help_haiti lightning round, part 3
[American Idol] [David Archuleta/David Cook] [R. ish.]
So I signed up for the lightning round over at help_haiti. This one's for paitac, who asked for Cookleta, and angst. I AM NOT SURE, BUT I HOPE I DID THIS JUSTICE. A little over 500 words.
It used to be easy, Cook thinks, watching as David folds into himself on their couch, the heels of his palms shoved against his eyes.
Used to be quick, stolen kisses against the side of the bus at 1am Walmart stops, David laughing into his mouth, weak protests of "Cook, oh my gosh! Someone could see!" swallowed even before they surfaced.
Used to be long, drawn-out calls whenever they could swing it, random text messages punctuating the growing physical distance between them, rescheduling appearances where they could, just for the satisfaction of saying, "That's twenty miles less than yesterday."
Used to be.
It hasn't been easy for a while now.
"Arch," Cook says, eventually, when the silence starts to feel too goddamn loud. There's an accidental edge in his voice, and he flinches before David does.
"I--" David says, stops, squares his shoulders before he looks up, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "Can we - do we have to do this now?"
Cook releases a slow breath, then, reels the bait back in. He shakes his head, sinks onto the floor as he watches relief flood David's face, and wonders how the fuck they came to this.
"Hey," he says, gentler now. "C'mere."
The hesitation is brief, but it twists in Cook's stomach anyway, hot and heavy, and he presses his face into David's shoulder for a second after he slips under Cook's arm.
They're quiet for a while, anger replaced by a sudden exhaustion; Cook doesn't even remember what they were fighting about. One of them having to cancel their next meeting for an interview, maybe, or the crappy take-out.
It's not important.
"Archie," Cook says, just as David says, "Cook--"
David looks worn down, lines bracketing his eyes and mouth, and he swallows when Cook leans over to brush a thumb over his jaw. Two years, now, two fucking years, and there's still - he's still --
"Can it wait?" Cook hears himself ask, then, voice so gravelly he barely recognizes it as his own.
"Yeah," David says, almost breathlessly. His fingers twitch where they've come up to rest against Cook's neck. "It can wait."
They only just make it to the bedroom. Cook's shirt is already off, and David shucks his off at the foot of the bed. Cook just wants to touch him, god, anywhere he can get him, the warmth of his skin, his smile, just -- more.
David's scrambling for him too, desperately, fusing their mouths and palms and bodies. "Cook," he whispers, and his breath catches as he arches up, back coming right off the bed, "Cook, oh, please--"
They lie in the darkness for a long, long time, after. Cook splays one hand over David's hip, lets the other one idle in his hair. "I don't think I can do this anymore," David says, finally, face still hidden against Cook's skin. His voice hitches when he adds, "I'm just--"
He falls quiet, then, but Cook already knows what he means. That hasn't changed.
"Yeah," Cook says, roughly, and his next breath is long and deep and shuddering as he pulls away. "Yeah, me too."
When Cook wakes up, he's cocooned in air, empty sheets cooling in the space beside him.
There's a set of keys on the pillowcase.
Walking away is the hardest thing he's ever done.
So I signed up for the lightning round over at help_haiti. This one's for paitac, who asked for Cookleta, and angst. I AM NOT SURE, BUT I HOPE I DID THIS JUSTICE. A little over 500 words.
It used to be easy, Cook thinks, watching as David folds into himself on their couch, the heels of his palms shoved against his eyes.
Used to be quick, stolen kisses against the side of the bus at 1am Walmart stops, David laughing into his mouth, weak protests of "Cook, oh my gosh! Someone could see!" swallowed even before they surfaced.
Used to be long, drawn-out calls whenever they could swing it, random text messages punctuating the growing physical distance between them, rescheduling appearances where they could, just for the satisfaction of saying, "That's twenty miles less than yesterday."
Used to be.
It hasn't been easy for a while now.
"Arch," Cook says, eventually, when the silence starts to feel too goddamn loud. There's an accidental edge in his voice, and he flinches before David does.
"I--" David says, stops, squares his shoulders before he looks up, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "Can we - do we have to do this now?"
Cook releases a slow breath, then, reels the bait back in. He shakes his head, sinks onto the floor as he watches relief flood David's face, and wonders how the fuck they came to this.
"Hey," he says, gentler now. "C'mere."
The hesitation is brief, but it twists in Cook's stomach anyway, hot and heavy, and he presses his face into David's shoulder for a second after he slips under Cook's arm.
They're quiet for a while, anger replaced by a sudden exhaustion; Cook doesn't even remember what they were fighting about. One of them having to cancel their next meeting for an interview, maybe, or the crappy take-out.
It's not important.
"Archie," Cook says, just as David says, "Cook--"
David looks worn down, lines bracketing his eyes and mouth, and he swallows when Cook leans over to brush a thumb over his jaw. Two years, now, two fucking years, and there's still - he's still --
"Can it wait?" Cook hears himself ask, then, voice so gravelly he barely recognizes it as his own.
"Yeah," David says, almost breathlessly. His fingers twitch where they've come up to rest against Cook's neck. "It can wait."
They only just make it to the bedroom. Cook's shirt is already off, and David shucks his off at the foot of the bed. Cook just wants to touch him, god, anywhere he can get him, the warmth of his skin, his smile, just -- more.
David's scrambling for him too, desperately, fusing their mouths and palms and bodies. "Cook," he whispers, and his breath catches as he arches up, back coming right off the bed, "Cook, oh, please--"
They lie in the darkness for a long, long time, after. Cook splays one hand over David's hip, lets the other one idle in his hair. "I don't think I can do this anymore," David says, finally, face still hidden against Cook's skin. His voice hitches when he adds, "I'm just--"
He falls quiet, then, but Cook already knows what he means. That hasn't changed.
"Yeah," Cook says, roughly, and his next breath is long and deep and shuddering as he pulls away. "Yeah, me too."
When Cook wakes up, he's cocooned in air, empty sheets cooling in the space beside him.
There's a set of keys on the pillowcase.
Walking away is the hardest thing he's ever done.