shrugs because of all the things he wants to say, he doesn’t know how to put a single one of them into words.
Andy pats him on the back one more time, and then they’re looking at each other with all of this awkward energy, and for once David’s brain is actually persuading him to kiss Andy, because who knows how long it will be before they see each other again, but he can’t, and so he simply lifts a hand and turns away. He’s halfway to the gate when Andy calls out don’t forget the little people, Cook and then, oh God, of course, he bursts into song, the last thing David hears: some people wait FOREVEERRRR-
vi.
“Dude, I’m coming!” is the entire message Andy leaves on his voicemail, and if he had a nickel for every time he’s heard Andy say that-well, he’d only have two nickels, and that first time was a complete accident that they do not speak of, ever, but still. David’s pretty sure he knows what the message means, but he doesn’t call back and ask until it’s too late.
It’s only their fourth or fifth night, maybe, and he’s still nervous before he even steps on the stage, and knowing Andy will be there, in the crowd, both calms his nerves and kind of makes him want to throw up. Because Andy doesn’t ever pretend to be impressed by David; when he plays like shit, Andy’s the first person to let him know and so David sends up a little prayer that tonight, of all nights, he sounds his absolute best.
It’s weird because the first half of every concert seems to stretch forever and ever (and it doesn’t help that it’s Michael Johns’ personal mission to make each night as complicated as possible) but the second half-he wonders vaguely if it’s selfish that he thinks the end, the part where he performs, is the most exciting, and he figures it’s not because the audience always seems to agree-goes by in a flash. He doesn’t even remember to search for Andy when he’s playing, and yet somewhere in the middle of Time of My Life, there he is, camera pointed right at him from the third row, absolutely beaming.
He doesn’t even shower before finding Andy, just does the bowing and the clapping and the obligatory post-show robot dance with Michael, and then he’s sneaking into the hallways and throwing himself into his best best best friend’s arms, the endorphins from the performance still rushing through his body. “Well?” David says, and okay, he’s much more touchy-feely than he usually is, but he hasn’t seen Andy in forever, and he’s living in LA now, and so much has changed.
“You kick so much ass, David,” Andy tells him, squeezing him tight, and David knows he really means it because he’s not even sarcastic, doesn’t even turn it into a joke, doesn’t even make a face at the end. “I… wow, I don’t even know. This is real, isn’t it? This shit is really happening for you.”
“It’ll happen for you, too,” David tells him, but Andy just smiles all vaguely, and then David has a brilliant idea and he grabs Andy’s hand and tells him to come on, he has something to show him, and he has to check it out, it’s fucking cool. He leads Andy towards the exit doors and tells him to brace himself, seriously, and then he inches one door open and peeks his head out and gestures for Andy to do the same, and as soon as he does, they’re both hit with the screams of hundreds of fans, waving their arms, willing to stand in the hot and muggy weather for hours just for a chance to say hi to David, and the sky is darkening, and the entire scene makes Andy sort of gasp in awe.
“I don’t get it,” David says, and he waves to his fans and motions that he’ll be back out there in a bit, he promises, before ducking back inside and pulling the doors closed again. “I don’t know why me. I don’t know how I ended up here.”
“Because you’re amazingly talented,” Andy says at once, and it isn’t like he’s been sitting on that answer for a while, he just tells it like it’s the absolute truth, and when David glances up and meets his eyes, he knows that he thinks it is. There’s this shift, again, except this time it’s real, and David understands what’s about to happen even before Andy touches his shoulder, and he’s drawing in his breath and Andy mutters, “and, you know, you’re just downright amazing,” and it’s his lips that are parting, his eyes closing, his mouth closing in.
After some-odd years of wanting to do it, David never would have guessed that Andy would be the first to kiss him, but there, in that hallway, he does, and it’s slow and sweet and everything he’s pictured in his mind and then some, and Andy’s lips are soft, and he can still hear the fans screaming outside, and afterwards, Andy slips his arm around David’s shoulders and says you should go talk to them and David, still grinning, replies, only if you come with me.
(and one time andy kisses him.)
pairing: andy skib/david cook.
rating: pg13.
~5307 words.
i.
Andy Skib is short and skinny and looks a little bit like what's-his-name, that famous actor in that one movie, and David is only twenty and hasn't mastered the skill of thinking before he speaks, so when they meet for the first time, at a party at a friend-of-a-friend's house, he accidentally tells Andy this.
But Andy just laughs and purses his lips together and says, jokingly, "Which actor? Is he good-looking?" and if he were a girl, David would have definitely thought he was flirting. He's not though, he's a guy, unquestionably a guy, so David blinks a few times and sort of shrugs his shoulders, for once in his life, lost for words. The other guys laugh ("gullible," they tell Andy, "Dave is so fuckin' gullible," but he's not, or at least he doesn't think he is) and Andy just grins like hey, it's cool, I get it.
"I hear you're a singer," David says, when he remembers that thing called conversation and how, at one point, he used to be really good at it. The other guys have moved on, gravitated towards girlfriends or drinking buddies or maybe just to pass out in the bathroom, but he and Andy are just standing in the kitchen, sipping their beers like they're not both underage (Andy by a long-shot; David learns later that he's only seventeen).
"Sometimes," Andy replies with a vague smile, and then he's setting his cup down and gesturing to the stairs and telling David about this room he found, in the attic, and he should come check it out, seriously, it's fucking cool. And David's not nearly drunk enough to stumble upstairs alone with a guy he's just met, but he does it anyway, because truthfully he's still trying to think of that actor's name (it's on the tip of his tongue, he knows it is), and leaving the party is no big deal, either, since there are no hot chicks here.
The attic isn't nearly as cool as Andy thinks it is, but David pretends it's amazing, for his sake. They sit on these little wooden box-looking things, except there are only two in the room and they're, like, an inch apart so they turn at awkward angles to make sure their legs don't touch. They talk almost for an hour about mindless, vapid things like the best guitar solos in the history of music and whether or not the Rolling Stones were overrated ("they so were, dude," Andy says, and David threatens to punch him) and then, and only then, they talk about themselves.
"I sing too," Dave offers first, but Andy just flashes him that mysterious fucking grin again and says, "I know," and they sit in silence for a while before David cuts in with, "What I do is called rock, though, have you heard of it?"
Andy's not insulted but he pretends to be, draws his shoulders up and feigns a wounded expression, says, "What's that supposed to mean?" except the corners of his mouths are curling up.
"Oh, it's nothing," Dave says, and wonders if it's too early on in their friendship-acquaintanceship?-to be joking like this. He decides he doesn't care. "Just, you know, the fact that you could pass as the lead singer of the Backstreet Boys."
Indignantly at that, Andy rocks his elbow into David's side and then, simultaneously, even though it's totally not on purpose, they fall off their respective boxes and onto the floor. David, considerably larger than Andy, actually takes a chunk out of the wooden floorboard. They stare at the spot in horrified silence for about half a second before completely dissolving into laughter. It's the loud, shoulder-shaking kind of laughter, the kind that's mostly guided by the four or five beers they've each had, and when finally they collect themselves, Andy drapes a lazy arm around David's shoulder and tells him, sincerely, "I like you, David Cook. I think I'll keep you."
And David's laying on the floor next to this dude who looks like that actor he really likes and if he was the kind of guy who kissed other guys-or if he'd had one more beer, maybe-then now would be his perfect opportunity and he tilts his head to the side a little before he remembers he's not that kind of guy and he hasn't had enough beer, so. Andy exhales and meets his eyes like he knows what David was about to do (even though he wasn't going to, seriously, it only crossed his mind for like, half a second) and he smiles and says they should go back downstairs now probably, and if he's up to it, he will totally cream his ass in beer pong.
"Yeah, sure, you can try," David says, and they stand up and go (David stumbles a little bit and Andy grabs him by the shirt until he's upright again) and Andy does kick his ass in beer pong and at the end of the night, they exchange numbers like totally normal straight dudes who have a bunch of stuff in common. Twenty minutes after they leave the party separately, Andy sends him a text that says how about a rematch? and David, even though he feels a little nauseous, manages to send one back that says only if you let me win.
ii.
"It's getting worse," David says, and he feels like one of those girls in the movies because he's crammed into the little phone booth outside the hospital and his voice is cracking like he's on the verge of tears, except that he refuses to give into them. His knees are buckling and the only thing keeping him standing is his grip on the receiver; if he lets go, he'll fall backwards, hard. There's nothing there to catch him.
Andy doesn't have to ask what he means. He just lets out a sharp breath and says, "Shit," like it's his brother's prognosis, his brother that's suffering from cancer that refuses to go away. It doesn't at all sound like false sympathy (it never is with him) and David closes his eyes in gratitude.
"Yeah," David agrees, because shit pretty much sums it up. He clears his throat, trying to sound manlier (even though he knows he doesn't have to fake it around Andy; it's been a year since they met and already Andy knows everything about him) and says he should get back inside, probably, his family is waiting for him.
They hang up at the same time and David heads into the hospital, concentrated on breathing steadily, sucking in huge gulps of air and letting them out through his nose. He doesn't know why he called Andy except that as soon as he found out, he just wanted him to know, had this itchy need to tell him, or else he might have exploded with the news. Because they're as close as brothers, too, even though Andy's just out of high school and David's heading into his senior year of college, but if anyone would get it, it's Andy. He's eighteen-going-on-thirty most of the time, or at least that's what David's mom says, and he always knows what to say.
David sits in one of those crappy plastic waiting room chairs, next to Andrew (who's sixteen and still slightly awkward, probably doesn't really comprehend what's going on), and listens in vaguely while his parents make calls to distance relatives for-for what, exactly? Pity donations, charity? Maybe just to have someone to talk to.
If there's one thing David hates it's being made to simply sit and wait, and that's all he does for a long time, aggravated by the lack of communication they're receiving from the doctors and practically bored into submission, when the hospital doors slide open and he just happens to glance up and holy shit, there's Andy, backpack slung over one shoulder, beanie pulled low on his forehead. He shouldn't be as surprised as he is because Andy would drive an hour away to be with him now, of course he would.
"Seat taken?" Andy says casually, pointing to the chair next to David's with a sad kind of smile, and David forgets, for a second, how to joke back and instead stands and pulls Andy into what might be the biggest hug of his life. He buries his head into Andy's neck, all thoughts of being manly forgotten, and Andy wraps his arms around David's trembling shoulders and pats his back like this is no big deal to him, really, he does this all the time.
"He's going to be okay," Andy murmurs into David's ear, sounds completely confident about it, and even though his parents and the doctors have been saying it all day, this is the first time David really believes it, because Andy wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it. Andy doesn't bullshit, didn't say how are you doing, David? like everyone else has, because he knows that no, right now, he's not fucking okay. But he doesn't have to be. With Andy by his side, he doesn't have to be anything.
This is maybe the second time in his life David has the impulse to kiss Andy (truthfully, it's probably way more than that, but this is only the second time he's felt it so strongly) and if they weren't in a crowded hospital, if the timing was better or if his parents weren't five feet away, maybe he would have. He thinks about it, even, how easy it would be to pull back and capture Andy's lips with his own-
He doesn't do it, though, he just pushes the thought away and gives Andy another squeeze, closes his eyes, and maybe mumbles, "Thanks for coming, man," to which Andy just grins like you knew I would and it's true, he did know. He knew all along.
That night he writes the lyrics to AC, and the song is about his brother, undoubtedly about him, but it's not Adam's face he's picturing when he pens the words you're always on my mind.
iii.
Playing with Axium is a dream come true, it really is, and Andy's at almost every show. He's got his own little side-project, a band that changes names at least once a week, and he sings and he sounds amazing, seriously, and Dave has considered asking him to merge with him like, a million times, but he knows the other dudes wouldn't like the idea too much and so he doesn't.
He helps Andy, though, or at least he tries to, and they'll spend the night at each other's houses and jam on their guitars or write songs together even though just about ninety percent of them end up either in the trashcan or at the tail end of an inside joke that no one else thinks is funny. Sometimes Andy and his band-of-the-month will play publicly-birthday parties, for example, and once there was a free concert at the elementary school Fall Festival-and no matter how lame the venue is, David tries to go. The guitarist needs a little work and the drummer is always a second or two behind, but Andy manages to be spot-on, just, always. David has his rough days and then his rough days (usually following a rambunctious night out with the boys) and he knows his limits, but Andy's just… he's so good. When David's playing with his own band, he thinks of him and uses that as some kind of… inspiration, or something equally dumb that he'll never, ever say out loud.
There used to be order, a sort of set schedule for the nights they play at the bars ("yeah," Andy jokes one time, "it's really hard to impress twenty drunk people") but when Andy's there-if he's sitting on a barstool and sipping mixed drinks, or if he's at the merchandise table like a good friend and shoving their CD at everyone that passes-things are different. Mostly in the girl department, because when you're the lead singer of a band, despite how shitty you sound that night or even if you forgot to shower, girls will want to hook up with you and, well, when Andy's not around, David sort of takes advantage of that fact. When Andy is there, though, it's like suddenly he's got standards or morals or whatever, and they go home together and drink and pass out in the same bed instead of David ending the night pressed against a dirty bathroom stall with a blonde girl between his legs.
At one particular show, David has maybe a few too many tequila shots (the last one from the belly-button of a drunk girl with a butterfly tattoo, and he doesn’t have to even look up to see Andy’s disapproving face, because it’s already there, etched in his mind) and when he climbs back onstage for the second set, he forgets most of the words to the songs he’s supposed to sing, and also maybe how to play guitar. He stands up there for a minute at most, looking at his bandmates and giggling conspicuously, before Andy saves him.
He hops on the stage, pointedly ignoring the booing from the crowd, loops an arm around David’s neck, and guides him towards the door, patting his arm lightly and saying, while fighting to keep a straight face, “Let’s get you home, Dave, I think you’ve had enough.”
David leans, like, half of his weight against Andy on the way there-it’s a five-minute walk from his apartment-and even though Andy is still short and skinny, he manages to hold him up, arm around him the entire way. “You’re such a good friend,” David tells him happily, leaning his head against Andy’s in a way that’s just awkward enough to throw them off-balance, and they both almost trip over the curb.
“Yeah, yeah,” Andy says, but he’s smiling and not pushing him away, and then he turns the doorknob and helps David inside and they stand in the living room and look at each other for a moment, because there’s nothing else to do and David doesn’t really remember what to do with his hands, even in his own apartment.
“I mean it,” David says finally, and he’s only slurring his words a little bit, but there’s definitely an underlying truthfulness in what he’s saying. “Andy… you’re my best friend.” He steps a little closer and curls his hand around Andy’s neck, and his fingers are trembling, a little, and why has he never noticed how amazing Andy’s eyes are before? They’re following his every movement, and okay, he’s wondering how much he can get away with, being completely wasted and all. Like if Andy will let him close the gap between their bodies-he does, and there’s no way he’s just imagining how perfectly they fit-and if he’s allowed to lean in, slowly, press his forehead against Andy’s.
“Dave,” Andy breathes, but he doesn’t think it’s the kind of Dave that means no, necessarily, except that he’s a lot less drunk and he probably doesn’t want this to happen. If he does, he’s certainly better at masking it, because David is feeling courageous and his lips are already parted and he’s centimeters away when Andy turns his head and says again, softer this time, “Dave.”
Slow to react, David’s mouth brushes against Andy’s cheek and-oh shit, what has he done?-horrifed, he jerks away and stumbles back a step, barely managing to stay on his feet. “Andy, I, uh-" he manages to force out before being hit with a wave of nausea that sends him running towards the bathroom and just barely making it in time, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet to empty his stomach of alcohol, fried food, and shame.
A few seconds later there’s a warm washcloth being pressed against his neck and a soothing hand against his back, and it doesn’t surprise him, not really, that Andy’s still there, and later when he half-carries him to bed, David says thanks, man for a million different reasons, and Andy just smiles and says, once again, it’s no big deal.
iv.
For a while, David thinks he has a shred of dignity. He's fooling himself, of course he is, because he gets a call one day and it's Andy and he's all, "Come play for this band, we need an amazing guitarist," and even if the compliment hadn't been there, David would have agreed, anyway. Even though he’s supposed to be the polished musician. Even though more time alone with Andy is the last thing he needs. But no, he says okay, you got it, when do you need me? and Andy laughs, coolly, and tells him as soon as he can haul his ass out there.
As soon as he can haul his ass out there turns out to be, pathetically enough, fifty-eight minutes and twenty-two seconds, and that’s including a quick shower and a lot of time in front of the mirror, messing with his hair. He doesn’t count the minutes, okay, he just keeps glancing at his watch every two seconds and unconsciously checking the time. It’s weird; as much as he doesn’t need to be around Andy, he wants to be, like, always. Andy is his best friend, that’s all. It’s totally natural.
Going into this, David’s pretty sure playing with these guys-Midwest Kings, they’re calling themselves-will only be a one or two week stint. A month later, he rents an apartment in Tulsa, gets a bartending job down the street, and spends his days playing guitar with his new band, recording songs and booking shows. It’s weird, not being the lead singer, but it’s a welcome kind of weird. Especially when Andy’s the one taking over, singing the lyrics they write together during slow shifts at the bar.
And David knows he’s some kind of pervert or something, because watching Andy sing, gripping the microphone in his left hand, does something to him that he can’t put into words. He gets these chills, okay, and his eyes are drawn to Andy’s neck, sometimes, glistening with sweat, or other times when Andy gets really into it, and his shirt will ride up, and-
He’s not supposed to have these thoughts, not about his best male friend, and he knows this. And, well, maybe he would try a little harder to push them away if sometimes-and only sometimes, so maybe he is fabricating it-he wasn’t completely sure that Andy was looking back.
Small glimpses, always small, but there nonetheless. There’s this one time where halfway into a guitar riff on one of his favorite songs, David pulls away, because he feels someone looking at him, and when he glances up, he and Andy lock eyes and there’s this moment that passes between them, some silent understanding, a yeah, you caught me.
But the moment passes like they always do and David has to wonder-and he does wonder, for many nights afterward-if he made it up. He considers just asking Andy, pulling him aside during practice, but how do you say that? Hey dude, nice job, and by the way, have you been checking me out? just won’t cut it. So he says nothing, and waits for the next moment to arrive.
It happens on a Thursday, and that’s the only detail David remembers, even though he’s totally sober and wide-awake from his third cup of coffee that night. It’s a band practice that quickly dissolves into a poker tournament which turns into an order-pizza-and-light-cigars night, and Justin and Neal disappear into the basement, looking for matches, so Andy and David are alone.
“I’m freezing,” Andy says, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them (“what exactly is that supposed to do?” David questions, and Andy doesn’t have an answer for him) and he shivers for a moment before David peels his sweatshirt off and tosses it at Andy’s face. “No, dude, I can’t-” Andy protests at first, but David just rolls his eyes like he’s being a baby and Andy gives in, pulls it over his head, and it’s a little loose (particularly around the stomach area) and yet somehow still looks better on him.
“The hoodie matches your eyes,” David accidentally says out loud, because it’s been a few years and he still hasn’t mastered that brain filter thing, and Andy kind of lifts his eyebrows and fuck, he really does have awesome eyes, and David sort of inches forward on the couch and Andy watches him and doesn’t react, much, except for a smile that threatens to break through.
This is the part where David’s brain takes over, stops him from making a fool of himself, forces him to lean away and think about something gross and unattractive like, he doesn’t know, Neal’s mom, but this time, it doesn’t. There is literally nothing stopping him from leaning in and kissing Andy, no doubt running through his mind at all. And it’s surprising but pleasant and Andy’s just sitting there, patiently, like he’s not sure what’s going to happen but he’s anticipating it, too. So David swallows the lump in his throat and scoots in and they’re so close and his eyes are already closing when the basement door slams open and Neal and Justin come thundering back into the room.
“Found ‘em!” Neal says triumphantly, waving the matches over his head, and they both look so clueless, even though David and Andy jumped to opposite ends of the couch the moment they entered, and there’s no way they know that they just interrupted an almost-dude-on-dude kiss, and Andy just clears his throat, pulls David’s hood up over his head, and asks who’s up for a beer, because he sure as hell is.
The next morning, David gets the guys together and tells him he’s leaving Midwest Kings-not for any particular reason, he’s just run his course, and he wants to try something on his own. Has all these ideas for a solo career, wants to execute them before he gets too old, and shit, he’ll miss them but it’s just something he has to do. Andy understands, more than he should, probably, and he pulls David into a hug and wishes him luck and jokes I guess you’ve outgrown me, Cook and David just shakes his head and says no way, Andy, I couldn’t if I tried.
v.
It’s Andrew’s fault, and he’ll say that until the day he dies, but Andy, of course, thinks it’s a good idea too. “Just try out, man,” he tells David the morning before the auditions, and David rolls his eyes dramatically and says yeah, right, doesn’t he just look like the ideal American Idol? He’s only going because it’s his brother, and brothers do things like this for each other, and also maybe because his mom slipped him thirty bucks last week so she wouldn’t have to be stuck with all the freaks she just knows will be there.
He gets coerced into it, against his own will, and when the whole process is over-somehow he’s handed that yellow piece of paper, and as soon as he walks out the doors his heart gives a little involuntary flitter-he’s faced with the decision of who he wants to tell, who he’s going to call and say, “Hey, guess what, I’m going to be on American Idol” and then he’ll almost definitely have to add, “no, shut up, I’m not fucking kidding.”
His friends will never let him live this down, even if he doesn’t make it past the first round, because they’re assholes (he loves them to death, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re assholes) and things like American Idol and Ryan Seacrest just aren’t topics they’re likely to bring up. So he doesn’t call any of them, doesn’t even send out a single text, just waits until he gets home and he and Andy hang out and then, very casually, he drops it mid-conversation.
And Andy’s all excited for him, maybe more than expected, and he whoops and jumps into David’s arms, and starts singing that one song-the song that the chick won with, the first chick, what’s-her-face (“how the hell do you even know that song?” David demands, but Andy’s too busy finishing with, “some people wait a lifetime… for a moment… LIKE THIIIIS!”) and they’re in the middle of the mall and people are staring, but like that’s ever stopped him before.
The day David has to leave for Hollywood, Andy drives him to the airport, even though his parents are totally fine with doing it and they’re going to meet him there anyway, but Andy insists; he’s all if you don’t let me drive, we’re never going to see each other again, I swear and so David folds and throws his bag into the backseat of Andy’s piece-of-shit car. They stop, like, twenty times before they even make it-a Starbucks run, very crucial, and then David remembers he left something at home, so they have to go back for it, and then they pass a Krispy Kreme and come on, how could they not?-and they arrive at the airport with barely enough time to find his parents and board the plane.
Andy stops him before he has the chance to gesture to them, grabs David's arm and forces him towards him, and he steps closer and sighs and says, “Can I stay with you? Can I get a little taste of American Idol too?” and David just laughs and agrees, of course he can, as long as he behaves.
There’s this totally weird moment, then, where they actually look into each other’s eyes (which is totally different than anytime before because those had always been accidents, and this time, neither of them are glancing away) and David thinks about the airport scenes on TV shows, the dramatic hugs, the farewell kiss. He wonders, not for the first time, of course, if he kisses Andy now, just a quick peck to the lips, if anyone will notice or care. If Andy would notice or care, or if he’d kiss him back, finally, because David has wanted to do this for, like, years.
He’s used to disappointment, used to setting himself up for failure, and he chickens out and tugs Andy into a half-hug and he actually keeps his arm between their bodies (those typical man-hugs that he hates, because they’re so fake, and yet here he’s handed opportunity and he does something stupid like this) and Andy winks at him and pats him on the back twice.
“You’re going to be a superstar,” Andy tells him when they pull away, and David smiles and there’s a million things he wants to say right now, but his gate is boarding, and his parents are waving him over frantically, and so he reaches down and loops his arm through his duffel bag and shrugs because of all the things he wants to say, he doesn’t know how to put a single one of them into words.
Andy pats him on the back one more time, and then they’re looking at each other with all of this awkward energy, and for once David’s brain is actually persuading him to kiss Andy, because who knows how long it will be before they see each other again, but he can’t, and so he simply lifts a hand and turns away. He’s halfway to the gate when Andy calls out don’t forget the little people, Cook and then, oh God, of course, he bursts into song, the last thing David hears: some people wait FOREVEERRRR-
vi.
“Dude, I’m coming!” is the entire message Andy leaves on his voicemail, and if he had a nickel for every time he’s heard Andy say that-well, he’d only have two nickels, and that first time was a complete accident that they do not speak of, ever, but still. David’s pretty sure he knows what the message means, but he doesn’t call back and ask until it’s too late.
It’s only their fourth or fifth night, maybe, and he’s still nervous before he even steps on the stage, and knowing Andy will be there, in the crowd, both calms his nerves and kind of makes him want to throw up. Because Andy doesn’t ever pretend to be impressed by David; when he plays like shit, Andy’s the first person to let him know and so David sends up a little prayer that tonight, of all nights, he sounds his absolute best.
It’s weird because the first half of every concert seems to stretch forever and ever (and it doesn’t help that it’s Michael Johns’ personal mission to make each night as complicated as possible) but the second half-he wonders vaguely if it’s selfish that he thinks the end, the part where he performs, is the most exciting, and he figures it’s not because the audience always seems to agree-goes by in a flash. He doesn’t even remember to search for Andy when he’s playing, and yet somewhere in the middle of Time of My Life, there he is, camera pointed right at him from the third row, absolutely beaming.
He doesn’t even shower before finding Andy, just does the bowing and the clapping and the obligatory post-show robot dance with Michael, and then he’s sneaking into the hallways and throwing himself into his best best best friend’s arms, the endorphins from the performance still rushing through his body. “Well?” David says, and okay, he’s much more touchy-feely than he usually is, but he hasn’t seen Andy in forever, and he’s living in LA now, and so much has changed.
“You kick so much ass, David,” Andy tells him, squeezing him tight, and David knows he really means it because he’s not even sarcastic, doesn’t even turn it into a joke, doesn’t even make a face at the end. “I… wow, I don’t even know. This is real, isn’t it? This shit is really happening for you.”
“It’ll happen for you, too,” David tells him, but Andy just smiles all vaguely, and then David has a brilliant idea and he grabs Andy’s hand and tells him to come on, he has something to show him, and he has to check it out, it’s fucking cool. He leads Andy towards the exit doors and tells him to brace himself, seriously, and then he inches one door open and peeks his head out and gestures for Andy to do the same, and as soon as he does, they’re both hit with the screams of hundreds of fans, waving their arms, willing to stand in the hot and muggy weather for hours just for a chance to say hi to David, and the sky is darkening, and the entire scene makes Andy sort of gasp in awe.
“I don’t get it,” David says, and he waves to his fans and motions that he’ll be back out there in a bit, he promises, before ducking back inside and pulling the doors closed again. “I don’t know why me. I don’t know how I ended up here.”
“Because you’re amazingly talented,” Andy says at once, and it isn’t like he’s been sitting on that answer for a while, he just tells it like it’s the absolute truth, and when David glances up and meets his eyes, he knows that he thinks it is. There’s this shift, again, except this time it’s real, and David understands what’s about to happen even before Andy touches his shoulder, and he’s drawing in his breath and Andy mutters, “and, you know, you’re just downright amazing,” and it’s his lips that are parting, his eyes closing, his mouth closing in.
After some-odd years of wanting to do it, David never would have guessed that Andy would be the first to kiss him, but there, in that hallway, he does, and it’s slow and sweet and everything he’s pictured in his mind and then some, and Andy’s lips are soft, and he can still hear the fans screaming outside, and afterwards, Andy slips his arm around David’s shoulders and says you should go talk to them and David, still grinning, replies, only if you come with me.