Happy Holidays, rajkumari905!
Author: frackin_sweet
Recipient: rajkumari905
Title: Snowbound
Pairing(s): David Cook/David Archuleta
Word Count: 14,897
Summary: This is sort of an alternate-reality rather than a full AU. David Archuleta won Idol in Season 7, and David Cook is still a musician, but he was never on Idol at all. Here, they meet for the first time, right before Christmas, in a house that's accidentally been rented to them both at the same time.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: We are in no way officially affiliated with David Cook, David Archuleta or their representation. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence. No copyright infringement is ever intended.
Warning(s): Some adult language, m/m (non-penetrative) sexual activity
Author's Notes: Quoted portions of movie dialogue are taken from Almost Famous, written by Cameron Crowe, 2000. POV changes are notated by a single *
My beta requested that I withhold her name, however, she is well-known and loved within the fandom, and did a great job. I'm also totally outing her later. Any remaining mistakes are the author's. Many thanks to my shy beta, and to one other reader who will be credited later, who gave the kernel of idea that got me writing on this fic.
Dear Pri, I hope you like it, and Happy Holidays <3
He wonders why the house is so well-lit as he drives up the winding road through the Taos Ski Valley. Not only is every wide window aglow from interior light, the three levels of decks are strung with twinkling white Christmas lights, swaying in the cold wind.
And after he pulls into the long, steep driveway, he catches a glimpse of someone walking past the first floor window. The figure stops, and looks out. Right at him, as he idles in the driveway.
David quickly dials the realtor's number. He'd selected this house carefully as being large enough to accommodate his family, and he'd rented it for two weeks. It's supposed to be vacant. "Steve Valentine, please," he says, when the assistant picks up.
"I'm sorry, he's traveling overseas for the holiday," she replies pleasantly. "May I help you with something?"
Not really. It doesn't take long to sort out that Valentine, Taos realtor to the stars, has double-booked his top property. Another party is currently in residence for the remainder of the week.
David tries not to take out his frustration on the assistant. The mix-up probably isn't her fault, and she apologizes profusely while she searches the database for another available property. Unfortunately, there are none, and it comes down to her refunding part of the rental fee, and offering to put him up in a suite at the nearest hotel until the current renter leaves.
He sighs, accepted her apologies and the offer, and drops the phone in his lap. The arrangement isn't ideal, but he supposes he can live with it, since his family isn't due to arrive until next week. He sits and rubs his tired eyes as the Lexus' quiet windshield wipers clear away the thick flakes of snow.
***
Cook does a double-take as he walks past the living room windows with their spectacular view of the valley. Is that a car coming up the driveway?
Sure enough, it is; the white hybrid SUV rolls to a halt, swirling snowflakes illuminated in its headlights. He momentarily forgets about getting another beer, and peers out at his unknown visitor. No way that's Neal; his flight doesn't even take off for another hour. The others aren't due to arrive for a few more days, either. Perhaps someone made a wrong turn.
It makes him miss the guys, and almost wish he hadn't had the bright idea of coming to Taos a day early. His entire band is jazzed about the upcoming recording sessions, and it would be nice to have them there, to drink with, and tell him to calm the fuck down already. Because of course the next album will be great, even better than the first.
But for now, there's the issue of greeting his unexpected visitor.
His boots are easy to find, still lying where he'd kicked them off by the door. A coat appears to be more of a challenge, so he just puts up the hood on his sweatshirt and walks out. The wind slices straight through the thin fabric, and by the time he reaches the SUV, he's practically hugging himself and shivering.
The dashlights reveal little, but he can see the driver, slumped with a hand over his eyes. Cautiously, Cook taps on the driver-side window. The driver startles, and then rolls the window halfway down.
Dark eyes look skeptically out at him. "Sorry I scared you," Cook says, friendly. "You lost, or something?"
"No," the driver replies, before answering with a question of his own. "Did you rent this place from Valentine Properties?"
"Put the deposit on it a few months ago," Cook says, still pleasant. "There a problem?"
"Umm, kind of..." the driver trails off, as if trying to come up with an explanation. "I hate to tell you this, but he double-booked the place for the next week. He rented it to me, as well."
Cook stuffs his hands into his sleeves before they can go completely numb. "We should probably c-c-call him," he suggests, teeth starting to chatter.
The driver holds up his phone. "I just did...he's out of the country. And you get to stay...they're sending me to a hotel in Espanola, at least until you move out."
"Espanola?" Cook isn't sure exactly where that is, but he knows it's not very close. And he's tired of standing out in the cold to have this conversation. "Look. The mixup sucks...I'm sorry you got this far just to have to leave. You want to at least come in, for a minute?" he points up towards the house. "Take a break from driving? I can make coffee or something."
It's true, he does feel a little bit bad, even though it's not his fault. Thanks to Valentine being a dumbass, this guy may be spending his holiday in a hotel room. But if he doesn't get himself back inside soon, his ass is going to freeze solid.
"Um, I don't drink coffee," SUV-guy replies, but then seems to remember his manners. "But, yeah...thank you. I'd like to come in for a minute." He turns off the ignition and gets out, also not wearing a coat. "Wow, it's really cold out here!"
"No shit, man," Cook replies over his shoulder. He's already on his way back to the warmth and light of the house, skidding slightly on the slippery walk.
***
David is disoriented when he hears the knock on the window, and jumps so hard he almost accidentally puts SUV into gear. Fortunately, the knocker isn't a yeti or a serial killer, and is just the guy renting the house. The renter-in-residence. AKA, the guy who gets to stay, while David drives back to a generic hotel room in Espanola.
But not until he stretches his legs, and maybe takes a look around the house. A bathroom break wouldn't be unwelcome, either. He has to hurry to keep up with the figure ahead of him, who is taller and has longer legs. When the SUV's headlights wink out, it's hard to still see him, just a grey silhouette on the stairs.
In the warm foyer, they both have to spend some time shaking off the snow. Rental-guy is more covered with it; clumps fall off his hoodie as he takes it off. Glints of light catch David's eye; snowflakes melting in the reddish scruff along the man's jaw.
"So...this is the place," Scruffy Rental-guy says, walking out into the cathedral-ceilinged living room. A well-appointed gourmet kitchen frames the far right hand wall. Copper pots hang from a ceiling rack, decorative more than functional, and large, stainless-steel appliances dominate the space. He opens the refrigerator, and frowns into it. "So...you don't drink coffee...I was going to have a beer..."
David is standing in front of the large, double-sided fireplace. It, and the gigantic windows, are the focal points of the entire wide-beamed room, just as the Holiday Properties advertisement had stated. "I don't drink beer, either," he says. "Sorry. I don't mean to be difficult...you're very generous. I just...I'm just going to look around a bit, if that's okay with you."
Rental-guy shuts the fridge, and starts rummaging in a cupboard. "Sure...have at it," he says, his attention elsewhere.
It's odd that this guy just ignores him, a stranger, who could be armed with sinister intentions and God-only-knows-what. David realizes that, yeah, he's considerably smaller in stature...but come on, he could be a black belt! He could have a huge...hunting knife, or something. It bothers him a little bit, to be so completely taken for granted. "My name's David, by the way," he calls. "David Archuleta."
"Huh, weird. Mine is too," the guy replies. He's still not looking at David, but now he's comparing two bottles of wine. "David, anyhow. Call me Cook."
"Nice to meet you," David says. The words earn him one brief, bright smile from Cook. For two shining seconds, it makes him feel like the only other person on earth. And then Cook's attention is elsewhere again, so David wanders off to check out the house.
While he's wandering the upstairs, it occurs to him who he's sharing space with. He's seen the name on his sister's iPod, when he accidentally grabbed hers instead of his own. David Cook and the Anthemic, and several songs he scrolled past confusedly before realizing he had the wrong iPod.
And then he remembers an article in a musician friend's Spin magazine, something about the year's best new artists. A couple of shots of the guy downstairs, wearing black and looking far more dangerous and dirty than he does right now.
So, a few songs David didn't listen to, and an article he barely skimmed. Still, he should probably say something, and he will, after he's done exploring. If only he could remember the name of one of those songs. It would probably be appropriately courteous if he could at least say he liked it. Although saying that, while not having heard it at all, bothers him more than a little.
The house appears to be just as described, with lots of exposed timbers and huge windows. The four bedrooms are all furnished luxuriously, tall beds heaped with down comforters. The bathrooms are even more appealing, with deep bathtubs, and showers that appear to be designed for multiple occupants. He takes advantage of the most modest one in the hallway, before checking out the view from upstairs.
The valley is gorgeous under its veil of snow. The deep purples and blues of mountain light settle over the crags, which are dotted with the winking lights of other houses and the main Taos Valley ski lodge in the distance.
As he stands on the upstairs landing and looks out over the main floor, he realizes that the twelve-foot Christmas tree he's ordered will arrive in the next day or two. And he won't be there to accept the delivery, or do anything to decorate it.
Clearly, he's going to have to do some negotiating with Cook, because he doesn't want to sacrifice the holiday plans he's so carefully made for his mother and siblings. It's so much more important this year, than others.
With a sigh, he starts back downstairs.
***
Cook just takes in the pensive look on David's face as he walks into the kitchen. "I know you," he says, and holds out one of the large, round glasses of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.
David looks startled, as he takes the glass and just holds it away from himself. "I...umm," he replies. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth afterward, and looks at the glass in his hand.
"Oh...sorry, I said that wrong," Cook replies, laughing. "We haven't met. But I realized who you are; you're the kid that won that show, right? Coupla years ago? Didn't you just release a Christmas album?" He takes a large swallow of the fragrant red stuff, and the ripeness of it warms his mouth. "How come you're not touring?"
David seems to be having a hard time catching up, but he smiles and nods. "Yeah, that's me. And I did...the Christmas album dropped in October-" he stops, and across the room, out the wide windows. He clears his throat. "I'm taking a break from touring. To be with my family."
Cook hears something painful in his tone, and wants to ask. But they've only just met, and he feels a bit like a usurper in the middle of the house David Archuleta has rented to spend the holidays with his family. "That's nice," he replies. "Sometimes you just need to get away from all that bullshit, with the people you love." And, that sounds like a platitude, except that platitudes don't usually include swear words.
David seems to make a conscious effort to change the subject. "Um, actually...I know you, too. Have heard you. I mean...heard of you. My sister's a fan. And the write-up in Spin was cool."
"Thanks," Cook replies, graciously. He can tell David is reciprocating his own earlier comment out of courtesy, and that's fine. They don't move in the same circles, and there's that A-list/B-list thing, the commercial vs. critical thing, the Disney vs. Spin Magazine thing. It's actually kind of nice to have it wordlessly acknowledged, and then out of the way.
He points at the glass of wine David is still holding well away from himself. "So...you don't have to drink that, you know. There's other stuff, if you want." He's pretty sure David isn't 21 yet. And he looks about seventeen, with his long-lashed, clear brown eyes and smooth skin.
"I...um..." David looks at the full wineglass. "It was nice of you to offer. I just...I should probably get going, you know? It's about forty miles to..."
Something catches Cook's eye, on the huge flat-screen out in the living room. "Actually...I'm not sure about that," he says, and walks over to get a better look. The news station is broadcasting a breaking story about the biggest blizzard to hit New Mexico in a decade. A level-three emergency has been declared, and people are being warned off roads that are quickly becoming impassable. Flights are being canceled and rerouted. So much for Neal, and the rest of the guys.
Cook looks over at his uninvited visitor. "You shouldn't drive in that," he says. "It's not safe."
David is unsure. "Well, that's why I rented the SUV, it's four-wheel-drive...I'm a good driver..."
"No, I insist. It's dark, you're in the mountains in a snowstorm, and you don't know where you're going. Plus..." Cook smiles, and it makes him really happy when the uneasy look leaves David's face and he smiles back. "Technically, you have as much right to be here as I do. You should stay. At least for the night. It's not like we don't have room, you know?"
And then, he has to burst out laughing as David nods, and, seemingly without thinking, takes a large gulp of his wine. The color that floods his face could be embarrassment, or a reaction to the bite of the alcohol, but either way...it's really appealing.
David coughs only slightly, and handles it with aplomb. "I...I think I will stay, for tonight. Thank you." He sets the glass down on the coffee table. "I think I should go get my stuff, then, before the car is totally covered."
Cook takes another drink from his own glass, and sets it down as well. "Good idea; I'll help you."
David offers a few protests, that it's okay, he can get it himself, but Cook doesn't listen. This time he bothers to find his coat, and an extra one for David as well.
As soon as they step outside the door, they realize how serious it really is. They can't even see the white SUV in the driving snow. Cook goes back inside to turn all the outside lights on, and even the bright halogen floodlights only reveal the vehicle's silhouette.
It's a long forty yards or so, on snow that turns slippery under the soles of shoes never intended for it. David walks as carefully as possible, and he hears Cook swear a few times behind him as he seems to have more difficulty. Between the two of them, they wrestle his two big bags out of the SUV, and back to the stairs.
"Glad I shipped my ski gear," David comments. Cook has taken the heavier bag, somehow, and is already a couple of steps ahead of him.
"Me too," he says over his shoulder. "Your bag full of rocks and dictionaries is heavy enough."
"Hey, I'll have you know, I packed light," David has to raise his voice so that the wind doesn't carry it away as they reach the landing and start the second flight. "And I didn't pack a single dictionary, those are - crap -" he gasps out the strongest excuse for an expletive that he can manage, as he loses his footing, and considers letting the bag go, rather than falling down the stairs with it.
And then there's a twinge in his shoulder as it's wrenched upward. It takes him a moment to react to the fact that he hasn't fallen, and that Cook has latched onto his arm with a steady grip that doesn't seem possible, given that he's carrying the heavier bag, and is on equally slippery stairs. In cowboy boots, no less. But, he's not going anywhere, and neither is David, while Cook's hanging onto him.
"Close one, eh?" Cook grins. He doesn't seem overly taxed by the save, and he keeps a steadying hand on David's arm while David gets his bearings and nods agreement. After a moment they resume their careful progress up the stairs, and David notices that Cook does it with an eye over his shoulder the whole time.
***
Cook hopes that David skis with more agility than he displayed earlier, because that fall, if it had happened, would have been video-worthy...not necessarily the funny kind. But as it is, tragedy has been averted, and they can both laugh as they shake off the snow. After David hangs up the borrowed jacket, and makes to shoulder both bags, Cook grabs the heavier one again.
"Just because. You and stairs, you know?" he grins.
"They were slippery!" David protests, but he follows with the lighter bag. "I could've gotten it."
"I know, I'm just being a good host." Cook stops at the head of the stairs, and looks down the hallway. "Even though we're kind of...unintentional co-hosts, or something. Well - " he shrugs. "I think I took the master bedroom; at least, it has the nicest bathroom. But if you want it..." he leaves the statement open-ended. He's not sure exactly why he wants to be accommodating, but for some reason, he just does. What the hell, it's the holidays. And does it really matter what bedroom he has? He hasn't been sleeping much lately anyhow.
He notices David is smiling at him. It's a really nice smile. "It's okay, you can keep it. Any bedroom is fine with me," he replies.
And it somehow makes Cook a little bit happy when David walks into the one next to his. He follows, and drops the heavy bag at the foot of the lofty bed. And now he's breached the barrier of where standing in a bedroom with someone you don't know, whose smile you kind of like, and staring at his bed, is a little uncomfortable. Unless you're a bellhop, which he's not. "Okay. You've probably got some unpacking to do, so...yeah. I'll be downstairs."
Awkward.
And David is looking at him as he turns to go, kind of like he would have preferred company, maybe? No. That's his imagination. Shut up, imagination.
Cook finally returns to his wine glass and tops it off. You're not supposed to pour these things full, it's tacky, and wine is supposed to take on oxygen or something, for the taste to fully ripen, but he doesn't really care. He drinks, and half-listens to the dire storm reports on the weather channel, and roots around in the huge Sub-Zero, contemplating food. Maybe Archuleta cooks. Maybe he could be persuaded to do so, like, with help.
But he doesn't come down right away, and Cook finally decides maybe David was actually really tired, and doesn't care to have company right now. Plus...who are they to each other, anyhow? Two guys who accidentally rented the same house, for the same time period, who wouldn't probably be sharing space at all if not for the storm. American Idol Winner/Teen Pop Star/All Around Wholesome Kid David Archuleta would probably not choose to hang out with Dave Cook, critically-acclaimed-if-less-well-known-rock musician, who is right now drinking too much really expensive wine, and worrying about the upcoming commencement of recording on his band's second major-label album.
Sophomore slump...those are not words he wants to hear, or see in print, ever, about himself, his band, and his music. It's enough to keep a guy awake at night. It's enough to leach a little bit of the joy out of the holidays, and a much-anticipated pre-recording-session vacation.
It's enough to make him a little lonely. Would it be weird if he went upstairs again? Like, to talk to David. People do that, get to know each other...it's normal, of course it is. Especially when they're sharing a house, however unintentionally. They are stuck with each other, from the sounds of things, at least for a day or two...
Cook nearly runs into David as he turns the corner to go up the stairs. And he's still carrying his wineglass, because he's a total lush tonight, and has to quickly jerk it out of the way. And then they almost bump chests. Except that David is shorter, so there's not quite a reciprocal body-part-meeting-thing. And he's obviously just taken a shower, because his hair is wet, and his skin has that fragrant residue of some fancy apres-bath product. But a masculine one. It's nice. Warm, clean, kind of sweet. Woodsy, even. Nice.
"Um, good reflexes," David says to him, backing up slightly. "You didn't even spill." He points to the wineglass.
"Don't wanna waste it, it's wicked expensive," Cook grins. He lets David pass him, and go into the kitchen. "Yours is still there, if you want it."
"I...kind of...don't drink," David replies. He's leaning against the counter, looking a little unsure of himself. "And I'm not even nineteen. Not for another week, anyhow."
"Hey, Happy Birthday, then! Early." Cook raises his glass, wishing he weren't going to be polishing off the Chateauneuf-du-Pape alone. "Mine was a couple of weeks ago. Twenty-seven. I'm old."
David laughs, the veil of his unsurety parting slightly. "That's not old, gosh." He moves, restless, as though stillness is not a normal state for him. It's not fidgety movement; more like pent-up energy that has nowhere to go. Cook just likes watching him sort of rock forward and back against the counter.
And then there's that longish, awkward silence again. Dammit. "Uhh, there's food," Cook offers. "I had them stock the place before I got here."
David brightens again. "Oh, cool!" he enthuses, and starts in with the same rummaging activities Cook had been doing earlier.
He finds things that Cook would not have chosen for lonely snacking purposes: some cherry tomatoes, a cucumber, an avocado. Cook just watches as David peels and slices things.
"Do you have cheese?" David asks, after leaning over to check the fridge drawer a second time.
"I have cheese whiz," Cook answers after a moment. He's pretty sure he has regular cheese, too, but he can see from the collection of healthy fresh reds and greens, that the concept of aerosol food would probably horrify David, and it might be a little bit funny.
David stands up, holding a small round of boursin and looking like someone just burped in his face. "That's not really cheese. And it's like, so bad for you," he says.
And inexplicably, Cook regrets a little bit the fact that he sometimes does eat the stuff. Directly from the can. And wash it down with beer. "I know, I know," he replies, waving off the admonishment. "And you found the good stuff, anyhow." Rather than watch David build his healthy sandwich, he takes up the bottle, along with his wineglass, and pads into the living room to flip through the TV channels.
He should probably eat, as well, but he ends up with his feet on the coffee table, watching Almost Famous for like, the thirtieth time. He can practically recite this film.
And it pretty much applies to him. One album, critically acclaimed, well received by a small audience, and poised to make it big with the follow-up. Or poised to fail, and slide into ignominy. Almost famous, indeed.
When David Archuleta comes over to the couch and sits on the opposite end, with his plate and a big glass of pomegranate juice, there's no almost about him. He is already there. And with his big eyes and guileless smiles, he is indeed too sweet for rock and roll.
He might as well be William Miller. Oh, dear god. Cook slumps down into the smooth leather surface of the cushions and rubs his eyes.
And slowly, David surprises him by knowing just as many of the lines from this movie as he does. Not just William's, either.
"The Doors? Jim Morrison? He's a drunken buffoon, posing as a poet!" David crows along with Lester Bangs, around his mouthful of sandwich.
"I like the Doors," Cook replies automatically, knowing his part as some random Rolling Stone writer.
"Give me the Guess Who. They got the courage to be drunken buffoons, which makes them poetic," David finishes the quote happily.
And it's kind of awesome when David does do William, complete with an earnest, serious look at Cook's Russell Hammond.
"So, Russell...what do you love about music?" David holds out a celery stick as his pretend microphone.
And Cook is glad that Russell's answer feels like the ultimate truth of his life. "To begin with, everything," he smiles, and David smiles back, a wide, open smile of understanding.
And then they both almost fall of the couch laughing, as they mute the TV so that they can do an Elaine and Anita Miller conversation, complete with high, attempted-feminine voices.
"It's unfair that we can't listen to our music!" Cook whines. He's frustrated teenager Anita, and he sticks his bottom lip out for effect.
"That's because it's music about drugs and promiscuous sex," David replies sternly, complete with a fingerpoint. He seems to have taken the no-nonsense mother role on like a second skin.
"Simon and Garfunkel is poetry!" Cook yells, throwing a pillow across the room.
"Yes, it's poetry," David answers, still in character, homing in on the punchline. "It's the poetry of drugs and promiscuous sex. Honey, they're on pot."
That moment turns them into something more than rental cars passing in the snowy night, at the rest stop of an accidentally co-rented ski house. Suddenly, they are on common ground.
"You're pretty good at Elaine," Cook comments, swirling the dregs of wine in his glass. He watches over the rim as David sighs, and his face stills a bit.
"My mom is kinda like that. I mean...I was a little bit, what's the word...precocious, I guess? I performed on national TV when I was..." he seems to think back, and Cook realizes he's actually unsure of how long ago this was. "...eleven, I think? My dad was with me a lot, but my mom kind of kept me grounded, always."
And then, like a gust of wind blowing away a handful of snow, David's face changes rapidly. He bites his lips and closes his eyes, in a tight expression of pain.
Cook knows his powers of perception probably aren't unusual, but that look communicates more than loudly enough. "What happened?" he asks, his voice sounding quiet after the Anita-yelling.
"It's...I rented this place for my mom, and my brother and sisters, all of us to spend Christmas together. Away from everything." David opens his eyes, and they're fever-bright. "My parents are getting a divorce. It's kind of ugly. And I know, I'm not a kid anymore, but..."
"Doesn't matter," Cook tells him. "That never doesn't suck. I'm sorry." He is sorry. That's just a shitty thing, no two ways about it. Particularly during the holidays.
David nods, and doesn't continue. He closes his eyes again, and presses a thumb to one of them, hard against the lid.
"You wanna talk about it?" Cook asks. There's nothing he can really do, other than listen. And when David opens his eyes again, Cook picks up the wine bottle, and pours the last few swallows into the barely-touched glass David left on the coffee table, what seems like hours ago.
***
David watches the rich liquid bubble slowly into the wineglass. He's not entirely sure he does want to talk about it. But, somehow, for the first time in months, he feels safe. Here in the midst of a blizzard, alone in a house with a guy he just met, he feels like he doesn't have to put on a face.
He picks up the glass, and stares at the firelight refracted in its red depths. He takes a careful sip, and takes note of the taste. It's strong, but not harsh. It tastes like something made of earth's own energy. Hot, without having a specific temperature. He tries to separate the act of drinking it, which goes against his religious beliefs, with the simple experience of trying something new, just because he wants to. And because he feels like, at this moment, it's the right thing to do.
And it somehow makes it easier to just open his mouth and talk, not worrying about if the words make sense or not. "They were going to do it seven years ago," he says. "Get divorced, I mean." He looks over, and Cook is just sitting there, listening, with the TV still muted. "I didn't know it then, but my mom told me when they filed, this time." Another sip of the wine, and this time he's ready for the way the taste blooms in his mouth. "She told me a lot of things."
"Like what?" Cook's question doesn't pry, it just leaves the door open for David to say more. So he does.
"Stuff they argued about. Stuff about...their sex life." This requires another, larger swallow of the wine. "I mean...not like, umm...descriptively, or anything," he clarifies, even though Cook doesn't seem shocked or weirded out by this. "Just that he was kind of into...other women. And he'd always come back, always say he was sorry, it didn't mean anything, but..."
"But it means something," Cook says simply, and David wants to thank him, just for getting it.
"Yeah," he replies. "This last time, last summer...the press got ahold of it, a little, and I know they were both the most concerned about keeping it from hurting my career. I feel so bad, about that. That that's what they were worried about."
"Those were their choices, though," Cook replies. "And to be honest, it could have affected your career. I mean they say all publicity is good publicity, but sometimes...not so much." He shrugs, and takes a drink of his wine. David watches the way he seems to hold the mouthful, the way his tongue seems to move behind his lips before he swallows.
David experiments with this before he answers, holding the next sip of wine experimentally in his mouth a bit before swallowing. It’s different, the way the taste develops on his tongue. There’s almost a peppery-ness to it. Then he notices, Cook is watching him, head tilted to the side a bit, considering. “What?” David asks.
“You don’t really like that stuff, do you,” he comments.
“It’s not…terrible. I don’t hate it,” David says. “But yeah, I kinda don’t get why people make such a big deal out of it.”
Cook grins at this, and holds up his glass. “It’s like a lot of things. Something to hide behind. Something to put between you and whoever. And then by the time you get around to noticing, the alcohol has knocked some of the walls down, so you don’t feel like you need anything between you anymore.”
David thinks about this. It makes sense, a little, now, why he always sees people at industry parties with drinks in their hands, holding them up and out in front of themselves. Then, after they’ve had a few, their postures change. Their shoulders and arms drop, and they lean closer to each other. Sometimes they touch.
He and Cook are still sitting at opposite ends of the couch, but it really does feel like some of the barrier of unfamiliarity and awkwardness has dropped a little. That can’t be the doing of a few swallows of wine, he thinks, but he’s not going to worry about it at the moment.
“So, anyhow,” he continues, and it really doesn’t feel as difficult to talk about it now. “My dad has a different house, now, and we were all going to split the holidays between him and my mom…all of my brothers and sisters, anyhow…but being at home this year, when it’s always been all of us, before…it just seemed…I dunno. Too sad, or something. I thought Taos would be something different.”
“Are you still going to see your dad, after the holidays?” Cook asks.
“I actually wanted to invite him here,” David replies, after a moment. He and his oldest sister had argued hotly about it, and finally, he had caved, and agreed not to invite their father. “Decided it wasn’t a good idea, though.”
Cook nods. “Hard to know the right thing to do. Seems like you’re handling it well, though.”
David feels his smile falter, and Cook backpedals. “Or, maybe you’re not…it’s just a shitty thing. I didn’t mean to make you think about it, if you don’t want to.”
“It’s okay. Can’t help but think about it, most of the time,” David replies, and tries his wine again. A smile bubbles up on his mouth, afterward. “You swear a lot,” he says.
“I…do,” Cook replies, and then laughs. It’s obviously something he’s aware of. “Bad habit. Got a lot of those.”
“Like…what else?” Normally David wouldn’t really want to know, but for some reasons he’s curious. Cook’s bad habits seem like they might be interesting.
“Uhhh…I eat cheese whiz?”
“Gross! Out of the can?”
“Maybe.”
“Naaasty. What else?”
“I…correct people’s grammar, sometimes. Or, if they seem to be using words that they don’t know what they mean…I suggest better words.” Cook actually looks a little embarrassed about this, like he’s only just now realized it might be rude, and annoying.
“And you drink a lot,” David indicates the empty wine bottle.
“Hey! That one I object to!” Cook acts offended, but David can tell he’s not. “Besides. You’re doing a pretty good job polishing off a rather large glass yourself, Mr. I-Don’t-Drink.”
“Oh, so you’re also kind of patronizing?” David inwardly high-fives himself, because he thinks he kind of won, on this one.
“I think the word you want is actually condescending,” Cook replies immediately, with a smug little smile.
“Darn it! I’ll bet people hate it when you do that!” David exclaims, bouncing a little on the couch. “What else?”
“Jesus, haven’t you had enough? Umm, okay…I have a tendency to be…let’s say….attracted to the wrong kinds of people.”
David feels his eyes get big as he stares at Cook over the rim of his glass. The wine slides down his throat easily now. And this is getting good. “What kinds of people?” he asks.
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, my gosh, I don’t, though! You mean, like, you date a lot of criminals?”
Cook bursts out laughing. “Okay, that’s one mistake I don’t think I’ve made yet,” he says, when he can finally talk again. I just mean…come on, I don’t have to explain it, do I? You’ve dated people who just were wrong for you, right?”
“Um…I…” Dated a few girls, David finishes in his head. It did help him discover that girls were his second choice, when it came to dating people. Which brought up a host of other problems. “I don’t really date. I work a lot. Travel. Stuff like that. It’s hard to…have a relationship. You know.”
“Mm,” Cook replies. He’s got a look on his face that isn’t quite skeptical, but it says he’s aware of there being something David’s not saying. “So, let me ask, then. If you were going to date someone, what would you be looking for?”
David tries to think of a safe way to answer this question. “Well…” he hedges. “It would have to be someone who understands what I do, and how I feel about my music. Someone who isn’t all full of themselves. Someone who doesn’t like conflict, who doesn’t need to fight all the time…”
Cook stops him in mid-sentence. “That’s not what I meant. I meant…more like…what do you find physically attractive?”
The wine chooses this moment to run a slight short-circuiting in David’s brain. “Eyes. And hands. Those are the first things I look at.” And he’s looking straight into Cook’s eyes when he says it; dark-ringed hazel irises, firelight catching the green in their depths.
And his words leave him for a few moments. The room is warm, or at least it's more noticeable than before. He squirms a little bit on the couch, repositioning, and his t-shirt sticks to his skin where he'd been leaning against the smooth leather of the couch arm. A prickling along his skin catches his attention, and he looks down at his forearm, where the fine hair is standing straight up. And then he shivers slightly.
"You cold?" Cook asks. He doesn't wait for an answer, but instead gets up to throw another log on the fire.
David watches him when his back is turned, taking in the span of his shoulders, the way his shirt pulls tight across them when he lifts firewood out of the bin. When he bends over, the un-tucked shirt rides up, exposing the waist of his jeans, riding below the wide elastic of boxer-briefs and an expanse of fair skin. He has some slight thickness around the waist, but not enough to obscure the dense muscle there.
It occurs to David that he has got to change the subject, at this point. And he hops off the couch, almost fast enough to make him tip over. Wine really is evil; he understands it now. It’s made him hot, and tingly, and clumsy, and it makes him want to tell David Cook exactly what he finds attractive, as he’s kind of just been staring at it.
He hurries into the kitchen, and sticks his head in the refrigerator; half to find water, and half to cool his thoughts. When he finally feels safe, he grabs a bottle of water, and turns around.
“So, uhh…thanks for keeping the fire going. Tell me what made you come here for the holidays?”
There. That’s a safe subject. He avoids looking into Cook’s eyes, or at his hands. His left kneecap appears to be a safe zone, so David focuses on that, instead, and pastes a smile on his face.
***
Okay, there is no way one glass of wine has knocked this kid this far off his game. A minute ago they were having an increasingly interesting conversation about what David Archuleta finds attractive, and now he’s standing there, all plastic, like he pulled a clone out of the fridge, and left the real version of himself inside it. Cook almost wants to go check. Because he quite liked the version that was just giving him a really blatant looking-over.
Or, maybe he has the wrong idea, entirely. At any rate, David is still standing there, blinking at him, so Cook settles back down on the couch, and props his feet on the coffee table. “Well. My family kind of all went separate ways this year. My mom and stepdad went on a cruise, and my brother went to California with his girlfriend, to see her family. So, I decided to come out here, me and the guys in the band. Kind of a last hurrah before we go to record our second album.”
David walks carefully around the kitchen island, and back into the living room. Cook is sitting in the middle of the couch, so he picks a chair instead. “You sound like you’re not looking forward to it. Recording, I mean. How come?” he says.
Cook watches him tip up the water bottle and take long swallows, the muscles of his throat working with each one. “It’s not so much that I’m not looking forward to it, it’s just…” he searches for the right explanation.
“You worried about it?”
“Eh, yes and no. We’re a little short on material, but that’s not unusual. That’ll work itself out once we’re in the studio, I think. But we’re working with a new producer, this time, at the behest of the label. That worries me a little. And it’s just…this album needs to be good. Better than the first one.”
“And more commercially successful,” David adds, nodding. It’s not a criticism; it’s just the truth as anybody making a living in the music business knows it.
Cook grins wryly. David may be inexperienced in some things, but about this, he just seems to get it. “Yeah, what you said,” he agrees.
It leads to a conversation about the various foibles of the music industry, and they talk companionably for some time, until David starts to look a little tired; relaxing to sink lower into his chair. Head back against the chair, he stretches, arching his back and neck and closing his eyes. Cook takes advantage of this to watch and enjoy the cat-like motion. David is small, and wiry, but every movement he makes suggests well-used muscles. His thighs flex, and he digs his toes into the floor. He looks like he could easily bend into just about any position.
“Do you do yoga?” Cook asks, and then mentally slaps himself. Great, now he’s saying goofy things. Not to mention being perverted.
Fortunately, David doesn’t notice. “No, but I run a lot. And I started doing this new workout in the fall; it’s killer. Lots of military stuff, push-ups, chin-ups, stuff like that.” He sits up, and offers his arm. “Feel my shoulder.”
Oh boy. Cook gives the shoulder an appreciative squeeze, and his eyes widen in surprise. “Wow.”
“I know! I used to be really skinny. Not anymore. Same thing with my chest.” Totally unselfconscious now, he pulls his t-shirt tight across his front. Lean muscle fills out the fabric. “See?”
“Nice.” Cook has no other answer he can give, right now, without sounding like a complete sex fiend. He starts to think that maybe this is his cue to start yawning, and make his way upstairs to bed, where he can jerk off like a freak until he passes out from exhaustion.
“Getting kind of late,” he says, after a long moment of trying not to stare at David readjusting his shirt. I’m gonna…I’m gonna go see how much it’s snowed, I think, before I go upstairs. To bed. Where I’m…going to sleep.”
“Oh, hey, I’ll go with you!” David says, and he’s up out of his chair, and out of the room.
What the hell just happened? Cook almost has to shake his head. Did David just say he was…what? He’s still standing there, mouth hanging stupidly open, when David reappears. He’s wearing boots, and a jacket, and is pulling a hat down over his dark hair. “What?” he asks, confused.
“Nothing…I thought…I need to…put something on.” It’s all Cook can do not to bludgeon himself in the head with his boot before putting it on. Hopefully the cold will clear his head, because this is absolutely fucking ridiculous. He cannot be entertaining these thoughts about his young co-renter. No. He cannot. It’s like another one of those dating-the-wrong-people-decisions. Times a thousand.
He follows David out onto the snow-covered balcony. The flakes are still coming down thick and steady, but the wind has eased a bit. The balcony itself is blanketed to mid-calf, and it shows no sign of slowing down.
David stands there, face turned upward. “Look up. It makes you dizzy,” he says.
Cook does it, and finds that it’s true. The swirling flakes make him feel like he doesn’t know which way is up, and he has to stop. When he looks back down, he sees David clear snow off the rail, and hop up to sit on it. “Look out there. You can almost see the ski lodge. The lift is all lit up.”
Again, Cook obliges, and stands closer, to see where David is pointing. “Yeah, I see it, barely,” he says.
“Wait, look down that way, is that…” David squirms on the railing, and Cook suddenly thinks he’s losing his balance, and just grabs.
When he can sort things out again, he’s managed to wedge himself between David’s legs, with both arms wrapped around his hips. His head is under David’s chin, and Cook can hear him swallow, loud in the still air.
“I…I wasn’t falling,” David says, his voice thick. And unsure. “But…thanks, anyhow.”
Cook doesn’t let go, but moves his head to the side a bit, so he can look up. Tiny snowflakes are caught in the web of David’s eyelashes. “Better safe than sorry, you know?” It’s almost like he can feel the heat of David’s skin through both of their clothes.
If someone had told him this would happen, when he saw the white Lexus coming up the drive that day, he’d have laughed his ass off. Now, it seems like exactly what was supposed to happen. The house mixup. The storm. Canceled flights and impassable roads. A movie they both seemed to know by heart. And a gorgeous kid, who just drank his first glass of wine, ever, and who seems just clumsy enough that you have to always be ready to put your hands on him.
David’s hands scrabble on the railing, and Cook moves back enough to let him get down. The movement puts them right up against each other, and when David slips just a little bit in the trampled snow at their feet, they both laugh, their comingled breath a steamy cloud.
Onto the second part
Recipient: rajkumari905
Title: Snowbound
Pairing(s): David Cook/David Archuleta
Word Count: 14,897
Summary: This is sort of an alternate-reality rather than a full AU. David Archuleta won Idol in Season 7, and David Cook is still a musician, but he was never on Idol at all. Here, they meet for the first time, right before Christmas, in a house that's accidentally been rented to them both at the same time.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: We are in no way officially affiliated with David Cook, David Archuleta or their representation. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence. No copyright infringement is ever intended.
Warning(s): Some adult language, m/m (non-penetrative) sexual activity
Author's Notes: Quoted portions of movie dialogue are taken from Almost Famous, written by Cameron Crowe, 2000. POV changes are notated by a single *
My beta requested that I withhold her name, however, she is well-known and loved within the fandom, and did a great job. I'm also totally outing her later. Any remaining mistakes are the author's. Many thanks to my shy beta, and to one other reader who will be credited later, who gave the kernel of idea that got me writing on this fic.
Dear Pri, I hope you like it, and Happy Holidays <3
He wonders why the house is so well-lit as he drives up the winding road through the Taos Ski Valley. Not only is every wide window aglow from interior light, the three levels of decks are strung with twinkling white Christmas lights, swaying in the cold wind.
And after he pulls into the long, steep driveway, he catches a glimpse of someone walking past the first floor window. The figure stops, and looks out. Right at him, as he idles in the driveway.
David quickly dials the realtor's number. He'd selected this house carefully as being large enough to accommodate his family, and he'd rented it for two weeks. It's supposed to be vacant. "Steve Valentine, please," he says, when the assistant picks up.
"I'm sorry, he's traveling overseas for the holiday," she replies pleasantly. "May I help you with something?"
Not really. It doesn't take long to sort out that Valentine, Taos realtor to the stars, has double-booked his top property. Another party is currently in residence for the remainder of the week.
David tries not to take out his frustration on the assistant. The mix-up probably isn't her fault, and she apologizes profusely while she searches the database for another available property. Unfortunately, there are none, and it comes down to her refunding part of the rental fee, and offering to put him up in a suite at the nearest hotel until the current renter leaves.
He sighs, accepted her apologies and the offer, and drops the phone in his lap. The arrangement isn't ideal, but he supposes he can live with it, since his family isn't due to arrive until next week. He sits and rubs his tired eyes as the Lexus' quiet windshield wipers clear away the thick flakes of snow.
***
Cook does a double-take as he walks past the living room windows with their spectacular view of the valley. Is that a car coming up the driveway?
Sure enough, it is; the white hybrid SUV rolls to a halt, swirling snowflakes illuminated in its headlights. He momentarily forgets about getting another beer, and peers out at his unknown visitor. No way that's Neal; his flight doesn't even take off for another hour. The others aren't due to arrive for a few more days, either. Perhaps someone made a wrong turn.
It makes him miss the guys, and almost wish he hadn't had the bright idea of coming to Taos a day early. His entire band is jazzed about the upcoming recording sessions, and it would be nice to have them there, to drink with, and tell him to calm the fuck down already. Because of course the next album will be great, even better than the first.
But for now, there's the issue of greeting his unexpected visitor.
His boots are easy to find, still lying where he'd kicked them off by the door. A coat appears to be more of a challenge, so he just puts up the hood on his sweatshirt and walks out. The wind slices straight through the thin fabric, and by the time he reaches the SUV, he's practically hugging himself and shivering.
The dashlights reveal little, but he can see the driver, slumped with a hand over his eyes. Cautiously, Cook taps on the driver-side window. The driver startles, and then rolls the window halfway down.
Dark eyes look skeptically out at him. "Sorry I scared you," Cook says, friendly. "You lost, or something?"
"No," the driver replies, before answering with a question of his own. "Did you rent this place from Valentine Properties?"
"Put the deposit on it a few months ago," Cook says, still pleasant. "There a problem?"
"Umm, kind of..." the driver trails off, as if trying to come up with an explanation. "I hate to tell you this, but he double-booked the place for the next week. He rented it to me, as well."
Cook stuffs his hands into his sleeves before they can go completely numb. "We should probably c-c-call him," he suggests, teeth starting to chatter.
The driver holds up his phone. "I just did...he's out of the country. And you get to stay...they're sending me to a hotel in Espanola, at least until you move out."
"Espanola?" Cook isn't sure exactly where that is, but he knows it's not very close. And he's tired of standing out in the cold to have this conversation. "Look. The mixup sucks...I'm sorry you got this far just to have to leave. You want to at least come in, for a minute?" he points up towards the house. "Take a break from driving? I can make coffee or something."
It's true, he does feel a little bit bad, even though it's not his fault. Thanks to Valentine being a dumbass, this guy may be spending his holiday in a hotel room. But if he doesn't get himself back inside soon, his ass is going to freeze solid.
"Um, I don't drink coffee," SUV-guy replies, but then seems to remember his manners. "But, yeah...thank you. I'd like to come in for a minute." He turns off the ignition and gets out, also not wearing a coat. "Wow, it's really cold out here!"
"No shit, man," Cook replies over his shoulder. He's already on his way back to the warmth and light of the house, skidding slightly on the slippery walk.
***
David is disoriented when he hears the knock on the window, and jumps so hard he almost accidentally puts SUV into gear. Fortunately, the knocker isn't a yeti or a serial killer, and is just the guy renting the house. The renter-in-residence. AKA, the guy who gets to stay, while David drives back to a generic hotel room in Espanola.
But not until he stretches his legs, and maybe takes a look around the house. A bathroom break wouldn't be unwelcome, either. He has to hurry to keep up with the figure ahead of him, who is taller and has longer legs. When the SUV's headlights wink out, it's hard to still see him, just a grey silhouette on the stairs.
In the warm foyer, they both have to spend some time shaking off the snow. Rental-guy is more covered with it; clumps fall off his hoodie as he takes it off. Glints of light catch David's eye; snowflakes melting in the reddish scruff along the man's jaw.
"So...this is the place," Scruffy Rental-guy says, walking out into the cathedral-ceilinged living room. A well-appointed gourmet kitchen frames the far right hand wall. Copper pots hang from a ceiling rack, decorative more than functional, and large, stainless-steel appliances dominate the space. He opens the refrigerator, and frowns into it. "So...you don't drink coffee...I was going to have a beer..."
David is standing in front of the large, double-sided fireplace. It, and the gigantic windows, are the focal points of the entire wide-beamed room, just as the Holiday Properties advertisement had stated. "I don't drink beer, either," he says. "Sorry. I don't mean to be difficult...you're very generous. I just...I'm just going to look around a bit, if that's okay with you."
Rental-guy shuts the fridge, and starts rummaging in a cupboard. "Sure...have at it," he says, his attention elsewhere.
It's odd that this guy just ignores him, a stranger, who could be armed with sinister intentions and God-only-knows-what. David realizes that, yeah, he's considerably smaller in stature...but come on, he could be a black belt! He could have a huge...hunting knife, or something. It bothers him a little bit, to be so completely taken for granted. "My name's David, by the way," he calls. "David Archuleta."
"Huh, weird. Mine is too," the guy replies. He's still not looking at David, but now he's comparing two bottles of wine. "David, anyhow. Call me Cook."
"Nice to meet you," David says. The words earn him one brief, bright smile from Cook. For two shining seconds, it makes him feel like the only other person on earth. And then Cook's attention is elsewhere again, so David wanders off to check out the house.
While he's wandering the upstairs, it occurs to him who he's sharing space with. He's seen the name on his sister's iPod, when he accidentally grabbed hers instead of his own. David Cook and the Anthemic, and several songs he scrolled past confusedly before realizing he had the wrong iPod.
And then he remembers an article in a musician friend's Spin magazine, something about the year's best new artists. A couple of shots of the guy downstairs, wearing black and looking far more dangerous and dirty than he does right now.
So, a few songs David didn't listen to, and an article he barely skimmed. Still, he should probably say something, and he will, after he's done exploring. If only he could remember the name of one of those songs. It would probably be appropriately courteous if he could at least say he liked it. Although saying that, while not having heard it at all, bothers him more than a little.
The house appears to be just as described, with lots of exposed timbers and huge windows. The four bedrooms are all furnished luxuriously, tall beds heaped with down comforters. The bathrooms are even more appealing, with deep bathtubs, and showers that appear to be designed for multiple occupants. He takes advantage of the most modest one in the hallway, before checking out the view from upstairs.
The valley is gorgeous under its veil of snow. The deep purples and blues of mountain light settle over the crags, which are dotted with the winking lights of other houses and the main Taos Valley ski lodge in the distance.
As he stands on the upstairs landing and looks out over the main floor, he realizes that the twelve-foot Christmas tree he's ordered will arrive in the next day or two. And he won't be there to accept the delivery, or do anything to decorate it.
Clearly, he's going to have to do some negotiating with Cook, because he doesn't want to sacrifice the holiday plans he's so carefully made for his mother and siblings. It's so much more important this year, than others.
With a sigh, he starts back downstairs.
***
Cook just takes in the pensive look on David's face as he walks into the kitchen. "I know you," he says, and holds out one of the large, round glasses of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.
David looks startled, as he takes the glass and just holds it away from himself. "I...umm," he replies. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth afterward, and looks at the glass in his hand.
"Oh...sorry, I said that wrong," Cook replies, laughing. "We haven't met. But I realized who you are; you're the kid that won that show, right? Coupla years ago? Didn't you just release a Christmas album?" He takes a large swallow of the fragrant red stuff, and the ripeness of it warms his mouth. "How come you're not touring?"
David seems to be having a hard time catching up, but he smiles and nods. "Yeah, that's me. And I did...the Christmas album dropped in October-" he stops, and across the room, out the wide windows. He clears his throat. "I'm taking a break from touring. To be with my family."
Cook hears something painful in his tone, and wants to ask. But they've only just met, and he feels a bit like a usurper in the middle of the house David Archuleta has rented to spend the holidays with his family. "That's nice," he replies. "Sometimes you just need to get away from all that bullshit, with the people you love." And, that sounds like a platitude, except that platitudes don't usually include swear words.
David seems to make a conscious effort to change the subject. "Um, actually...I know you, too. Have heard you. I mean...heard of you. My sister's a fan. And the write-up in Spin was cool."
"Thanks," Cook replies, graciously. He can tell David is reciprocating his own earlier comment out of courtesy, and that's fine. They don't move in the same circles, and there's that A-list/B-list thing, the commercial vs. critical thing, the Disney vs. Spin Magazine thing. It's actually kind of nice to have it wordlessly acknowledged, and then out of the way.
He points at the glass of wine David is still holding well away from himself. "So...you don't have to drink that, you know. There's other stuff, if you want." He's pretty sure David isn't 21 yet. And he looks about seventeen, with his long-lashed, clear brown eyes and smooth skin.
"I...um..." David looks at the full wineglass. "It was nice of you to offer. I just...I should probably get going, you know? It's about forty miles to..."
Something catches Cook's eye, on the huge flat-screen out in the living room. "Actually...I'm not sure about that," he says, and walks over to get a better look. The news station is broadcasting a breaking story about the biggest blizzard to hit New Mexico in a decade. A level-three emergency has been declared, and people are being warned off roads that are quickly becoming impassable. Flights are being canceled and rerouted. So much for Neal, and the rest of the guys.
Cook looks over at his uninvited visitor. "You shouldn't drive in that," he says. "It's not safe."
David is unsure. "Well, that's why I rented the SUV, it's four-wheel-drive...I'm a good driver..."
"No, I insist. It's dark, you're in the mountains in a snowstorm, and you don't know where you're going. Plus..." Cook smiles, and it makes him really happy when the uneasy look leaves David's face and he smiles back. "Technically, you have as much right to be here as I do. You should stay. At least for the night. It's not like we don't have room, you know?"
And then, he has to burst out laughing as David nods, and, seemingly without thinking, takes a large gulp of his wine. The color that floods his face could be embarrassment, or a reaction to the bite of the alcohol, but either way...it's really appealing.
David coughs only slightly, and handles it with aplomb. "I...I think I will stay, for tonight. Thank you." He sets the glass down on the coffee table. "I think I should go get my stuff, then, before the car is totally covered."
Cook takes another drink from his own glass, and sets it down as well. "Good idea; I'll help you."
David offers a few protests, that it's okay, he can get it himself, but Cook doesn't listen. This time he bothers to find his coat, and an extra one for David as well.
As soon as they step outside the door, they realize how serious it really is. They can't even see the white SUV in the driving snow. Cook goes back inside to turn all the outside lights on, and even the bright halogen floodlights only reveal the vehicle's silhouette.
It's a long forty yards or so, on snow that turns slippery under the soles of shoes never intended for it. David walks as carefully as possible, and he hears Cook swear a few times behind him as he seems to have more difficulty. Between the two of them, they wrestle his two big bags out of the SUV, and back to the stairs.
"Glad I shipped my ski gear," David comments. Cook has taken the heavier bag, somehow, and is already a couple of steps ahead of him.
"Me too," he says over his shoulder. "Your bag full of rocks and dictionaries is heavy enough."
"Hey, I'll have you know, I packed light," David has to raise his voice so that the wind doesn't carry it away as they reach the landing and start the second flight. "And I didn't pack a single dictionary, those are - crap -" he gasps out the strongest excuse for an expletive that he can manage, as he loses his footing, and considers letting the bag go, rather than falling down the stairs with it.
And then there's a twinge in his shoulder as it's wrenched upward. It takes him a moment to react to the fact that he hasn't fallen, and that Cook has latched onto his arm with a steady grip that doesn't seem possible, given that he's carrying the heavier bag, and is on equally slippery stairs. In cowboy boots, no less. But, he's not going anywhere, and neither is David, while Cook's hanging onto him.
"Close one, eh?" Cook grins. He doesn't seem overly taxed by the save, and he keeps a steadying hand on David's arm while David gets his bearings and nods agreement. After a moment they resume their careful progress up the stairs, and David notices that Cook does it with an eye over his shoulder the whole time.
***
Cook hopes that David skis with more agility than he displayed earlier, because that fall, if it had happened, would have been video-worthy...not necessarily the funny kind. But as it is, tragedy has been averted, and they can both laugh as they shake off the snow. After David hangs up the borrowed jacket, and makes to shoulder both bags, Cook grabs the heavier one again.
"Just because. You and stairs, you know?" he grins.
"They were slippery!" David protests, but he follows with the lighter bag. "I could've gotten it."
"I know, I'm just being a good host." Cook stops at the head of the stairs, and looks down the hallway. "Even though we're kind of...unintentional co-hosts, or something. Well - " he shrugs. "I think I took the master bedroom; at least, it has the nicest bathroom. But if you want it..." he leaves the statement open-ended. He's not sure exactly why he wants to be accommodating, but for some reason, he just does. What the hell, it's the holidays. And does it really matter what bedroom he has? He hasn't been sleeping much lately anyhow.
He notices David is smiling at him. It's a really nice smile. "It's okay, you can keep it. Any bedroom is fine with me," he replies.
And it somehow makes Cook a little bit happy when David walks into the one next to his. He follows, and drops the heavy bag at the foot of the lofty bed. And now he's breached the barrier of where standing in a bedroom with someone you don't know, whose smile you kind of like, and staring at his bed, is a little uncomfortable. Unless you're a bellhop, which he's not. "Okay. You've probably got some unpacking to do, so...yeah. I'll be downstairs."
Awkward.
And David is looking at him as he turns to go, kind of like he would have preferred company, maybe? No. That's his imagination. Shut up, imagination.
Cook finally returns to his wine glass and tops it off. You're not supposed to pour these things full, it's tacky, and wine is supposed to take on oxygen or something, for the taste to fully ripen, but he doesn't really care. He drinks, and half-listens to the dire storm reports on the weather channel, and roots around in the huge Sub-Zero, contemplating food. Maybe Archuleta cooks. Maybe he could be persuaded to do so, like, with help.
But he doesn't come down right away, and Cook finally decides maybe David was actually really tired, and doesn't care to have company right now. Plus...who are they to each other, anyhow? Two guys who accidentally rented the same house, for the same time period, who wouldn't probably be sharing space at all if not for the storm. American Idol Winner/Teen Pop Star/All Around Wholesome Kid David Archuleta would probably not choose to hang out with Dave Cook, critically-acclaimed-if-less-well-known-rock musician, who is right now drinking too much really expensive wine, and worrying about the upcoming commencement of recording on his band's second major-label album.
Sophomore slump...those are not words he wants to hear, or see in print, ever, about himself, his band, and his music. It's enough to keep a guy awake at night. It's enough to leach a little bit of the joy out of the holidays, and a much-anticipated pre-recording-session vacation.
It's enough to make him a little lonely. Would it be weird if he went upstairs again? Like, to talk to David. People do that, get to know each other...it's normal, of course it is. Especially when they're sharing a house, however unintentionally. They are stuck with each other, from the sounds of things, at least for a day or two...
Cook nearly runs into David as he turns the corner to go up the stairs. And he's still carrying his wineglass, because he's a total lush tonight, and has to quickly jerk it out of the way. And then they almost bump chests. Except that David is shorter, so there's not quite a reciprocal body-part-meeting-thing. And he's obviously just taken a shower, because his hair is wet, and his skin has that fragrant residue of some fancy apres-bath product. But a masculine one. It's nice. Warm, clean, kind of sweet. Woodsy, even. Nice.
"Um, good reflexes," David says to him, backing up slightly. "You didn't even spill." He points to the wineglass.
"Don't wanna waste it, it's wicked expensive," Cook grins. He lets David pass him, and go into the kitchen. "Yours is still there, if you want it."
"I...kind of...don't drink," David replies. He's leaning against the counter, looking a little unsure of himself. "And I'm not even nineteen. Not for another week, anyhow."
"Hey, Happy Birthday, then! Early." Cook raises his glass, wishing he weren't going to be polishing off the Chateauneuf-du-Pape alone. "Mine was a couple of weeks ago. Twenty-seven. I'm old."
David laughs, the veil of his unsurety parting slightly. "That's not old, gosh." He moves, restless, as though stillness is not a normal state for him. It's not fidgety movement; more like pent-up energy that has nowhere to go. Cook just likes watching him sort of rock forward and back against the counter.
And then there's that longish, awkward silence again. Dammit. "Uhh, there's food," Cook offers. "I had them stock the place before I got here."
David brightens again. "Oh, cool!" he enthuses, and starts in with the same rummaging activities Cook had been doing earlier.
He finds things that Cook would not have chosen for lonely snacking purposes: some cherry tomatoes, a cucumber, an avocado. Cook just watches as David peels and slices things.
"Do you have cheese?" David asks, after leaning over to check the fridge drawer a second time.
"I have cheese whiz," Cook answers after a moment. He's pretty sure he has regular cheese, too, but he can see from the collection of healthy fresh reds and greens, that the concept of aerosol food would probably horrify David, and it might be a little bit funny.
David stands up, holding a small round of boursin and looking like someone just burped in his face. "That's not really cheese. And it's like, so bad for you," he says.
And inexplicably, Cook regrets a little bit the fact that he sometimes does eat the stuff. Directly from the can. And wash it down with beer. "I know, I know," he replies, waving off the admonishment. "And you found the good stuff, anyhow." Rather than watch David build his healthy sandwich, he takes up the bottle, along with his wineglass, and pads into the living room to flip through the TV channels.
He should probably eat, as well, but he ends up with his feet on the coffee table, watching Almost Famous for like, the thirtieth time. He can practically recite this film.
And it pretty much applies to him. One album, critically acclaimed, well received by a small audience, and poised to make it big with the follow-up. Or poised to fail, and slide into ignominy. Almost famous, indeed.
When David Archuleta comes over to the couch and sits on the opposite end, with his plate and a big glass of pomegranate juice, there's no almost about him. He is already there. And with his big eyes and guileless smiles, he is indeed too sweet for rock and roll.
He might as well be William Miller. Oh, dear god. Cook slumps down into the smooth leather surface of the cushions and rubs his eyes.
And slowly, David surprises him by knowing just as many of the lines from this movie as he does. Not just William's, either.
"The Doors? Jim Morrison? He's a drunken buffoon, posing as a poet!" David crows along with Lester Bangs, around his mouthful of sandwich.
"I like the Doors," Cook replies automatically, knowing his part as some random Rolling Stone writer.
"Give me the Guess Who. They got the courage to be drunken buffoons, which makes them poetic," David finishes the quote happily.
And it's kind of awesome when David does do William, complete with an earnest, serious look at Cook's Russell Hammond.
"So, Russell...what do you love about music?" David holds out a celery stick as his pretend microphone.
And Cook is glad that Russell's answer feels like the ultimate truth of his life. "To begin with, everything," he smiles, and David smiles back, a wide, open smile of understanding.
And then they both almost fall of the couch laughing, as they mute the TV so that they can do an Elaine and Anita Miller conversation, complete with high, attempted-feminine voices.
"It's unfair that we can't listen to our music!" Cook whines. He's frustrated teenager Anita, and he sticks his bottom lip out for effect.
"That's because it's music about drugs and promiscuous sex," David replies sternly, complete with a fingerpoint. He seems to have taken the no-nonsense mother role on like a second skin.
"Simon and Garfunkel is poetry!" Cook yells, throwing a pillow across the room.
"Yes, it's poetry," David answers, still in character, homing in on the punchline. "It's the poetry of drugs and promiscuous sex. Honey, they're on pot."
That moment turns them into something more than rental cars passing in the snowy night, at the rest stop of an accidentally co-rented ski house. Suddenly, they are on common ground.
"You're pretty good at Elaine," Cook comments, swirling the dregs of wine in his glass. He watches over the rim as David sighs, and his face stills a bit.
"My mom is kinda like that. I mean...I was a little bit, what's the word...precocious, I guess? I performed on national TV when I was..." he seems to think back, and Cook realizes he's actually unsure of how long ago this was. "...eleven, I think? My dad was with me a lot, but my mom kind of kept me grounded, always."
And then, like a gust of wind blowing away a handful of snow, David's face changes rapidly. He bites his lips and closes his eyes, in a tight expression of pain.
Cook knows his powers of perception probably aren't unusual, but that look communicates more than loudly enough. "What happened?" he asks, his voice sounding quiet after the Anita-yelling.
"It's...I rented this place for my mom, and my brother and sisters, all of us to spend Christmas together. Away from everything." David opens his eyes, and they're fever-bright. "My parents are getting a divorce. It's kind of ugly. And I know, I'm not a kid anymore, but..."
"Doesn't matter," Cook tells him. "That never doesn't suck. I'm sorry." He is sorry. That's just a shitty thing, no two ways about it. Particularly during the holidays.
David nods, and doesn't continue. He closes his eyes again, and presses a thumb to one of them, hard against the lid.
"You wanna talk about it?" Cook asks. There's nothing he can really do, other than listen. And when David opens his eyes again, Cook picks up the wine bottle, and pours the last few swallows into the barely-touched glass David left on the coffee table, what seems like hours ago.
***
David watches the rich liquid bubble slowly into the wineglass. He's not entirely sure he does want to talk about it. But, somehow, for the first time in months, he feels safe. Here in the midst of a blizzard, alone in a house with a guy he just met, he feels like he doesn't have to put on a face.
He picks up the glass, and stares at the firelight refracted in its red depths. He takes a careful sip, and takes note of the taste. It's strong, but not harsh. It tastes like something made of earth's own energy. Hot, without having a specific temperature. He tries to separate the act of drinking it, which goes against his religious beliefs, with the simple experience of trying something new, just because he wants to. And because he feels like, at this moment, it's the right thing to do.
And it somehow makes it easier to just open his mouth and talk, not worrying about if the words make sense or not. "They were going to do it seven years ago," he says. "Get divorced, I mean." He looks over, and Cook is just sitting there, listening, with the TV still muted. "I didn't know it then, but my mom told me when they filed, this time." Another sip of the wine, and this time he's ready for the way the taste blooms in his mouth. "She told me a lot of things."
"Like what?" Cook's question doesn't pry, it just leaves the door open for David to say more. So he does.
"Stuff they argued about. Stuff about...their sex life." This requires another, larger swallow of the wine. "I mean...not like, umm...descriptively, or anything," he clarifies, even though Cook doesn't seem shocked or weirded out by this. "Just that he was kind of into...other women. And he'd always come back, always say he was sorry, it didn't mean anything, but..."
"But it means something," Cook says simply, and David wants to thank him, just for getting it.
"Yeah," he replies. "This last time, last summer...the press got ahold of it, a little, and I know they were both the most concerned about keeping it from hurting my career. I feel so bad, about that. That that's what they were worried about."
"Those were their choices, though," Cook replies. "And to be honest, it could have affected your career. I mean they say all publicity is good publicity, but sometimes...not so much." He shrugs, and takes a drink of his wine. David watches the way he seems to hold the mouthful, the way his tongue seems to move behind his lips before he swallows.
David experiments with this before he answers, holding the next sip of wine experimentally in his mouth a bit before swallowing. It’s different, the way the taste develops on his tongue. There’s almost a peppery-ness to it. Then he notices, Cook is watching him, head tilted to the side a bit, considering. “What?” David asks.
“You don’t really like that stuff, do you,” he comments.
“It’s not…terrible. I don’t hate it,” David says. “But yeah, I kinda don’t get why people make such a big deal out of it.”
Cook grins at this, and holds up his glass. “It’s like a lot of things. Something to hide behind. Something to put between you and whoever. And then by the time you get around to noticing, the alcohol has knocked some of the walls down, so you don’t feel like you need anything between you anymore.”
David thinks about this. It makes sense, a little, now, why he always sees people at industry parties with drinks in their hands, holding them up and out in front of themselves. Then, after they’ve had a few, their postures change. Their shoulders and arms drop, and they lean closer to each other. Sometimes they touch.
He and Cook are still sitting at opposite ends of the couch, but it really does feel like some of the barrier of unfamiliarity and awkwardness has dropped a little. That can’t be the doing of a few swallows of wine, he thinks, but he’s not going to worry about it at the moment.
“So, anyhow,” he continues, and it really doesn’t feel as difficult to talk about it now. “My dad has a different house, now, and we were all going to split the holidays between him and my mom…all of my brothers and sisters, anyhow…but being at home this year, when it’s always been all of us, before…it just seemed…I dunno. Too sad, or something. I thought Taos would be something different.”
“Are you still going to see your dad, after the holidays?” Cook asks.
“I actually wanted to invite him here,” David replies, after a moment. He and his oldest sister had argued hotly about it, and finally, he had caved, and agreed not to invite their father. “Decided it wasn’t a good idea, though.”
Cook nods. “Hard to know the right thing to do. Seems like you’re handling it well, though.”
David feels his smile falter, and Cook backpedals. “Or, maybe you’re not…it’s just a shitty thing. I didn’t mean to make you think about it, if you don’t want to.”
“It’s okay. Can’t help but think about it, most of the time,” David replies, and tries his wine again. A smile bubbles up on his mouth, afterward. “You swear a lot,” he says.
“I…do,” Cook replies, and then laughs. It’s obviously something he’s aware of. “Bad habit. Got a lot of those.”
“Like…what else?” Normally David wouldn’t really want to know, but for some reasons he’s curious. Cook’s bad habits seem like they might be interesting.
“Uhhh…I eat cheese whiz?”
“Gross! Out of the can?”
“Maybe.”
“Naaasty. What else?”
“I…correct people’s grammar, sometimes. Or, if they seem to be using words that they don’t know what they mean…I suggest better words.” Cook actually looks a little embarrassed about this, like he’s only just now realized it might be rude, and annoying.
“And you drink a lot,” David indicates the empty wine bottle.
“Hey! That one I object to!” Cook acts offended, but David can tell he’s not. “Besides. You’re doing a pretty good job polishing off a rather large glass yourself, Mr. I-Don’t-Drink.”
“Oh, so you’re also kind of patronizing?” David inwardly high-fives himself, because he thinks he kind of won, on this one.
“I think the word you want is actually condescending,” Cook replies immediately, with a smug little smile.
“Darn it! I’ll bet people hate it when you do that!” David exclaims, bouncing a little on the couch. “What else?”
“Jesus, haven’t you had enough? Umm, okay…I have a tendency to be…let’s say….attracted to the wrong kinds of people.”
David feels his eyes get big as he stares at Cook over the rim of his glass. The wine slides down his throat easily now. And this is getting good. “What kinds of people?” he asks.
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, my gosh, I don’t, though! You mean, like, you date a lot of criminals?”
Cook bursts out laughing. “Okay, that’s one mistake I don’t think I’ve made yet,” he says, when he can finally talk again. I just mean…come on, I don’t have to explain it, do I? You’ve dated people who just were wrong for you, right?”
“Um…I…” Dated a few girls, David finishes in his head. It did help him discover that girls were his second choice, when it came to dating people. Which brought up a host of other problems. “I don’t really date. I work a lot. Travel. Stuff like that. It’s hard to…have a relationship. You know.”
“Mm,” Cook replies. He’s got a look on his face that isn’t quite skeptical, but it says he’s aware of there being something David’s not saying. “So, let me ask, then. If you were going to date someone, what would you be looking for?”
David tries to think of a safe way to answer this question. “Well…” he hedges. “It would have to be someone who understands what I do, and how I feel about my music. Someone who isn’t all full of themselves. Someone who doesn’t like conflict, who doesn’t need to fight all the time…”
Cook stops him in mid-sentence. “That’s not what I meant. I meant…more like…what do you find physically attractive?”
The wine chooses this moment to run a slight short-circuiting in David’s brain. “Eyes. And hands. Those are the first things I look at.” And he’s looking straight into Cook’s eyes when he says it; dark-ringed hazel irises, firelight catching the green in their depths.
And his words leave him for a few moments. The room is warm, or at least it's more noticeable than before. He squirms a little bit on the couch, repositioning, and his t-shirt sticks to his skin where he'd been leaning against the smooth leather of the couch arm. A prickling along his skin catches his attention, and he looks down at his forearm, where the fine hair is standing straight up. And then he shivers slightly.
"You cold?" Cook asks. He doesn't wait for an answer, but instead gets up to throw another log on the fire.
David watches him when his back is turned, taking in the span of his shoulders, the way his shirt pulls tight across them when he lifts firewood out of the bin. When he bends over, the un-tucked shirt rides up, exposing the waist of his jeans, riding below the wide elastic of boxer-briefs and an expanse of fair skin. He has some slight thickness around the waist, but not enough to obscure the dense muscle there.
It occurs to David that he has got to change the subject, at this point. And he hops off the couch, almost fast enough to make him tip over. Wine really is evil; he understands it now. It’s made him hot, and tingly, and clumsy, and it makes him want to tell David Cook exactly what he finds attractive, as he’s kind of just been staring at it.
He hurries into the kitchen, and sticks his head in the refrigerator; half to find water, and half to cool his thoughts. When he finally feels safe, he grabs a bottle of water, and turns around.
“So, uhh…thanks for keeping the fire going. Tell me what made you come here for the holidays?”
There. That’s a safe subject. He avoids looking into Cook’s eyes, or at his hands. His left kneecap appears to be a safe zone, so David focuses on that, instead, and pastes a smile on his face.
***
Okay, there is no way one glass of wine has knocked this kid this far off his game. A minute ago they were having an increasingly interesting conversation about what David Archuleta finds attractive, and now he’s standing there, all plastic, like he pulled a clone out of the fridge, and left the real version of himself inside it. Cook almost wants to go check. Because he quite liked the version that was just giving him a really blatant looking-over.
Or, maybe he has the wrong idea, entirely. At any rate, David is still standing there, blinking at him, so Cook settles back down on the couch, and props his feet on the coffee table. “Well. My family kind of all went separate ways this year. My mom and stepdad went on a cruise, and my brother went to California with his girlfriend, to see her family. So, I decided to come out here, me and the guys in the band. Kind of a last hurrah before we go to record our second album.”
David walks carefully around the kitchen island, and back into the living room. Cook is sitting in the middle of the couch, so he picks a chair instead. “You sound like you’re not looking forward to it. Recording, I mean. How come?” he says.
Cook watches him tip up the water bottle and take long swallows, the muscles of his throat working with each one. “It’s not so much that I’m not looking forward to it, it’s just…” he searches for the right explanation.
“You worried about it?”
“Eh, yes and no. We’re a little short on material, but that’s not unusual. That’ll work itself out once we’re in the studio, I think. But we’re working with a new producer, this time, at the behest of the label. That worries me a little. And it’s just…this album needs to be good. Better than the first one.”
“And more commercially successful,” David adds, nodding. It’s not a criticism; it’s just the truth as anybody making a living in the music business knows it.
Cook grins wryly. David may be inexperienced in some things, but about this, he just seems to get it. “Yeah, what you said,” he agrees.
It leads to a conversation about the various foibles of the music industry, and they talk companionably for some time, until David starts to look a little tired; relaxing to sink lower into his chair. Head back against the chair, he stretches, arching his back and neck and closing his eyes. Cook takes advantage of this to watch and enjoy the cat-like motion. David is small, and wiry, but every movement he makes suggests well-used muscles. His thighs flex, and he digs his toes into the floor. He looks like he could easily bend into just about any position.
“Do you do yoga?” Cook asks, and then mentally slaps himself. Great, now he’s saying goofy things. Not to mention being perverted.
Fortunately, David doesn’t notice. “No, but I run a lot. And I started doing this new workout in the fall; it’s killer. Lots of military stuff, push-ups, chin-ups, stuff like that.” He sits up, and offers his arm. “Feel my shoulder.”
Oh boy. Cook gives the shoulder an appreciative squeeze, and his eyes widen in surprise. “Wow.”
“I know! I used to be really skinny. Not anymore. Same thing with my chest.” Totally unselfconscious now, he pulls his t-shirt tight across his front. Lean muscle fills out the fabric. “See?”
“Nice.” Cook has no other answer he can give, right now, without sounding like a complete sex fiend. He starts to think that maybe this is his cue to start yawning, and make his way upstairs to bed, where he can jerk off like a freak until he passes out from exhaustion.
“Getting kind of late,” he says, after a long moment of trying not to stare at David readjusting his shirt. I’m gonna…I’m gonna go see how much it’s snowed, I think, before I go upstairs. To bed. Where I’m…going to sleep.”
“Oh, hey, I’ll go with you!” David says, and he’s up out of his chair, and out of the room.
What the hell just happened? Cook almost has to shake his head. Did David just say he was…what? He’s still standing there, mouth hanging stupidly open, when David reappears. He’s wearing boots, and a jacket, and is pulling a hat down over his dark hair. “What?” he asks, confused.
“Nothing…I thought…I need to…put something on.” It’s all Cook can do not to bludgeon himself in the head with his boot before putting it on. Hopefully the cold will clear his head, because this is absolutely fucking ridiculous. He cannot be entertaining these thoughts about his young co-renter. No. He cannot. It’s like another one of those dating-the-wrong-people-decisions. Times a thousand.
He follows David out onto the snow-covered balcony. The flakes are still coming down thick and steady, but the wind has eased a bit. The balcony itself is blanketed to mid-calf, and it shows no sign of slowing down.
David stands there, face turned upward. “Look up. It makes you dizzy,” he says.
Cook does it, and finds that it’s true. The swirling flakes make him feel like he doesn’t know which way is up, and he has to stop. When he looks back down, he sees David clear snow off the rail, and hop up to sit on it. “Look out there. You can almost see the ski lodge. The lift is all lit up.”
Again, Cook obliges, and stands closer, to see where David is pointing. “Yeah, I see it, barely,” he says.
“Wait, look down that way, is that…” David squirms on the railing, and Cook suddenly thinks he’s losing his balance, and just grabs.
When he can sort things out again, he’s managed to wedge himself between David’s legs, with both arms wrapped around his hips. His head is under David’s chin, and Cook can hear him swallow, loud in the still air.
“I…I wasn’t falling,” David says, his voice thick. And unsure. “But…thanks, anyhow.”
Cook doesn’t let go, but moves his head to the side a bit, so he can look up. Tiny snowflakes are caught in the web of David’s eyelashes. “Better safe than sorry, you know?” It’s almost like he can feel the heat of David’s skin through both of their clothes.
If someone had told him this would happen, when he saw the white Lexus coming up the drive that day, he’d have laughed his ass off. Now, it seems like exactly what was supposed to happen. The house mixup. The storm. Canceled flights and impassable roads. A movie they both seemed to know by heart. And a gorgeous kid, who just drank his first glass of wine, ever, and who seems just clumsy enough that you have to always be ready to put your hands on him.
David’s hands scrabble on the railing, and Cook moves back enough to let him get down. The movement puts them right up against each other, and when David slips just a little bit in the trampled snow at their feet, they both laugh, their comingled breath a steamy cloud.
Onto the second part