Fic: Never Been Kissed, Rated PG-13
Title: Never Been Kissed
Author: courts
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Yeah, they write down their sexcapades in Word docs and email them to me. Um, no, not real.
Summary: David Cook and David Archuleta wake up to a very unexpected morning after.
Notes: This was supposed to be an answer to the request on cookleta for a drunken first time and the angsty morning after for our boys. I'm just not sure the requestor had this much angst in mind. Sorry, it kind of got away from me. Also, the perspective of this story goes back and forth from Cook to Archie so I hope that's not too confusing. Each section flips back to the other person. I started to write two stories, one from each POV, but it kind of felt like it needed to be woven together to really come across the way that I wanted.
Thanks: As always to mrs_viola_swamp, beta extraordinaire! You rock hardcore, as ever. Gifts you with Michael Vartan, tied with a bow. Also, thank you to vna04 for some awesome pointers on this story. Thanks bb!
-=-=-=-=-
As soon as you open your eyes, you know that something isn't right.
You don't recognize the room that you're in, but that's nothing new. You're halfway into the Idol summer tour and you've long since grown used to waking up in strange places.
You do recognize the naked seventeen-year-old plastered against you in his sleep, and that is definitely something new. You're naked, too, you realize and this just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?
Trying to remember how you got to this place, you think back on the night before. You definitely remember everyone going to Michael's room to hang out after the show. And you definitely remember there being a lot of liquor bottles on the small round table in the corner of the room. You recall Michael mixing drinks for everyone and everyone seemingly having a great time.
David Archuleta, you recall, was drinking a virgin pina colada that Michael had made for him, complete with whipped cream and a cherry. Something in your brain stirs and you remember thinking at one point that Archie seemed a little tipsy, as well, and that wasn't possible. Coconut and pineapple juice can't make you drunk. It must have been the shots of Goldschlager you were doing with Castro making you see things that weren't there.
Later, much later, you remember sitting on the couch in Michael's room, thinking that maybe you'd had enough to drink but also knowing that if you stopped drinking then you would probably pass out and you weren't ready to pass out just yet. You were having fun, laughing at something that Carly said that you couldn't even remember five minutes later. You remember specifically trying not to let yourself think about the boy tucked in under your arm on the couch, the warm breath at your neck or the small hand inching up your thigh. And, by the time that you do let yourself think about it, it's the next morning and he's rubbing against you as he wakes up and you know that it's already too late to look away.
-=-=-=-=-
As soon as you open your eyes, you know that something has changed.
You kind of recognize your surroundings, but you know that is just because all hotel rooms are starting to look the same to you.
You definitely recognize the man that you are lying on top of and that's certainly . . . unexpected. You look down at him and he's watching you and he looks completely terrified and why is he here?
And then you shift against him and, whoa, you're naked! You look down and, whoa, he's naked, too! You may have been accused in the past of being a little naive, but even you can read these glaring neon signs.
You sit up suddenly, grabbing a pillow to press against yourself for modesty and, man, you've never actually seen someone's face demonstrate the word crestfallen so completely.
You don't have to ask him anything because he seems to already know everything that you are thinking. "I don't remember," he says and maybe it was meant to make you feel better, but it breaks your heart a little and you gulp in air to force back a shudder of sadness.
"I'm sorry," are his next words, and those just make it worse.
When he reaches out to touch you, you pull your hand back so sharply that you almost lose your balance and, jeez, maybe talking Michael into adding a little rum to your frozen drink was a bad idea after all. You feel sluggish and confused and achy and-
Achy. And not because you drank too much or you slept weird or whatever. Not achy like that. Achy like *that*. Oh.
He must see the change in your face because he bites his lower lip and looks . . . devastated is the only word that you can come up with, but even that seems a little tame. He's the word nerd, maybe he could think of something better and what a weird thing to think, you say to yourself.
"We, um . . ." you start.
He nods and says, "Yeah, I think maybe we did."
You feel like you might pass out and you must look like it, too, because he sits up and leans towards you, not quite touching you but staying just on this side of your personal space. You can see the worry etched across his features and you notice his hand twitch, as if he's struggling with himself not to reach out to you. All at once, you wish that he would and pray that he doesn't.
"Archie . . ." he asked tentatively. "Are you, um . . . are you okay?"
What are you supposed to say to that? Are you physically traumatized to the point of actually needing help? No, of course not. Are you going completely insane thinking about everything that you can't quite remember and all of the things that you are afraid he's trying to forget? Well, yeah, maybe a little. Are you prepared to voice one word of this to David Cook? Absolutely, 100 percent, without a doubt, no.
"I'm fine," you say and it's the biggest lie you've ever told.
"I . . ." he starts again and you wonder why he keeps talking. It's like he can't shut up and then you think that if he did shut up you'd probably wonder why he wasn't saying anything and what in the heck is *wrong* with you, anyway? He's shaking his head and saying, "I really just don't know what to say, Archie." You can already hear the apology in his voice and you grit your teeth as you prepare for the onslaught. "I'm so sorry, I never meant for anything like this to happen."
The words slap you with an almost physical force and you feel like all the air in your lungs has been sucked out. But then, what were you expecting him to say?
"Please say something," he finally says and you wish Michael were here with his sweet, fruity drinks that made the world seem so much simpler. But then, you realize that the simplicity was all a mirage and this is what was really there all along and you vow in your little Mormon heart never to drink again.
With a deep breath, you force your eyes to meet his as you say, "I don't remember either." You're not sure if it's relief or regret that flits across his features at those words, and you're really not sure which you would prefer. You hold your breath and wait for him to say something else.
"Was it, um . . . I mean, for you, was it . . . your first time?" The words cost him a lot; you can see that from his face. Still, you don't try to hide the hurt in your eyes as you nod your response. You don't even realize that you're crying until the first tear hits the bare skin of your arm and then your face crumbles and you're shaking. You cry so hard that you can't breathe and you can't see and the only sound you can hear is the hitching sobs that escape from your mouth.
He must have a bit more coordination than you feel at the moment, because he's there in an instant, pulling you against him and petting your hair and crooning to you softly with words that you can't quite make out. You allow him to hold you for a few moments, then reality sets in and you push him away, scurrying back across the bed and huddling against the headboard as you draw your knees to your chest and bury your face against them.
"Just don't touch me," you tell him and your brain is screaming at you that you are being unfair. This was your fault. You aren't some innocent in this situation and you have no right to do this to him. But still, you can't make yourself do anything else.
"I'm sorry, Archie . . . I'm so sorry," he croaks and the pain in his voice is evident even if you can't make out the tears coursing down his cheeks. "Please don't hate me." Those last words are whispered and you barely hear them, wondering if you were even meant to. Then he gets up and throws on his clothes in haste and leaves you alone in the bed and you can only watch him go, wondering as he goes if anything in the world will ever be the same.
-=-=-=-=-
You're running and you have no idea where you're headed, but you know that you have to get away as fast as possible. Your room key is nowhere to be found and, after last night, could be gone for good for all you know, so the option of crawling into your bathtub and hiding is quickly discarded. You think about the roof, because that's where people go in the movies or on television when they want to get away, and you find the door to the stairs and yank it open.
One flight. That's how far you get and you know it's fucking pathetic, but you can't bring yourself to care. You get up one flight of stairs and you fall against the floor of the landing, your back pressed to the wall, and you know that you can't go further. You can't see, you can't think, you can't even fucking breathe.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you think and the irony is that you are the only one that can hear the words and you know that you will be the last one ever to forgive yourself for what's been done.
You ball up your fist and, before you can stop it, you're slamming it against the concrete of the wall beside you, over and over again until the pain starts to numb you. You look down at your bloody knuckles and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the look of pain that flitted across David's face when he moved away from you.
He looked so lost and scared and small, you think. You knew from the moment that he woke up and looked at you that he remembered even less about the previous night's events than you yourself did. He looked confused and unsure, as if this was some elaborate practical joke that some sadistic person thought would be funny. But then he'd moved away from you and you'd seen him wince and you'd known. For sure, without a doubt, you knew what you had done to him. And you hated yourself in that moment, so much that you wanted to die. You despise yourself even now for being the one to steal that perfect innocence from him. You know, even as you watch the bruises rising under your skin on your ruined hand, that it will always be your worst sin.
You're crying again and the fact that you are allowing yourself tears makes you angry, but you can't seem to make them stop. You've moved way past sobbing to the jagged hysterical wailing that isn't sad so much as it's pathetic. You don't deserve sorrow. You're a terrible person and you shouldn't be able to comfort yourself, even with your tears. You bury your head against you knees and think that, out of all of this, the worst part is that, today, you lost your best friend.
-=-=-=-=-
Cook leaves and you watch him go and think that you should probably call him back, but you can't. You know that this is all your doing and you know that he will hate you for it. You think back on the night before and wonder where it all went wrong.
You hadn't meant for it to happen, really. Everyone was going up to Michael's room after the show and you wanted to come, too. And your dad's back in Utah for two weeks so there's no one there to tell you not to go. Even Brooke, who would normally end up hanging out with you and playing cards over the loud, raucous parties of the other idols, was spending the evening in with her husband so why shouldn't you be allowed to join the others? Just because they are drinking, doesn't mean that you have to.
And Michael had gotten a blender from somewhere and offers to make you virgin pina coladas and that makes you feel better. He's actually going out of his way to do something that will make you feel a little less awkward, like maybe you *do* belong with the crowd, and you know it's silly but it makes you smile.
When you ask him, after the first drink, if he'll put a little rum in your next one, he looks a little unsure but you stand your ground, trying to look as adult as possible as you say, "C'mon Michael, please? Just a little." And he gives in just like you knew that he would.
You aren't even sure why you asked, but at the time you told yourself it was just to fit in with the group. You're tired of feeling like you're on the outside looking in and, for once, you finally feel like you fit in. You can barely taste the rum after a couple of sips and no one is really paying much attention as you add a little more to your glass. By the time that drink is gone and Michael has made you a third one, you start to admit that fitting in was maybe not your only motive.
Cook is drinking shots of some clear liquid that has little flakes of gold floating through it, he and Jason tipping back their heads to down the tiny glasses full, each pulling a face at the burn, then smiling sloppily as they sit back up. You can smell the cinnamon of the liquor on Cook's breath and why are you so close? You didn't mean to move closer, but suddenly you are right against him on the couch, the rum and his body heat making you feel warm and you close your eyes and let the comfort of it all sink in.
His arm flopping across your shoulders feels natural and you tell yourself it's just the drink you're still nursing that makes you press into the touch, your own breath warm against his neck. He looks down at you and smiles and you feel yourself floating, like you're lighter than air.
Everyone is drunk, this being the first day in a while when you have an actual free day the next day, and you tell yourself not to worry. Cook won't remember your hand on his thigh tomorrow and no one else seems to be paying attention. You know that you are a coward because you would never do this without the liquid courage that you've consumed tonight, but somehow that stops mattering to your fuzzy synapses as the alcohol runs through you and erases your inhibitions.
The only thing that you really remember after that is Michael saying that you are wasted and pulling you to your feet. He offers to carry you to your room, but you shrug him off because you're not a *baby*. You can get to your own room just fine. But, when you get out into the hall, you can't remember where your room is and then Cook is there and he takes your key and leads you down to the other end of the hall and helps you inside.
The clicking of the lock as the door shut behind the two of you is really the last clear memory you have until you opened your eyes to find yourself curled around Cook this morning.
You look back at the closed door that Cook had run out of and wonder how you can even begin to make this right.
-=-=-=-=-
You hear the door open and you hope that it's just some maintenance person moving between floors and that maybe they won't make it up this far. Even if they do, you already plan to tell them to fuck off and mind their own business. You no longer care what anyone thinks of you, because it can never be as bad as what you know you deserve.
"Cook?" you hear and you can't hold back the groan. You know without looking that it is Carly and you wonder if she's already found Archie and knows what you've done. You wonder if she just came to yell at you or if she is actually going to have someone kick your ass. Hell, maybe she'll be doing the ass kicking herself. It's not like you'd put up a fight.
She sits down next to you on the floor of the stairwell and you flinch at the touch of her hand on your arm. You still have your knees drawn up to your chin and your face buried against them so you can't see her expression, but the gentle touch of her fingers on your skin tells you that she isn't yet aware that she is keeping company with a monster.
"What is it?" she asks and at least she didn't ask if you were okay. You know damned good and well that the answer to that question is obvious.
"You should check on Archie," you respond, not allowing yourself to indulge in her concern.
"I'm checking on you," she says and you just shake your head. She must notice your hand then, because you hear her gasp and feel her fingers skim the swollen skin gently. "Cook, what did you do?" she asks and you don’t answer. You don't think that you have the strength to tell her that you did exactly what you thought you deserved. You broke yourself just as you are sure that you broke him.
As you draw further away, Carly seems to notice. "You guys were pretty drunk last night," she says. "Did something . . . happen?"
You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob and you really think that you might vomit. Carly rubs her hand up and down your arm in a soothing gesture that only serves to make you feel worse.
"I'm sure everything will be okay," she says, but she sounds really worried. You've never heard her sound like this, even after that time you collapsed after Mariah Carey week and they were whisking you off to the ER and she was standing by looking concerned and telling you that you were going to be fine even as your worst fears played across her expressive face.
"I really doubt that," you tell her honestly.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?"
You already know the answer to that, but you also know that you have to own up to what you've done. Everyone is going to find out about this and they are going to hate you; you might as well be the one to delivering the killing blow.
"I had sex with him." And five words have never torn you open so thoroughly and completely.
Carly is silent for a long moment, then says, "Did . . . where is he?"
"His room. I left him there," you admit. "He was . . . we, I mean, we . . . we were drunk and I guess . . . I don’t know," you lament sadly. "I don't remember what happened." You feel pathetic and you wish that Carly would let loose and smack you or kick you or something, anything to make you feel something besides this. In the end, all she does is sigh.
"I was afraid of that, actually."
You look up then and finally meet her eyes and you must look worse than you feel, even, because the pity already in her eyes seems to amplify tenfold when she looks at you. "Oh Davey . . ." she says as tears spring into her eyes.
"No, don't," you say forcefully. "I don't . . . I can't. I did that to him, Carly. I *hurt* him! How could I fucking do that when all I ever wanted was . . ." You couldn't finish the statement regardless, but the tears that clog your throat offer an easy escape route.
"Oh, baby, you didn't do anything wrong. It was just . . . just a mistake," she says, then quickly adds, "Not the way that you would have wanted it to happen."
You try not to think about the fact that she is basically saying that she knows that you wanted it to happen, one way or another. That's maybe more than you can handle.
"Will you make sure he's okay?" you whisper and you've never felt so wretched in your life. She wraps her arms around you as you shake with fresh sobs and holds you even when you try to struggle away. Eventually, you don't have the strength to fight and, despite your best intentions, you give in to the comfort.
-=-=-=-=-
You are still curled up on the mattress with the hotel bedspread wrapped around you like a cocoon when you hear the knock at the door. You think it must be him, coming back to ask you what you were thinking or to tell you that what happened was a mistake and can never happen again. It's not the reaction that you want, but it's the one that you expect so you won't be surprised when he says the words.
You don't really want to, but you get up and walk to the door, dragging the ugly bedspread along as you go. When you open the door, you are surprised to find not Cook, but Michael Johns standing there.
"Hey Archie, can I come in?" he asks and you want to say no but you just step aside in silent invitation. "Where's Cook?" he asks as the door swings shut and you look down, ashamed at the fresh tears that roll down your cheeks. You scurry back over to the bed and curl away from him, thinking he might get the hint and just leave, let you wallow in your own self-pity for a while longer.
Michael isn't one to turn tail in a crisis, though, and instead he sits down on the bed beside you and pats you on the back even as you jump at the touch. Michael doesn't seem to notice.
"You two . . . I get the feeling something happened last night," Michael says and his voice sounds like he's conveying a confidence. You don't know how to respond, so you say nothing.
"I'm sorry that I gave you the alcohol," he says. "I should have known that you couldn't handle it." He sounds extremely guilty and you think that here's one more reason that you are the worst person in the world. You've lost your best friend, the guy you've been secretly infatuated with for months, and now you're working on alienating the rest of the group as well.
"Hey, kiddo, you okay?" Michael asks then, as if suddenly he realizes that you are curled into a ball and crying in your bed. He reaches out to touch you again and you shrink away, but he pulls you around so that he can see your face and his expression is all concern and worry.
"Archie? What the hell?" he questions. "What happened?"
You gulp in air and wonder how to answer, thinking maybe you won’t say anything at all, but then it occurs to you that Michael might get the wrong idea about Cook and you certainly don't want that to happen. This is your fault, not Cook's and not Michael's and not anyone else's and you are willing to at least admit to that.
"I . . . I made him . . . we . . . it was all my fault," you manage and, somehow, you think that Michael might understand. You know he came here to check on the kid he allowed to get drunk the night before, but he suddenly seems like he knows that he has stumbled onto so much more.
"You mean, you and Cook . . . what? What happened?"
You can't really say it, so you wince and look away, talking into your pillow as you respond. "You know, we . . ."
"No fucking way," you hear Michael breathe. "Oh shit," he murmurs. "Fucking rum . . . okay, fuck, where's Cook?"
"I don't know," you say, your voice sounding pathetic and you can't bring yourself to care anymore. "He left."
"He left?! What the fuck, I'll kick his sorry ass," Michael says harshly and, finally, this has you looking up.
"It wasn't him," you say. "It was me, Michael. *I* caused this. He doesn't even remember. And I, I knew when I got you to put that rum in my drink . . . I wanted to be close to him," you say desolately. "I think that was the only way I could think to make it happen." The admission costs you a lot, but you realize that you are long past worrying with your own pride or dignity. None of that even seems to matter anymore.
"Archie . . ." Michael says softly and you hate the pity in his voice, but also know that it belongs. You are pathetic. Maybe you always have been.
"I'm such an idiot," you moan as you turn your face back into the pillow and, this time, when Michael rubs your back you don’t even bother to flinch. You are craving the comfort so much that you almost lean into it.
"You guys . . ." Michael says with a sigh. "I swear to God, you and Cook are the two biggest morons on the planet," he finishes and you wonder how that passes for comfort. Still, the words hold a certain amount of affection and that just makes them all the more confusing. "This was bound to happen eventually," Michael says.
You look up again and Michael must see your confusion. He says, "He's got it bad for you, kid. He has for a long time."
"No," you shake your head. "You're wrong. Last night was just a mistake. He never would have if I hadn't . . ."
"No, he never would have because he is an idiot and he doesn't see that you feel the same way," Michael says. "You are both too blinded by your own feelings to see what is right in front of you." He sighs and shakes his head. "He's probably a fucking mess right now, too, huh?"
You don't know what to say to all of this. Of course Michael can't be right. Cook doesn't feel that way about you. He was just drunk and you put yourself in front of him and of course he took the bait. The rest was just Michael trying to make you feel better.
"Look, Archie, go get a shower, okay? Cook will come around."
You feel the tears welling up again but struggle to hold them inside as you nod against your pillow. Michael runs his hand across the back of your head and you think you must imagine him kissing your scalp. Then, you feel his weight leave the bed and, a moment later, hear the sound of the door opening and closing. And, once again, you are all alone.
You eventually do as Michael suggested and get in the shower, but the water running over you only makes it easier to let yourself cry. You hug your arms against your body and lean against the tile, wishing that you could take back the last twelve hours, like they never happened. Because, as much as being with Cook is all that you've ever wanted, not remembering those touches is almost more than you can stand.
Standing there, you completely give in to your self-pity. You cry for the friend you've lost and the love you never had. You cry for the shame that you feel and wonder how anything can ever be the same again, all the while knowing that it never will be. You cry until the water runs cold, thinking about your first kiss and how you'll never know what it felt like.
-=-=-=-=-
You eventually manage to calm yourself down, letting Carly help you up and walk you back to the floor where all of your hotel rooms are. She keeps her arm around you as the two of you walk, as if you are so fragile that she's afraid you might fall apart before her eyes and you can't help but think, didn't you already do that? But you let her do it anyway, because, as much as you don't feel like you deserve it, the comfort is something that you crave so very much.
The two of you are walking past Archie's room and your heart literally aches. You wonder what he's doing? Is he upset, hurt, angry? You have to fight the urge not to run over and knock, wanting to take away his pain more than anything in the world. Then you remember that you are the cause of that pain and you sag against Carly in defeat.
Carly is almost to your room and you wonder if she has a key because you forgot to mention that you didn't, but before you can ask any of this, Michael's door opens a few rooms down and he says, "Cook, there you are!"
You freeze, realizing that even Michael is going to hate you for taking advantage of a fucking teenager and, God, you are going to hell. You clench your bloodied hand, sucking air through your teeth at the pain and letting it wash over you as you steel yourself for this confrontation.
Michael walks over and looks down at you, shaking his head. "Dumbass," he says and you think you must be misinterpreting his anger for affection. Surely he is getting ready to take a swing at you. You wouldn't even blame him one bit.
But, Michael only shakes his head at Carly and sighs, coming around you to pull out your lost keycard and opening your hotel room door. He helps Carly walk you inside and you sink onto the neatly made bed and wish that they would both just leave so that you could sleep forever.
"I saw Archie," Michael says and you actually cringe at his name, your feelings of self-loathing suddenly renewed. "He's pretty fucked up, Dave."
You shake your head and, despite yourself, find that you take the defensive. "I never meant for this to happen. I never wanted this . . ."
"Hey, hey . . ." Michael says as he sits next to you on the bed. "I know, man, I know. But look, Davey, that kid . . . do you even realize how much he loves you?"
You look up at Michael in astonishment and shake your head again. "No, no, he . . . Archie is . . . It's not like that, Mike. I . . . we . . . Archie doesn't feel that way." You are sure that the words are true, no matter what Michael says.
"You fucking idiot," Michael says and the words don't hold the venom that they should. "He worships you. He looks at you like there's nothing you can't do. And, if you weren't so busy pining for him in the corner, you might actually see that."
You look up sharply, saying, "Johns, you don't know-"
"He's right, Dave," Carly pipes up. "I know that what went on last night . . . well, it certainly wasn't ideal, by any means. And you two have a lot to work out. But Archie, he loves you, Davey. And you love him. You guys can figure this out." She steps forward and touches your arm and you find yourself looking down at her fingers, wondering how you can feel them if you're dreaming and you must be, right? Because you trust them both and yet the words that they are saying to you can't be true. You shake your head to clear it and Michael grabs your other arm and pulls you up.
"Stop dicking around," he says. "The kid . . . he needs you. Go to him already." He stares in your eyes and adds, "Make this right." And you feel yourself nod, knowing that he's right. If there is one shred of truth to the things that your friends are saying, then you at least have to try.
It's the last tangible thought you have before you see him open the door to his hotel room.
-=-=-=-=-
Fresh from the shower, you open the door and there he is in front of you. And he doesn't look like he's angry or waiting for an explanation. He looks timid, like he's waiting on you to say that it's okay for him to be there. You step back to let him in, taking in his swollen eyes and forlorn expression and wondering what to say even as you wonder what he will say to you.
He walks over to sit on the sofa by the window and he can't seem to meet your eyes. He's looking at the floor and you wonder if that's because he's embarrassed about what happened, or if he is ashamed and can't even bear to look at you. You're not sure which would be worse, actually.
You start to speak, to try and make some sense out of all of this, but then you notice his hand. He's cradling it against him gingerly and it's awkward enough to catch your attention. The knuckles are purple and several cuts are still oozing blood onto the cuff of his shirt.
"Cook! Oh my gosh, your hand!" you say as you rush forward, suddenly forgetting to be awkward as you turn your sole focus on him, concerned that he's hurt. You sit beside him on the sofa and ask, "What happened? Are you okay?" as you lean in to get a closer look at the obvious damage.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he says, brushing off your concern and you are not having that.
"Cook, it looks broken," you say and your fingers graze his wrist and he hisses, but it doesn't sound so much like pain as . . . something else.
"I'm sorry," you say, and he looks up at you at last. You actually gasp when you see the tears brimming in his eyes.
"I'm the one who should be sorry," he says and the pain radiating from him is almost overwhelming.
"David, no . . . it was me," you say, but he is already shaking his head.
"I shouldn't have let you . . . I don’t really know what happened, but I should have stopped it. I'm so sorry, Archie." He's crying freely now and you moved your fingers from his injured hand to his tear-stained cheek, completely entranced by the emotion pouring off of him. "Please . . . don’t hate me," he begs and the words blur your own eyes with tears because, really, how is that even possible? You couldn't hate him even if you wanted to.
"I love you," you say and you didn't plan it and you kind of want to reel the words back in, at least until you see his face soften and feel him pull you forward and against him and then you wonder what took you so long.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," he says against your shoulder and you feel his tears soaking your shirt and you hug him so tight you wonder how he can keep breathing but you know that you can't make yourself let go, not even a little.
You hold each other until you are both breathing normally, staying pressed together until you both feel like you are able to exist without the other against your skin. And, even when you each pull back, you only go far enough to look at one another. And his next words make your heart stop.
-=-=-=-=-
"Archie . . . David," you say as you look at the boy before you and you can't believe how much you love him and you can't believe that he loves you, too. You suck in a shaky breath as you continue. "I'm sorry about everything, about last night and about all the times before that I thought about telling you how I felt, but then didn't because I never thought that you would feel the same way."
You sigh deeply and look into his eyes and, God help you, you see the love that Michael and Carly were telling you about reflected in those hazel depths and it makes your dizzy and giddy and you almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. He loves you, and suddenly you feel like things might turn out okay after all.
"I love you," you say sincerely. "I love you more than I can say, more than I probably should, and I don't know how to stop and I don't even think I *can* stop anymore and, no matter what happens after today, I'm always going to love you. I want you to know that."
He stares at you for a moment and you feel the fear grip you as you wonder if you've gone too far, too fast and maybe he wasn't ready for this. But then, a beautiful smile blooms on his face and he laughs, loud and happy and perfect, and you can't help but join in. You end up smiling, mocking the tears that still stain each of your cheeks.
"I love you, too," he whispers and you pull him forward and press your lips to his forehead tightly.
When you pull back, you feel his breathing change and yours quickly follows suit. You know what comes next, but you need to clear the air first, to know exactly where the two of you stand on the last half a day's events.
"Archie, last night . . ."
"I know, I'm sorry. I shouldn't-" he starts but you place a finger on his lips to stop him.
"No, don't be sorry, I was-"
"No," David shakes his head, and you have never seen him look more forceful and you have no choice but to stop and listen. "We have to stop," he says. "I don't blame you and you don’t blame me so let's just . . . I mean, we can't keep doing this, Cook."
You nod, knowing that he's right and you finally concede. "Okay, fine. I won't say that I'm not sorry for how it turned out for you, though. I mean, your first time and . . ." You have to stop because just the thought of that hurts you and you can see in his eyes that he feels the same.
He touches your cheek and makes you keep looking at him as he assures you, "I don't blame you."
The wave of relief that washes over you would have knocked you over, had you not already been too weak in the knees to stand. "I want to make this up to you," you say and you know that implies a lot, but you think that, eventually you'll both get there together.
He smiles up at you and asks, "How about we start with a kiss?" You nod, returning the smile and standing as you reach a hand down to him, pulling him up from the couch and walking you both over to the unmade bed. You know that the kiss will be all that will be replayed this afternoon and that's perfectly fine.
You sit down on the bed and draw him down next to you, running your hands through his hair as you look at his sweet face and wonder how you got so lucky. Even after everything that's happened, he still loves you. It's probably the closest thing to a miracle that you will ever know.
You lean closer to him and ask, "Are you ready?"
He nods, breathing out, "Yes . . . yes, please," as he trains his eyes on your lips.
You lower your head, bringing your lips to his slowly and carefully. When your mouths finally meet, you are both surprised and elated with how new and perfect it all feels. It's not like a replay of an event that you are forced to relive. It's the real thing, the first real touch and you want it to be special. You kiss him gently, moving your lips against his and savoring the feel of him as the kiss slowly becomes more intimate. Your tongue parts his lips and delicately strokes over his, every movement feeling like another declaration.
The kiss lasts long enough to have you both a little breathless and you pull him towards you afterwards, needing to feel him close and reassure yourself that this is really happening, that's it's not all some cruel dream that you are going to wake up from.
You lay down on the bed, keeping him in your arms as you both close your eyes, your hands still tracing random patterns along each other's backs as sleep finally sneaks in to capture you both.
Later, still half asleep, you hear the door creak open and whispers fill the room.
"Aw, they're sleeping." That's Carly.
"Looks like they figured it out," comes Michael's response.
"Good for them," Carly says. "I think they'll be okay now."
The door eases closed and you smile in your half-conscious state and think that, yes, you're finally going to be okay.
-=-=-=-=-
The End
June 28, 2008
Author: courts
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Yeah, they write down their sexcapades in Word docs and email them to me. Um, no, not real.
Summary: David Cook and David Archuleta wake up to a very unexpected morning after.
Notes: This was supposed to be an answer to the request on cookleta for a drunken first time and the angsty morning after for our boys. I'm just not sure the requestor had this much angst in mind. Sorry, it kind of got away from me. Also, the perspective of this story goes back and forth from Cook to Archie so I hope that's not too confusing. Each section flips back to the other person. I started to write two stories, one from each POV, but it kind of felt like it needed to be woven together to really come across the way that I wanted.
Thanks: As always to mrs_viola_swamp, beta extraordinaire! You rock hardcore, as ever. Gifts you with Michael Vartan, tied with a bow. Also, thank you to vna04 for some awesome pointers on this story. Thanks bb!
-=-=-=-=-
As soon as you open your eyes, you know that something isn't right.
You don't recognize the room that you're in, but that's nothing new. You're halfway into the Idol summer tour and you've long since grown used to waking up in strange places.
You do recognize the naked seventeen-year-old plastered against you in his sleep, and that is definitely something new. You're naked, too, you realize and this just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?
Trying to remember how you got to this place, you think back on the night before. You definitely remember everyone going to Michael's room to hang out after the show. And you definitely remember there being a lot of liquor bottles on the small round table in the corner of the room. You recall Michael mixing drinks for everyone and everyone seemingly having a great time.
David Archuleta, you recall, was drinking a virgin pina colada that Michael had made for him, complete with whipped cream and a cherry. Something in your brain stirs and you remember thinking at one point that Archie seemed a little tipsy, as well, and that wasn't possible. Coconut and pineapple juice can't make you drunk. It must have been the shots of Goldschlager you were doing with Castro making you see things that weren't there.
Later, much later, you remember sitting on the couch in Michael's room, thinking that maybe you'd had enough to drink but also knowing that if you stopped drinking then you would probably pass out and you weren't ready to pass out just yet. You were having fun, laughing at something that Carly said that you couldn't even remember five minutes later. You remember specifically trying not to let yourself think about the boy tucked in under your arm on the couch, the warm breath at your neck or the small hand inching up your thigh. And, by the time that you do let yourself think about it, it's the next morning and he's rubbing against you as he wakes up and you know that it's already too late to look away.
-=-=-=-=-
As soon as you open your eyes, you know that something has changed.
You kind of recognize your surroundings, but you know that is just because all hotel rooms are starting to look the same to you.
You definitely recognize the man that you are lying on top of and that's certainly . . . unexpected. You look down at him and he's watching you and he looks completely terrified and why is he here?
And then you shift against him and, whoa, you're naked! You look down and, whoa, he's naked, too! You may have been accused in the past of being a little naive, but even you can read these glaring neon signs.
You sit up suddenly, grabbing a pillow to press against yourself for modesty and, man, you've never actually seen someone's face demonstrate the word crestfallen so completely.
You don't have to ask him anything because he seems to already know everything that you are thinking. "I don't remember," he says and maybe it was meant to make you feel better, but it breaks your heart a little and you gulp in air to force back a shudder of sadness.
"I'm sorry," are his next words, and those just make it worse.
When he reaches out to touch you, you pull your hand back so sharply that you almost lose your balance and, jeez, maybe talking Michael into adding a little rum to your frozen drink was a bad idea after all. You feel sluggish and confused and achy and-
Achy. And not because you drank too much or you slept weird or whatever. Not achy like that. Achy like *that*. Oh.
He must see the change in your face because he bites his lower lip and looks . . . devastated is the only word that you can come up with, but even that seems a little tame. He's the word nerd, maybe he could think of something better and what a weird thing to think, you say to yourself.
"We, um . . ." you start.
He nods and says, "Yeah, I think maybe we did."
You feel like you might pass out and you must look like it, too, because he sits up and leans towards you, not quite touching you but staying just on this side of your personal space. You can see the worry etched across his features and you notice his hand twitch, as if he's struggling with himself not to reach out to you. All at once, you wish that he would and pray that he doesn't.
"Archie . . ." he asked tentatively. "Are you, um . . . are you okay?"
What are you supposed to say to that? Are you physically traumatized to the point of actually needing help? No, of course not. Are you going completely insane thinking about everything that you can't quite remember and all of the things that you are afraid he's trying to forget? Well, yeah, maybe a little. Are you prepared to voice one word of this to David Cook? Absolutely, 100 percent, without a doubt, no.
"I'm fine," you say and it's the biggest lie you've ever told.
"I . . ." he starts again and you wonder why he keeps talking. It's like he can't shut up and then you think that if he did shut up you'd probably wonder why he wasn't saying anything and what in the heck is *wrong* with you, anyway? He's shaking his head and saying, "I really just don't know what to say, Archie." You can already hear the apology in his voice and you grit your teeth as you prepare for the onslaught. "I'm so sorry, I never meant for anything like this to happen."
The words slap you with an almost physical force and you feel like all the air in your lungs has been sucked out. But then, what were you expecting him to say?
"Please say something," he finally says and you wish Michael were here with his sweet, fruity drinks that made the world seem so much simpler. But then, you realize that the simplicity was all a mirage and this is what was really there all along and you vow in your little Mormon heart never to drink again.
With a deep breath, you force your eyes to meet his as you say, "I don't remember either." You're not sure if it's relief or regret that flits across his features at those words, and you're really not sure which you would prefer. You hold your breath and wait for him to say something else.
"Was it, um . . . I mean, for you, was it . . . your first time?" The words cost him a lot; you can see that from his face. Still, you don't try to hide the hurt in your eyes as you nod your response. You don't even realize that you're crying until the first tear hits the bare skin of your arm and then your face crumbles and you're shaking. You cry so hard that you can't breathe and you can't see and the only sound you can hear is the hitching sobs that escape from your mouth.
He must have a bit more coordination than you feel at the moment, because he's there in an instant, pulling you against him and petting your hair and crooning to you softly with words that you can't quite make out. You allow him to hold you for a few moments, then reality sets in and you push him away, scurrying back across the bed and huddling against the headboard as you draw your knees to your chest and bury your face against them.
"Just don't touch me," you tell him and your brain is screaming at you that you are being unfair. This was your fault. You aren't some innocent in this situation and you have no right to do this to him. But still, you can't make yourself do anything else.
"I'm sorry, Archie . . . I'm so sorry," he croaks and the pain in his voice is evident even if you can't make out the tears coursing down his cheeks. "Please don't hate me." Those last words are whispered and you barely hear them, wondering if you were even meant to. Then he gets up and throws on his clothes in haste and leaves you alone in the bed and you can only watch him go, wondering as he goes if anything in the world will ever be the same.
-=-=-=-=-
You're running and you have no idea where you're headed, but you know that you have to get away as fast as possible. Your room key is nowhere to be found and, after last night, could be gone for good for all you know, so the option of crawling into your bathtub and hiding is quickly discarded. You think about the roof, because that's where people go in the movies or on television when they want to get away, and you find the door to the stairs and yank it open.
One flight. That's how far you get and you know it's fucking pathetic, but you can't bring yourself to care. You get up one flight of stairs and you fall against the floor of the landing, your back pressed to the wall, and you know that you can't go further. You can't see, you can't think, you can't even fucking breathe.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you think and the irony is that you are the only one that can hear the words and you know that you will be the last one ever to forgive yourself for what's been done.
You ball up your fist and, before you can stop it, you're slamming it against the concrete of the wall beside you, over and over again until the pain starts to numb you. You look down at your bloody knuckles and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the look of pain that flitted across David's face when he moved away from you.
He looked so lost and scared and small, you think. You knew from the moment that he woke up and looked at you that he remembered even less about the previous night's events than you yourself did. He looked confused and unsure, as if this was some elaborate practical joke that some sadistic person thought would be funny. But then he'd moved away from you and you'd seen him wince and you'd known. For sure, without a doubt, you knew what you had done to him. And you hated yourself in that moment, so much that you wanted to die. You despise yourself even now for being the one to steal that perfect innocence from him. You know, even as you watch the bruises rising under your skin on your ruined hand, that it will always be your worst sin.
You're crying again and the fact that you are allowing yourself tears makes you angry, but you can't seem to make them stop. You've moved way past sobbing to the jagged hysterical wailing that isn't sad so much as it's pathetic. You don't deserve sorrow. You're a terrible person and you shouldn't be able to comfort yourself, even with your tears. You bury your head against you knees and think that, out of all of this, the worst part is that, today, you lost your best friend.
-=-=-=-=-
Cook leaves and you watch him go and think that you should probably call him back, but you can't. You know that this is all your doing and you know that he will hate you for it. You think back on the night before and wonder where it all went wrong.
You hadn't meant for it to happen, really. Everyone was going up to Michael's room after the show and you wanted to come, too. And your dad's back in Utah for two weeks so there's no one there to tell you not to go. Even Brooke, who would normally end up hanging out with you and playing cards over the loud, raucous parties of the other idols, was spending the evening in with her husband so why shouldn't you be allowed to join the others? Just because they are drinking, doesn't mean that you have to.
And Michael had gotten a blender from somewhere and offers to make you virgin pina coladas and that makes you feel better. He's actually going out of his way to do something that will make you feel a little less awkward, like maybe you *do* belong with the crowd, and you know it's silly but it makes you smile.
When you ask him, after the first drink, if he'll put a little rum in your next one, he looks a little unsure but you stand your ground, trying to look as adult as possible as you say, "C'mon Michael, please? Just a little." And he gives in just like you knew that he would.
You aren't even sure why you asked, but at the time you told yourself it was just to fit in with the group. You're tired of feeling like you're on the outside looking in and, for once, you finally feel like you fit in. You can barely taste the rum after a couple of sips and no one is really paying much attention as you add a little more to your glass. By the time that drink is gone and Michael has made you a third one, you start to admit that fitting in was maybe not your only motive.
Cook is drinking shots of some clear liquid that has little flakes of gold floating through it, he and Jason tipping back their heads to down the tiny glasses full, each pulling a face at the burn, then smiling sloppily as they sit back up. You can smell the cinnamon of the liquor on Cook's breath and why are you so close? You didn't mean to move closer, but suddenly you are right against him on the couch, the rum and his body heat making you feel warm and you close your eyes and let the comfort of it all sink in.
His arm flopping across your shoulders feels natural and you tell yourself it's just the drink you're still nursing that makes you press into the touch, your own breath warm against his neck. He looks down at you and smiles and you feel yourself floating, like you're lighter than air.
Everyone is drunk, this being the first day in a while when you have an actual free day the next day, and you tell yourself not to worry. Cook won't remember your hand on his thigh tomorrow and no one else seems to be paying attention. You know that you are a coward because you would never do this without the liquid courage that you've consumed tonight, but somehow that stops mattering to your fuzzy synapses as the alcohol runs through you and erases your inhibitions.
The only thing that you really remember after that is Michael saying that you are wasted and pulling you to your feet. He offers to carry you to your room, but you shrug him off because you're not a *baby*. You can get to your own room just fine. But, when you get out into the hall, you can't remember where your room is and then Cook is there and he takes your key and leads you down to the other end of the hall and helps you inside.
The clicking of the lock as the door shut behind the two of you is really the last clear memory you have until you opened your eyes to find yourself curled around Cook this morning.
You look back at the closed door that Cook had run out of and wonder how you can even begin to make this right.
-=-=-=-=-
You hear the door open and you hope that it's just some maintenance person moving between floors and that maybe they won't make it up this far. Even if they do, you already plan to tell them to fuck off and mind their own business. You no longer care what anyone thinks of you, because it can never be as bad as what you know you deserve.
"Cook?" you hear and you can't hold back the groan. You know without looking that it is Carly and you wonder if she's already found Archie and knows what you've done. You wonder if she just came to yell at you or if she is actually going to have someone kick your ass. Hell, maybe she'll be doing the ass kicking herself. It's not like you'd put up a fight.
She sits down next to you on the floor of the stairwell and you flinch at the touch of her hand on your arm. You still have your knees drawn up to your chin and your face buried against them so you can't see her expression, but the gentle touch of her fingers on your skin tells you that she isn't yet aware that she is keeping company with a monster.
"What is it?" she asks and at least she didn't ask if you were okay. You know damned good and well that the answer to that question is obvious.
"You should check on Archie," you respond, not allowing yourself to indulge in her concern.
"I'm checking on you," she says and you just shake your head. She must notice your hand then, because you hear her gasp and feel her fingers skim the swollen skin gently. "Cook, what did you do?" she asks and you don’t answer. You don't think that you have the strength to tell her that you did exactly what you thought you deserved. You broke yourself just as you are sure that you broke him.
As you draw further away, Carly seems to notice. "You guys were pretty drunk last night," she says. "Did something . . . happen?"
You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob and you really think that you might vomit. Carly rubs her hand up and down your arm in a soothing gesture that only serves to make you feel worse.
"I'm sure everything will be okay," she says, but she sounds really worried. You've never heard her sound like this, even after that time you collapsed after Mariah Carey week and they were whisking you off to the ER and she was standing by looking concerned and telling you that you were going to be fine even as your worst fears played across her expressive face.
"I really doubt that," you tell her honestly.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?"
You already know the answer to that, but you also know that you have to own up to what you've done. Everyone is going to find out about this and they are going to hate you; you might as well be the one to delivering the killing blow.
"I had sex with him." And five words have never torn you open so thoroughly and completely.
Carly is silent for a long moment, then says, "Did . . . where is he?"
"His room. I left him there," you admit. "He was . . . we, I mean, we . . . we were drunk and I guess . . . I don’t know," you lament sadly. "I don't remember what happened." You feel pathetic and you wish that Carly would let loose and smack you or kick you or something, anything to make you feel something besides this. In the end, all she does is sigh.
"I was afraid of that, actually."
You look up then and finally meet her eyes and you must look worse than you feel, even, because the pity already in her eyes seems to amplify tenfold when she looks at you. "Oh Davey . . ." she says as tears spring into her eyes.
"No, don't," you say forcefully. "I don't . . . I can't. I did that to him, Carly. I *hurt* him! How could I fucking do that when all I ever wanted was . . ." You couldn't finish the statement regardless, but the tears that clog your throat offer an easy escape route.
"Oh, baby, you didn't do anything wrong. It was just . . . just a mistake," she says, then quickly adds, "Not the way that you would have wanted it to happen."
You try not to think about the fact that she is basically saying that she knows that you wanted it to happen, one way or another. That's maybe more than you can handle.
"Will you make sure he's okay?" you whisper and you've never felt so wretched in your life. She wraps her arms around you as you shake with fresh sobs and holds you even when you try to struggle away. Eventually, you don't have the strength to fight and, despite your best intentions, you give in to the comfort.
-=-=-=-=-
You are still curled up on the mattress with the hotel bedspread wrapped around you like a cocoon when you hear the knock at the door. You think it must be him, coming back to ask you what you were thinking or to tell you that what happened was a mistake and can never happen again. It's not the reaction that you want, but it's the one that you expect so you won't be surprised when he says the words.
You don't really want to, but you get up and walk to the door, dragging the ugly bedspread along as you go. When you open the door, you are surprised to find not Cook, but Michael Johns standing there.
"Hey Archie, can I come in?" he asks and you want to say no but you just step aside in silent invitation. "Where's Cook?" he asks as the door swings shut and you look down, ashamed at the fresh tears that roll down your cheeks. You scurry back over to the bed and curl away from him, thinking he might get the hint and just leave, let you wallow in your own self-pity for a while longer.
Michael isn't one to turn tail in a crisis, though, and instead he sits down on the bed beside you and pats you on the back even as you jump at the touch. Michael doesn't seem to notice.
"You two . . . I get the feeling something happened last night," Michael says and his voice sounds like he's conveying a confidence. You don't know how to respond, so you say nothing.
"I'm sorry that I gave you the alcohol," he says. "I should have known that you couldn't handle it." He sounds extremely guilty and you think that here's one more reason that you are the worst person in the world. You've lost your best friend, the guy you've been secretly infatuated with for months, and now you're working on alienating the rest of the group as well.
"Hey, kiddo, you okay?" Michael asks then, as if suddenly he realizes that you are curled into a ball and crying in your bed. He reaches out to touch you again and you shrink away, but he pulls you around so that he can see your face and his expression is all concern and worry.
"Archie? What the hell?" he questions. "What happened?"
You gulp in air and wonder how to answer, thinking maybe you won’t say anything at all, but then it occurs to you that Michael might get the wrong idea about Cook and you certainly don't want that to happen. This is your fault, not Cook's and not Michael's and not anyone else's and you are willing to at least admit to that.
"I . . . I made him . . . we . . . it was all my fault," you manage and, somehow, you think that Michael might understand. You know he came here to check on the kid he allowed to get drunk the night before, but he suddenly seems like he knows that he has stumbled onto so much more.
"You mean, you and Cook . . . what? What happened?"
You can't really say it, so you wince and look away, talking into your pillow as you respond. "You know, we . . ."
"No fucking way," you hear Michael breathe. "Oh shit," he murmurs. "Fucking rum . . . okay, fuck, where's Cook?"
"I don't know," you say, your voice sounding pathetic and you can't bring yourself to care anymore. "He left."
"He left?! What the fuck, I'll kick his sorry ass," Michael says harshly and, finally, this has you looking up.
"It wasn't him," you say. "It was me, Michael. *I* caused this. He doesn't even remember. And I, I knew when I got you to put that rum in my drink . . . I wanted to be close to him," you say desolately. "I think that was the only way I could think to make it happen." The admission costs you a lot, but you realize that you are long past worrying with your own pride or dignity. None of that even seems to matter anymore.
"Archie . . ." Michael says softly and you hate the pity in his voice, but also know that it belongs. You are pathetic. Maybe you always have been.
"I'm such an idiot," you moan as you turn your face back into the pillow and, this time, when Michael rubs your back you don’t even bother to flinch. You are craving the comfort so much that you almost lean into it.
"You guys . . ." Michael says with a sigh. "I swear to God, you and Cook are the two biggest morons on the planet," he finishes and you wonder how that passes for comfort. Still, the words hold a certain amount of affection and that just makes them all the more confusing. "This was bound to happen eventually," Michael says.
You look up again and Michael must see your confusion. He says, "He's got it bad for you, kid. He has for a long time."
"No," you shake your head. "You're wrong. Last night was just a mistake. He never would have if I hadn't . . ."
"No, he never would have because he is an idiot and he doesn't see that you feel the same way," Michael says. "You are both too blinded by your own feelings to see what is right in front of you." He sighs and shakes his head. "He's probably a fucking mess right now, too, huh?"
You don't know what to say to all of this. Of course Michael can't be right. Cook doesn't feel that way about you. He was just drunk and you put yourself in front of him and of course he took the bait. The rest was just Michael trying to make you feel better.
"Look, Archie, go get a shower, okay? Cook will come around."
You feel the tears welling up again but struggle to hold them inside as you nod against your pillow. Michael runs his hand across the back of your head and you think you must imagine him kissing your scalp. Then, you feel his weight leave the bed and, a moment later, hear the sound of the door opening and closing. And, once again, you are all alone.
You eventually do as Michael suggested and get in the shower, but the water running over you only makes it easier to let yourself cry. You hug your arms against your body and lean against the tile, wishing that you could take back the last twelve hours, like they never happened. Because, as much as being with Cook is all that you've ever wanted, not remembering those touches is almost more than you can stand.
Standing there, you completely give in to your self-pity. You cry for the friend you've lost and the love you never had. You cry for the shame that you feel and wonder how anything can ever be the same again, all the while knowing that it never will be. You cry until the water runs cold, thinking about your first kiss and how you'll never know what it felt like.
-=-=-=-=-
You eventually manage to calm yourself down, letting Carly help you up and walk you back to the floor where all of your hotel rooms are. She keeps her arm around you as the two of you walk, as if you are so fragile that she's afraid you might fall apart before her eyes and you can't help but think, didn't you already do that? But you let her do it anyway, because, as much as you don't feel like you deserve it, the comfort is something that you crave so very much.
The two of you are walking past Archie's room and your heart literally aches. You wonder what he's doing? Is he upset, hurt, angry? You have to fight the urge not to run over and knock, wanting to take away his pain more than anything in the world. Then you remember that you are the cause of that pain and you sag against Carly in defeat.
Carly is almost to your room and you wonder if she has a key because you forgot to mention that you didn't, but before you can ask any of this, Michael's door opens a few rooms down and he says, "Cook, there you are!"
You freeze, realizing that even Michael is going to hate you for taking advantage of a fucking teenager and, God, you are going to hell. You clench your bloodied hand, sucking air through your teeth at the pain and letting it wash over you as you steel yourself for this confrontation.
Michael walks over and looks down at you, shaking his head. "Dumbass," he says and you think you must be misinterpreting his anger for affection. Surely he is getting ready to take a swing at you. You wouldn't even blame him one bit.
But, Michael only shakes his head at Carly and sighs, coming around you to pull out your lost keycard and opening your hotel room door. He helps Carly walk you inside and you sink onto the neatly made bed and wish that they would both just leave so that you could sleep forever.
"I saw Archie," Michael says and you actually cringe at his name, your feelings of self-loathing suddenly renewed. "He's pretty fucked up, Dave."
You shake your head and, despite yourself, find that you take the defensive. "I never meant for this to happen. I never wanted this . . ."
"Hey, hey . . ." Michael says as he sits next to you on the bed. "I know, man, I know. But look, Davey, that kid . . . do you even realize how much he loves you?"
You look up at Michael in astonishment and shake your head again. "No, no, he . . . Archie is . . . It's not like that, Mike. I . . . we . . . Archie doesn't feel that way." You are sure that the words are true, no matter what Michael says.
"You fucking idiot," Michael says and the words don't hold the venom that they should. "He worships you. He looks at you like there's nothing you can't do. And, if you weren't so busy pining for him in the corner, you might actually see that."
You look up sharply, saying, "Johns, you don't know-"
"He's right, Dave," Carly pipes up. "I know that what went on last night . . . well, it certainly wasn't ideal, by any means. And you two have a lot to work out. But Archie, he loves you, Davey. And you love him. You guys can figure this out." She steps forward and touches your arm and you find yourself looking down at her fingers, wondering how you can feel them if you're dreaming and you must be, right? Because you trust them both and yet the words that they are saying to you can't be true. You shake your head to clear it and Michael grabs your other arm and pulls you up.
"Stop dicking around," he says. "The kid . . . he needs you. Go to him already." He stares in your eyes and adds, "Make this right." And you feel yourself nod, knowing that he's right. If there is one shred of truth to the things that your friends are saying, then you at least have to try.
It's the last tangible thought you have before you see him open the door to his hotel room.
-=-=-=-=-
Fresh from the shower, you open the door and there he is in front of you. And he doesn't look like he's angry or waiting for an explanation. He looks timid, like he's waiting on you to say that it's okay for him to be there. You step back to let him in, taking in his swollen eyes and forlorn expression and wondering what to say even as you wonder what he will say to you.
He walks over to sit on the sofa by the window and he can't seem to meet your eyes. He's looking at the floor and you wonder if that's because he's embarrassed about what happened, or if he is ashamed and can't even bear to look at you. You're not sure which would be worse, actually.
You start to speak, to try and make some sense out of all of this, but then you notice his hand. He's cradling it against him gingerly and it's awkward enough to catch your attention. The knuckles are purple and several cuts are still oozing blood onto the cuff of his shirt.
"Cook! Oh my gosh, your hand!" you say as you rush forward, suddenly forgetting to be awkward as you turn your sole focus on him, concerned that he's hurt. You sit beside him on the sofa and ask, "What happened? Are you okay?" as you lean in to get a closer look at the obvious damage.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he says, brushing off your concern and you are not having that.
"Cook, it looks broken," you say and your fingers graze his wrist and he hisses, but it doesn't sound so much like pain as . . . something else.
"I'm sorry," you say, and he looks up at you at last. You actually gasp when you see the tears brimming in his eyes.
"I'm the one who should be sorry," he says and the pain radiating from him is almost overwhelming.
"David, no . . . it was me," you say, but he is already shaking his head.
"I shouldn't have let you . . . I don’t really know what happened, but I should have stopped it. I'm so sorry, Archie." He's crying freely now and you moved your fingers from his injured hand to his tear-stained cheek, completely entranced by the emotion pouring off of him. "Please . . . don’t hate me," he begs and the words blur your own eyes with tears because, really, how is that even possible? You couldn't hate him even if you wanted to.
"I love you," you say and you didn't plan it and you kind of want to reel the words back in, at least until you see his face soften and feel him pull you forward and against him and then you wonder what took you so long.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," he says against your shoulder and you feel his tears soaking your shirt and you hug him so tight you wonder how he can keep breathing but you know that you can't make yourself let go, not even a little.
You hold each other until you are both breathing normally, staying pressed together until you both feel like you are able to exist without the other against your skin. And, even when you each pull back, you only go far enough to look at one another. And his next words make your heart stop.
-=-=-=-=-
"Archie . . . David," you say as you look at the boy before you and you can't believe how much you love him and you can't believe that he loves you, too. You suck in a shaky breath as you continue. "I'm sorry about everything, about last night and about all the times before that I thought about telling you how I felt, but then didn't because I never thought that you would feel the same way."
You sigh deeply and look into his eyes and, God help you, you see the love that Michael and Carly were telling you about reflected in those hazel depths and it makes your dizzy and giddy and you almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. He loves you, and suddenly you feel like things might turn out okay after all.
"I love you," you say sincerely. "I love you more than I can say, more than I probably should, and I don't know how to stop and I don't even think I *can* stop anymore and, no matter what happens after today, I'm always going to love you. I want you to know that."
He stares at you for a moment and you feel the fear grip you as you wonder if you've gone too far, too fast and maybe he wasn't ready for this. But then, a beautiful smile blooms on his face and he laughs, loud and happy and perfect, and you can't help but join in. You end up smiling, mocking the tears that still stain each of your cheeks.
"I love you, too," he whispers and you pull him forward and press your lips to his forehead tightly.
When you pull back, you feel his breathing change and yours quickly follows suit. You know what comes next, but you need to clear the air first, to know exactly where the two of you stand on the last half a day's events.
"Archie, last night . . ."
"I know, I'm sorry. I shouldn't-" he starts but you place a finger on his lips to stop him.
"No, don't be sorry, I was-"
"No," David shakes his head, and you have never seen him look more forceful and you have no choice but to stop and listen. "We have to stop," he says. "I don't blame you and you don’t blame me so let's just . . . I mean, we can't keep doing this, Cook."
You nod, knowing that he's right and you finally concede. "Okay, fine. I won't say that I'm not sorry for how it turned out for you, though. I mean, your first time and . . ." You have to stop because just the thought of that hurts you and you can see in his eyes that he feels the same.
He touches your cheek and makes you keep looking at him as he assures you, "I don't blame you."
The wave of relief that washes over you would have knocked you over, had you not already been too weak in the knees to stand. "I want to make this up to you," you say and you know that implies a lot, but you think that, eventually you'll both get there together.
He smiles up at you and asks, "How about we start with a kiss?" You nod, returning the smile and standing as you reach a hand down to him, pulling him up from the couch and walking you both over to the unmade bed. You know that the kiss will be all that will be replayed this afternoon and that's perfectly fine.
You sit down on the bed and draw him down next to you, running your hands through his hair as you look at his sweet face and wonder how you got so lucky. Even after everything that's happened, he still loves you. It's probably the closest thing to a miracle that you will ever know.
You lean closer to him and ask, "Are you ready?"
He nods, breathing out, "Yes . . . yes, please," as he trains his eyes on your lips.
You lower your head, bringing your lips to his slowly and carefully. When your mouths finally meet, you are both surprised and elated with how new and perfect it all feels. It's not like a replay of an event that you are forced to relive. It's the real thing, the first real touch and you want it to be special. You kiss him gently, moving your lips against his and savoring the feel of him as the kiss slowly becomes more intimate. Your tongue parts his lips and delicately strokes over his, every movement feeling like another declaration.
The kiss lasts long enough to have you both a little breathless and you pull him towards you afterwards, needing to feel him close and reassure yourself that this is really happening, that's it's not all some cruel dream that you are going to wake up from.
You lay down on the bed, keeping him in your arms as you both close your eyes, your hands still tracing random patterns along each other's backs as sleep finally sneaks in to capture you both.
Later, still half asleep, you hear the door creak open and whispers fill the room.
"Aw, they're sleeping." That's Carly.
"Looks like they figured it out," comes Michael's response.
"Good for them," Carly says. "I think they'll be okay now."
The door eases closed and you smile in your half-conscious state and think that, yes, you're finally going to be okay.
-=-=-=-=-
The End
June 28, 2008