the point
David likes jokes, likes to laugh.
“I’m trying out for American Idol,” his brother says, and David laughs. He’s in bed with Neal and has better things to be doing, but he took the call anyways because he’s an asshole and because Neal was close and because he likes to watch Neal squirm, likes to watch Neal’s face get red as he gets mad, and likes to watch how far that red spreads, to his chest and to his shoulder blades and down around his ribs.
“No, hey, I’m serious,” Andrew says. “You should come with.”
“I can’t,” David laughs. “I’m touring, I’m busy. I have to go.”
David licks Neal where he’s red. He's laughing, though, and that's the point.
Andrew.
Hollywood.
Huh.
“The final twelve, Dave. The final fucking twelve.”
“I know.” Truth.
“Can you believe it?”
“Yes.” Truth.
“Will you vote for me?”
“Of course.” Truth.
“Are you-you're not mad or anything, are you?”
“No.”
Andrew wins and David cries. He so happy and he’s so fucking proud and he calls Andrew to tell him all of that, that he’s happy and proud and about to go onstage in whatever city it is that he’s in but god, Andrew, look at you.
Their set ends and David cries. He’s jealous and torn up inside and he calls Neal over because it’s all just weighing on his chest too hard, too fucking hard, and he can’t breathe. He tells Neal all of that, doesn’t worry about what Neal thinks, because they both know that it’s true when David says he wanted it first and he wanted it more and god, Neal, it should’ve been me.
They don’t talk about it the next day.
Sometimes, there are things you do for the people you love because you love them. David goes to see the Idol tour, does it for Andrew. And it’s nothing special, not really. They’re all the same, all what Dave had expected after watching them on tv every week. It’s just-it’s different, seeing it live and big and in front of him. It’s impressive. They’re impressive, although some more so than others.
“And this is Archie,” Andrew says, and he slings his arm around the kid. They’re backstage, and Dave can’t help but notice how sweaty they are and how happy they are, carefree even though everyone's watching them out of the corners of their eyes, carefree even though Andrew is wearing fucking lace-up pants. He knows what it’s like, finishing a show. He gets it, on a smaller scale.
He does get it, though, and that’s what counts.
“Hi,” he says as he looks at Archie, and they’re shaking hands. There’s people all around them and Dave sees something in Archie’s smile, he’s not sure what, but there’s something there and that’s what matters. Dave feels like he’s missed out on something, something big, and as Archie’s sweaty palm is pressed against his own, Dave’s still missing it, still not knowing what it is or what it was or what it could have been. It could have been great, though, he knows that much, and then Andrew is laughing and tugging on Dave’s shirt and Dave’s being pulled away by the sleeve and Archie is gone, or he’s still there and Dave’s gone, but they’re not both there and that’s the point.
“Archie really liked you,” Andrew says. They’re on the phone.
“He seems like a nice kid,” Dave says, and then something churns in his stomach because he’s a kid, Archie’s a kid, and so what does that make David?
“He, uh, seemed to think you were cute,” Andrew laughs. “You might want to let Neal know he has some competition.”
Dave doesn’t, but later he fucks Neal nice and hard, fucks him rough into the mattress, and he thinks, Neal, Neal, you have Neal.
And he does. Have Neal.
Dave looks at a map and starts the van, and the guys are all asleep in the back so he keeps the radio low. It’s early and they had a late night last night, and as he pulls out of the parking lot, Andrew’s song comes on, the one he won with, and the sun is bright and low on the horizon, causing Dave to squint.
On to the next venue. And that's the point.