The Little Drummer Boy
Sep. 12th, 2009 01:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amfiguree[Het/Slash] [American Idol] [David Archuleta/David Cook; David Cook/Kimberly Caldwell] [R...ish?]
I... I have no excuse for this fic. I -- yeah. Except that Christian Kane's music makes people do crazy things. Um, also, it's sort of maybe part of (or a spin-off) the battle of the bands AU I've been working on in my head for a while, which is why it might not make sense. /o\
The Little Drummer Boy
It starts with a bang, with a flurry of bright lights, big city, and new gigs every day. "Here's to the life," Jason says the night after their second concert, raising his beer with a grin.
Cook shoots one right back at him.
It's a rare sight, and David drops his eyes to his bottle of water like he isn't hoarding the moment.
"Here's to the life," Cook says, and David joins in as they clink glasses.
It starts with an accident.
Todd's taken time off work to come on tour with them for a couple of days, and there's a Carly-shaped silence where they're gathered backstage. The Castros are practically giddy with adrenaline, laughter like songs in their throats, and they only just remember to shove David out of the room before Michael closes in on Jason, hands on his face, tongue in his mouth.
"Oh my gosh," David says, to the door, and tries not to let out his adrenaline-driven laugh. The roar of the crowd is still thundering in his ears, and his pulse is still drumming Cook's rhythm in his veins.
He starts walking, aimlessly, so caught up in the da-da-dum-da-dum in his blood that he doesn't realize what he's walking in on until he's already halfway in the room.
It's Cook.
Only, he's with Kim, their tour manager, his back to the door, to David, and hers pressed up against the huge mirror in the room (and David remembers looking into it, that afternoon, the too-long sleeves of his shirt hanging clumsy off his shoulders; remembers Cook coming up behind him, meeting his eyes in the mirror; remembers Cook's hands on his back, brief but warm as he murmured, "Relax, D, you never fuck up.").
David hands freeze on the door handle as his throat closes up.
They're kissing, and Kim is - she's almost frantic, one hand fisted in the back of Cook's shirt as the other fights with his jeans. Her shirt is at Cook's feet, and Cook's leaning into her, her body rolled up to fit with his. She tips her head back, too hard, when Cook starts mouthing at her jaw, her throat, and her legs twist even tighter around Cook's waist, toes arched, tight and taut. Her skirt is hitched up, up, up, and Cook's hands are high on her thighs, creeping even higher, his fingers making dents in her skin--
David thinks he's going to throw up.
"Didn't know you were into voyeurism," Cook says, suddenly, and David jerks and sees Cook watching him in the mirror, eyes dark and feral (nothing, nothing, nothing like before).
David can't breathe.
"Sorry," he hears himself say, eventually (it feels like forever), voice high and stringy, and he falls into the door when he backs up a step. Kim laughs, and David's stomach twists, hard, as Cook leans over to kiss her quiet. "Sorry," he mumbles again, to no one.
He can still feel Cook's eyes on him as he stumbles out of the doorway.
He closes the door behind him, tightly, feels his heartbeat reverberate in his chest as he sinks back against it. His hands are clenched, fingers cold and numb, and his head is spinning. He doesn't - and Cook isn't--
Then David hears Kim moan, long and low, and he starts running.
It starts with Carly.
She finds him, later, talking to the fans outside, signing autographs and posing for photographs, smiling the way Michael keeps telling him he shouldn't ("D, that's not how rock bands do it.").
Her expression is carefully blank when she pulls him away, and David can't look at her.
"David," she says, after a moment, and David sucks in a breath.
Her fingers are warm on his cheek, and David does look up at that. Carly's mouth is thin, and her eyes are dull in the streetlight. "This is not a good idea."
It ends in the hotel room.
Cook's toweling off when David makes it back to the boys' suite, later, absently twirling his drumsticks,exhausted after being bullied into twenty rounds of Go-Fish with Carly, and another ten with Todd.
"Hey," Cook says, suddenly, and one of David's sticks clatters where it falls (like the night he'd stayed back after rehearsals, packing up for their next gig, he'd turned around to see Cook watching him from the doorway, dropped his sticks and knocked cymbals over as Cook scrambled closer, closer, "one time," whispered over and over against his lips).
The room is so dark David can barely see the way Cook's mouth quirks, just a fraction, as Cook adds, "You okay?"
David doesn't know where to look. "Yes," he says.
Cook takes a step toward him. "You sure?"
(Like that night they'd gone out with Raine Maida, and Cook slipped out to follow him into a bathroom stall after the fourth round of shots, had shut the door behind them and pulled David against him, hard and fast and needy, and the low moan Cook had made had spilled over into David's chest, made his vision blur with stars. "Once," Cook had panted, "Just fucking once, god, D.")
David makes himself think about Carly, makes himself remember. His voice still comes out hoarse when he says, "Yes."
And then Cook is right there, right in front of him, (and David thinks this is nothing like before) his palms hot against the side of David's neck, breath even hotter on David's skin, and David -- he can't help it. It's instinct to stop thinking, to tilt his head up, to drop the other drumstick and clench his numb fingers around Cook's wrist.
Cook smiles, and David files that one away, too.
"We're gonna work on your interviewing skills," Cook murmurs, and David's mouth is suddenly dry.
Cook kisses him, then, soft and almost-tender, and David closes his eyes, pulse already singing again, da-da-dum-da-dum, like a wild animal trapped in his ribcage. Nothing like before, his brain repeats, (like that night outside the club, startled, pushed up against the side of the bus, Cook's hands on his body, Cook's mouth on his, clumsy and whiskey-warm, "just once, David, fuck." and Carly's right, she is, he's just - he can't--) and then David's mouth burns as Cook parts his lips, as Cook threads his fingers in his hair and tugs him forward, holding him steady as he falls right into it.
Maybe that's where it starts.
I... I have no excuse for this fic. I -- yeah. Except that Christian Kane's music makes people do crazy things. Um, also, it's sort of maybe part of (or a spin-off) the battle of the bands AU I've been working on in my head for a while, which is why it might not make sense. /o\
The Little Drummer Boy
It starts with a bang, with a flurry of bright lights, big city, and new gigs every day. "Here's to the life," Jason says the night after their second concert, raising his beer with a grin.
Cook shoots one right back at him.
It's a rare sight, and David drops his eyes to his bottle of water like he isn't hoarding the moment.
"Here's to the life," Cook says, and David joins in as they clink glasses.
It starts with an accident.
Todd's taken time off work to come on tour with them for a couple of days, and there's a Carly-shaped silence where they're gathered backstage. The Castros are practically giddy with adrenaline, laughter like songs in their throats, and they only just remember to shove David out of the room before Michael closes in on Jason, hands on his face, tongue in his mouth.
"Oh my gosh," David says, to the door, and tries not to let out his adrenaline-driven laugh. The roar of the crowd is still thundering in his ears, and his pulse is still drumming Cook's rhythm in his veins.
He starts walking, aimlessly, so caught up in the da-da-dum-da-dum in his blood that he doesn't realize what he's walking in on until he's already halfway in the room.
It's Cook.
Only, he's with Kim, their tour manager, his back to the door, to David, and hers pressed up against the huge mirror in the room (and David remembers looking into it, that afternoon, the too-long sleeves of his shirt hanging clumsy off his shoulders; remembers Cook coming up behind him, meeting his eyes in the mirror; remembers Cook's hands on his back, brief but warm as he murmured, "Relax, D, you never fuck up.").
David hands freeze on the door handle as his throat closes up.
They're kissing, and Kim is - she's almost frantic, one hand fisted in the back of Cook's shirt as the other fights with his jeans. Her shirt is at Cook's feet, and Cook's leaning into her, her body rolled up to fit with his. She tips her head back, too hard, when Cook starts mouthing at her jaw, her throat, and her legs twist even tighter around Cook's waist, toes arched, tight and taut. Her skirt is hitched up, up, up, and Cook's hands are high on her thighs, creeping even higher, his fingers making dents in her skin--
David thinks he's going to throw up.
"Didn't know you were into voyeurism," Cook says, suddenly, and David jerks and sees Cook watching him in the mirror, eyes dark and feral (nothing, nothing, nothing like before).
David can't breathe.
"Sorry," he hears himself say, eventually (it feels like forever), voice high and stringy, and he falls into the door when he backs up a step. Kim laughs, and David's stomach twists, hard, as Cook leans over to kiss her quiet. "Sorry," he mumbles again, to no one.
He can still feel Cook's eyes on him as he stumbles out of the doorway.
He closes the door behind him, tightly, feels his heartbeat reverberate in his chest as he sinks back against it. His hands are clenched, fingers cold and numb, and his head is spinning. He doesn't - and Cook isn't--
Then David hears Kim moan, long and low, and he starts running.
It starts with Carly.
She finds him, later, talking to the fans outside, signing autographs and posing for photographs, smiling the way Michael keeps telling him he shouldn't ("D, that's not how rock bands do it.").
Her expression is carefully blank when she pulls him away, and David can't look at her.
"David," she says, after a moment, and David sucks in a breath.
Her fingers are warm on his cheek, and David does look up at that. Carly's mouth is thin, and her eyes are dull in the streetlight. "This is not a good idea."
It ends in the hotel room.
Cook's toweling off when David makes it back to the boys' suite, later, absently twirling his drumsticks,exhausted after being bullied into twenty rounds of Go-Fish with Carly, and another ten with Todd.
"Hey," Cook says, suddenly, and one of David's sticks clatters where it falls (like the night he'd stayed back after rehearsals, packing up for their next gig, he'd turned around to see Cook watching him from the doorway, dropped his sticks and knocked cymbals over as Cook scrambled closer, closer, "one time," whispered over and over against his lips).
The room is so dark David can barely see the way Cook's mouth quirks, just a fraction, as Cook adds, "You okay?"
David doesn't know where to look. "Yes," he says.
Cook takes a step toward him. "You sure?"
(Like that night they'd gone out with Raine Maida, and Cook slipped out to follow him into a bathroom stall after the fourth round of shots, had shut the door behind them and pulled David against him, hard and fast and needy, and the low moan Cook had made had spilled over into David's chest, made his vision blur with stars. "Once," Cook had panted, "Just fucking once, god, D.")
David makes himself think about Carly, makes himself remember. His voice still comes out hoarse when he says, "Yes."
And then Cook is right there, right in front of him, (and David thinks this is nothing like before) his palms hot against the side of David's neck, breath even hotter on David's skin, and David -- he can't help it. It's instinct to stop thinking, to tilt his head up, to drop the other drumstick and clench his numb fingers around Cook's wrist.
Cook smiles, and David files that one away, too.
"We're gonna work on your interviewing skills," Cook murmurs, and David's mouth is suddenly dry.
Cook kisses him, then, soft and almost-tender, and David closes his eyes, pulse already singing again, da-da-dum-da-dum, like a wild animal trapped in his ribcage. Nothing like before, his brain repeats, (like that night outside the club, startled, pushed up against the side of the bus, Cook's hands on his body, Cook's mouth on his, clumsy and whiskey-warm, "just once, David, fuck." and Carly's right, she is, he's just - he can't--) and then David's mouth burns as Cook parts his lips, as Cook threads his fingers in his hair and tugs him forward, holding him steady as he falls right into it.
Maybe that's where it starts.
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Date: 2009-09-12 08:48 am (UTC)aaaaand i am very seriously thinking about it, i am! once i get the ten thousand other things i have promised people out of the way! <333