Weakness and Reason [PG13]
Title: Weakness and Reason
Author: Alex Sorensen ilytheira
Summary: Two ways Michael leaves David, two ways David copes with it.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don’t own Michael, or David, or anyone else mentioned in this work of fiction, for that matter. The title comes from two lines of Chris Brown’s “Superhuman,” rearranged for convenience, which I don’t own. I also don’t own Michael Johns’ “The Hours in Between,” used in the final segment of this story.
Warnings: It should be remembered over that this, and the story before it, is completely AU. Please take note that this does somewhat get into a sort of darker angst.
Author’s Notes: After a few days of conceptualization and the week or two (possibly even three) I spent writing this, I’ve finally got it finished. Whew.
The largest inspiration for this piece (aside from cherazz22784, of course♥) would have to be the song “Superhuman” by Chris Brown and Keri Hilson. I also took some time to give Chris Brown and Jordin Sparks’ “No Air” and, of course, Michael Johns’ “The Hours in Between,” a few listens.
Weakness and Reason, it should be remembered, is part companion piece, part sequel to my FFF contest entry, Made to be Broken. It would be very, very helpful if you read that first before diving headfirst into this one. There are, ah, repercussions from certain events in that one-shot that reverberate repeatedly through this one. Weakness differs slightly from Broken in that this is written from (third person limited) David’s point of view, whereas the latter is in (second person) Michael’s.
With all of that (and whew, that was a lot) out of the way, please enjoy. :]
David plays with five variations of his answer before he settles on “There’s no fucking way you can ‘breathe with no air.’” It just comes naturally to him now, and he knows his answer to Chris and Jordin’s plea inside and out, forwards and backwards and sideways, and any other way possible.
There is just no fucking way.
He stares at the audience as his eyes follow Michael’s descent from the large stage and onto the podium behind the judges’ table. The smallest breach in his anger comes as the Australian reaches out and clasps Luke’s hand briefly, but the anger doesn’t dissolve quickly enough, or for long enough, for it to dissipate entirely.
The musician is unfamiliar with the unconditional rage boiling within him.
He’ll never be more honest in his life, he thinks bitterly, as he admits to himself that he’s never experienced an emotion so intense, so dangerous, so terrifyingly powerful, and it scares him. It scares him when he thinks about the things he could possibly do if he lets the beast within him out. He breathes deeply to himself, once then twice then three times, opening and closing his fists to tighten his grip on his anger. He rests his hands on his knees, and gives the audience a withering glare as they applaud Michael’s final performance on Idol. Hypocrites, all of them; clapping and showing their support now, but not a few days ago, when a few simple pushes on the buttons on their telephones could have saved him from elimination? Idiots, more like it, a voice in his head sneers, but that voice is for another time, another situation, and he isn’t turning to it now.
He glares at them and hopes that the dark looks he’s shooting them could kill, and then he mouths to them the one thing he hopes they will never be - not after this.
“Are you happy now?”
He lets selfishness run right through his body, lets selfishness allow him to believe that if he couldn’t be happy, then nobody else had the right to. When his world stopped, their world stopped moving, too. It amuses him in the darkest of fashions that the very reason his world has stopped is them.
He watches Michael being wrapped in Paula’s arms, then Randy’s, Simon silently standing by as though frozen, a grim expression on his face with disbelief in his eyes and his mouth in a tight line. It’s the first time David’s seen them react like this to a contestant’s departure -he fights to keep the sneer off his face-and it’s the haughtiness in him that thinks Simon deserves every bit of shock and every ounce of guilt he’s going through right now.
It’s bestial ruthlessness that hopes dreams prays Simon and Randy regret ever having said anything negative about Michael, about Michael’s performance, about Michael’s song choice, about Michael Michael Michael.
It’s near-volcanic anger that hopes dreams prays somebody will call Ryan out and call him a motherfucker if he doesn’t get the chance to -because David swears to everything and anything above and below, the first opportunity he has, he will take it-in front of as many people as possible in complete, unhindered hatred, because it’s what he fucking deserves.
Who does he think he is, David angrily thinks to himself, playing with Michael and the rest of us like that?
Then David realizes the potency of his emotions, and it makes him stop in his tracks as he descends from the sofa bearing the most ridiculous shade of blue. He is the last one standing on the sofa as he watches Michael a little while longer, and he is the first one to turn away as Michael finds Stacey and she throws her arms around him. He contemplates whether to wait for him and approach him before his final interview, or to simply tackle everything after, and decides that the latter is the better option, more for his sanity than Michael’s. He walks zombie-like, slow and detached and nonchalant, and unintentionally bumps into Carly.
He pulls away from her immediately, taking two steps back and shaking his head. He glares at her as her concerned face stares at him. No. No no no no no. Pity is the last emotion he needs to see right now. The very least he wants right now is sympathy-from anybody. She opens her mouth to say something to him, but he shakes his head and stops her. No.
No, Carly.
Of course there’s nothing you can say.
Of course there’s nothing you can do to make it better.
You’ve got to be kidding me if you think there is.
She goes ahead of him, but not with one last disappointed look and a shake of her head; David disregards all of it.
David is back with his thoughts as he begins his journey to the dressing room he shares with -he laughs darkly-Michael. He’s never noticed it before, Michael bringing out all of the extremes in him, and it doesn’t please him at all that it’s taken Michael’s untimely departure for him to realize it. Everything’s much clearer to David now, though. He opens the door and sits down in front of the mirror, staring intently at his face reflected -stubble, angry eyes, dark circles underneath and all. Michael had brought out David’s strongest side, the side capable of loving another so much that it, in turn, brought out David’s weakest side-the dark hatred stemming from loving so hard, like the one he had felt in short bursts earlier.
It pleases, excites, and worries David all at the same time as he continues to gaze at the eyes staring intently back at him. The various loose ends his emotions could create interest him, and frighten him, and there is no way of telling what could have been better -losing Michael now or losing Michael later.
David entertains himself by basking in the silence for a good fifteen minutes before the spell is broken by the opening of the door. He cranes his neck and spies the Australian walking into his room with a goofy grin on his face, and does the one logical thing that alights on him through the clouds of every other damn thing.
“Hey,” Michael begins to say as David stands and walks toward him, “Carly said I’d find you here. You ready to-“
He crosses the distance between them quickly, and then takes a hold of the taller man’s hand. He pulls down, eliciting a sound from Michael, but David ignores it and looks up so that their foreheads are almost touching. David looks Michael straight in the eye, tilts his head to the side, whispers, “Damn it, Michael Johns,” and then kisses him.
You don’t have any idea what the hell you’re doing to me, do you?
Amusement no longer presents itself as a word worth anything in David’s vocabulary. Come to think of it, neither does sunshine. It makes absolutely no sense to him how the sun possibly has enough strength to streak itself across the sky, or how the clouds can come together as easily as they shift apart. God knows David wishes he has that kind of strength, that kind of fluidity right now. He laughs darkly at himself as he turns onto his side and covers his head with his blanket. Sunshine is unnecessary and irrelevant to him now. Who in their right mind would have the time for sunshine, anyway?
He hears the door to the room open quietly but refuses to turn around. He grunts in response to Jason’s concerned hovering -did he want to come down and eat lunch? What kind of stupid, pointless question was that?-biting his lip to prevent him from roaring angrily. He bites his lip long and hard enough that by the time Jason has left the room, David has the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He basks in the silence for a few more moments, relishes in the warmth of the blanket and comforter, before he throws them off. He sits up with a groan, leans back against the headboard, and shakes his head.
Oh, yeah.
He definitely has time for chipper socializing over scrambled eggs and whatever leftovers they took home last night as if he’s really in the mood for beef broccoli and peking duck.
David looks around the room, and when his eyes see the door to the restroom somewhat ajar, it is instinct that kicks in. He waits for a few moments, waiting for the six-foot-three Australian to emerge with his hair damp and rivulets of water still running down his chest, a towel casually swung around his hips, and a pleased smile on his face; and when no such person exits the restroom, he is in such a state of denial that he is disinclined to turn away until his eyes begin to water. He blinks and forces himself to look away and tune his gaze onto something else.
By any chance that the solace he seeks cannot be provided by his guitar or the pen that writes his lyrics, it is silence who assumes the role of his comforter. It is not so today. Today, silence is his antagonist, and she is more than determined to overpower him. Her fingers are slim and long and cold, slow in their path around his throat, ready at any moment to irreversibly break him; and he can feel her icy breathing down his neck. She is obviously not taking any chances-she is not letting even an inch of him survive her grasp. He breathes in and out and begins to look around frantically as the sweat drips down the side of his face. She whispers gently to him, coaxing, like a lover would-
It is the thought of the word that slips into his mind that forces the sound out of David’s throat. It is not a threatening sound, not a growl or a snarl; it is not a frightened sound, or one of exclamation, either. It is pained, low in his throat, much like a choked sob, a-a hurricane of emotions kept at bay by sheer willpower alone-and even that is threatening to crack-and it is with this sound that silence begins her departure. One by one, her fingers remove themselves from his throat, and before he can feel her vanish, before the temperature in the room is raised, he can feel her touch ghosting over face, light and dainty as a feather.
He fixes his gaze on the wall before his eyes swivel to focus on the windows and the view through them. He recognizes the city underneath him living breathing thriving, and the first emotion he feels is a dark one. He doesn’t like it, he doesn’t want to do it, but he loathes them loathes them loathes them. It surpasses his understanding of the human behavior how their lives go on as it would on any other ordinary day, while his downright refuses to go the direction he wishes it to. David throws the definition of selfishness away; he doesn’t care about it, doesn’t care about what anyone else might think.
What, is he no longer allowed time for himself?
He lets out a bark of bitter laughter. It’s truly fascinating, all of this negativity spouting out of him. There is, indubitably, only one reason for this. Michael Michael Michael. Him and his damn elimination. If it weren’t for that, David believes none of this would have surfaced.
There is something about the way the air says the name to him that makes him whip his head to the left, to the right, before he chastises himself for foolishness. Of course there’s nobody else in the room. Of course there isn’t, and he should have known better. He knows he can do better than wind-whispered names and imaginary entities.
Who cares, though? Nobody is around to criticize him here.
He shifts positions once more so that he is on his side again, away from the door and away from Jason’s bed. He gazes forlornly at the empty bed next to his, neat and well-kept and, for the past weeks, unused, and then his eyes are drawn to the pillow beside his. He doesn’t care that it’s only been a few hours since the Australian left the Idol home; time means nothing to him-already, it feels like an eternity without hearing Michael’s laughter or seeing the playful rise of his eyebrows. The emptiness he feels inside is indescribable; saying he feels no joy would be the largest understatement of the year; and it would be clear as day to anybody who caught a glimpse of him that he is absolutely nothing without the person who, slowly but surely, discovered everything-inside, outside, good, bad, ridiculous-about him.
He draws the pillow Michael has slept on for the past month or two close to him, allowing a small smile to dance on his lips as he breathes the scent of Michael into him. The smell of cologne and aftershave, with Michael’s own take on what the scent of masculinity should be thrown in there for good measure, is one that he loves without a doubt. David holds the pillow close to him, buries his nose where the smell is the strongest, and ignores the tears running down his cheeks.
They’re not worth paying any attention to anymore.
The meaning of “true happiness” is forever lost to David.
He wants them all to go away. He wants them all to leave him alone. But most of all, he wants Michael to come back, because David knows that only the Australian can pull him out of this. He doesn’t need the counselors they’ve provided; he doesn’t need anybody or anything else. He needs time to spend with himself, and he needs time to spend with his thoughts. He wanders through the room, larger and colder and emptier than it has ever been, every few seconds or so turning to the door, or to the window where the sunlight streams through.
Sunlight? The sunlight? Yeah. Yeah, sure. Whatever.
David doesn’t know if the sudden chill he feels comes from the vague recollection of depriving himself of sunlight’s gentle caress, or if it comes from being hit with the sudden realization that it is Michael’s caress he is never going to feel again the latter makes more sense, of course.
It’s the whole simplicity of the situation that hits him the hardest. He’d always envisioned Michael’s-Michael’s exit to be something-something that was so out of the blue that it could only be Michael, but not-not like this. Not the absurdity that is all this.
He closes his eyes and memories the frightening scene that had only been two days ago slam him relentlessly. He can still feel it all over his fingers the blood warm blood Michael’s blood, can still feel and smell and see the oozing liquid. He can still feel the burning intensity with which he repeatedly cursed the damn car door the door the unlocked door the open door with.
And he can still see them the eyes dead eyes Michael’s eyes dead glazed over dead dull dead empty dead dead dead, and they haunt him every time he begins his waltz with his mistress, sleep. It is those eyes he has to thank those eyes dead eyes Michael’s eyes for the ever-darkening circles under his.
He stops pacing and ends up at the window. Looking out, he finds that the lives merrily going on underneath him is too much. His simple existence Michael’s simple nonexistence is too much. His breathing starts to quicken, he can feel the sweat already starting to run down the side of his forehead. He lets out a tormented scream from deep within his chest, banging his fists simultaneously on the windowsill and the wall. He lets out another one, this time a roar from deep within his broken soul, the cry echoed by his fragmented heart, and the tears-oh, the tears-are never-ending. He cries and cries and cries as he slides down, pounding his hands aimlessly against the solidity preventing him from throwing himself off the building. The pain in his arms builds slowly, and as soon as they become a burning pain, David drops them, leaving them limp at his side.
He breathes deeply, blinks twice, and feels the tears running down his cheeks and even more welling up in his eyes. The moment he lets the light shine through his eyes, he sees nothing but a blurred version of the reality he has come to know but will never come to accept, and because the scene that greets his vision is so painfully simple, he screams again.
David is so caught in the storm of emotions raging through him and threatening to tear him into pieces that, at first, he is oblivious to the pale arms wrapping themselves around him, turning him, and pressing him close to a shirt with the scent of lavender. “Oh, David,” a voice whispers into his hair, and immediately, he knows it is Carly but wishes it was Michael. He stops in mid-scream, his breathing heavy and his appearance disheveled, body still violently shaking in Carly’s tight grip.
The moment he tilts his head up so that he is looking at her profile, he can see that there are tears running down her face, too. In this moment, David finds it within himself to replace the anger with the realization that it is Carly who is the very angel of his salvation that he never would have had the courage to ask for. He buries his face into her shirt and lets the sobs run their course through his body. He holds on to her, the only stability, the only sanity, to come to him in his state of chaos, and it is for this that he is eternally thankful for her, to her. She holds him close to her, running a hand up and down his back and another cradling his head.
“Oh, David,” she repeats after minutes of a comfortable silence, her voice mournful, concerned, distressed. “What are you doing to yourself?”
David vaguely toys with the notion of pushing Carly away, but only for a moment; he abandons all thoughts of pushing anybody away to the wind upon realization that he can barely muster enough strength to grunt in response. The sincerest he can be to her is respond with a shake of his head, a tightening of his arms around her. There is no proper way to answer her question, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing to himself, he’s not giving a damn about what he’s doing to himself; it doesn’t really matter anyway. Not really-not anymore. It irks him that the thought even crossed Carly’s mind, of whatever is happening to him, whatever it may be, actually mattering to her when it doesn’t even matter to him.
He wills himself limp in her arms as she rocks him steadily. He presses his ears against her chest and closes his eyes, listening intently for her heartbeat. “David,” she murmurs so quietly that, against the thumping of her heart, he has trouble comprehending. “Please? Please don’t do this to yourself.”
I’ll do whatever I damn please to myself had been the first response that fluttered through his mind; pushing her away, like he is doing now, had been the second. He shoves weakly against her, but his fragility in this state is no match against her unwavering strength. She is his Berlin Wall now, keeping him from doing whatever he wants to by keeping him under her control. If he squints hard enough, he can sneak a glance of East Germany from here, a shove and a shuffle away; regardless of the consequences, he wants to get over and around the damn wall. Of course, she doesn’t budge at all.
She presses her hand against his head, running her hand through his hair; the gesture, so reminiscent of what Michael often did to him as they lay together, a spent and sweaty tangle of limbs, causes him to twitch instinctively. Nobody else had ever done that to him. He shies away now, ducking his head, beginning to distance himself from her. Even in the most minute amount of millimeters between the, though, he knows that there is no escape from her, no way he is making his way over his wall without a fight of course there’s no easy way out.
Carly repeats his name like an ancient spell, her hand in his hair moving at the same rhythm her whispers ghost over his skin. She breaks her chain with, “He wouldn’t want this, David, you know he-“
He hisses dangerously, “What do you know?” The flatness of his voice is nothing like he had ever expected. “How do you know he wouldn’t want this?”
She scoffs at him-that wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for did you really think she was going to back off? What are you, an idiot?; his eyes narrow. “How do I know? How do I know, David-what am I, an idiot?” He shakes himself from her grasp and pulls away, glaring at her as she calmly meets his gaze. “Do you really think self-destruction is what Michael wants for you?”
David finds the strength to get on his knees, to reach up and grasp the windowsill for support, to stand up and tower over Carly with the anger he thought he had already buried. “How dare you, Carly.” His voice is low, almost imperceptible. “What gives you the right-?”
“I have every right!” She stands, too, fresh tears running down her cheeks, her eyes highlighted by determination. The volume of her voice falls. “I have every right, David. I’m your friend; I only want what’s best for you, and-“
He shakes his head. “What’s best for me?” Contempt darkens his gaze. “I think, Carly, that we established, a long time ago, that Michael was the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re telling me now that you’re supposed to compare, that your comforting me right now is better than everything he was?” He sees the results of his words the moment he sees her flinch sharply, but much to his chagrin -and, grudgingly, his admiration-she plows on.
“I never said that.” The shakiness of her voice and the weakening in her stance makes him falter, but only for a moment. “I don’t want you to think that I ever said that, because I never did. I”-she takes quick breaths, swallowing often between words-“you know, I-I knew Michael, too, David.” He opens his mouth, ready to agree with her of course you knew him everybody did just not as much as I did, but she shushes him by pressing a finger to her lips. “I knew him, not as well as you did, but I knew him, and from what I knew of him, this is the last thing he wants for you.”
David finds it hard to stare Carly down with her blue eyes wide and hopeful and imploring, so he turns away. He grips the windowsill so hard his knuckles begin to turn white, and he leans, resting his forehead against the window.
“It’s what I want for myself,” he retorts. “I don’t know what it is, I don’t give a fuck what it is anymore, but it’s what I want for me.”
“Please don’t be so selfish, David,” she pleads, and he wants to snarl at her roar at her snap at her, but he doesn’t. For the sake of their friendship Michael’s and hers his and hers whatever will be left of it after this he doesn’t. “We’re suffering, too. All of us. And it’s not just you or the people living in this house, David. The people whose lives he touched are affected, too-Luke, Jason, his fans. Do you really think you’re alone in suffering? Do you really think you’re the only one who’s grieving?” Stacey’s name remains unspoken; David can see it clearly in a neat, looping script, hanging in the air.
“You’re calling me selfish?” He raises his voice. “You’re calling me selfish? Carly, what the hell is this-“
“-I don’t know, David, you tell me-“
“-I’m the selfish one? He’s the high-and-mighty one who decided to one day get killed and leave all of us here, and I’m the selfish one? Really?”
“It’s not like he wanted to die!” Carly’s disheveled appearance and shrill voice remind David of a Fury. “It’s not like he wanted to die, David, and you should know that more than anyone else!”
His knuckles are whiter than paper now. He can see his tears on his hands, on the windowsill. He turns to look at her and, gulping down the large lump in his throat, he tells her, all of his vulnerability in his voice, “I didn’t-did you think I wanted him to die?” He shakes his head, melancholy written all over his face. “He had the nerve to leave me one time, Carly; I just didn’t know he had the guts to do it again.”
“It’s not like he left you on purpose, David.” Carly reaches out and touches his shoulder; he’s too tired of this of crying of crying of crying over Michael to resist her. “I don’t think, if he had the choice the first time around, he would have left you, but you and I both know that that wasn’t his decision to make.” Bitterness washes over him again; Carly’s eyes catch wind of it before he begins to wade into it. “And he didn’t do it on purpose this time, either.” She puts both hands on his shoulders now, and for the second time today, she turns him around and gathers him into her arms.
“He loved you so much.” I know that. “He would never purposely hurt you.” I know that. “You know perfectly well that Michael wouldn’t want this for you, David.” I know that. “The last thing he wants for you is your self-destruction, and you know that.” I know that. “Don’t you dare be an idiot and try to tell me otherwise. You know that.”
I know that I know that I know that I know that.
“I know that.”
And he and Carly collapse together.
David walks out with his guitar and sits on the stool placed on center stage, adjusting the strap of his instrument so that it sits lazily on his lap. His gathers his breath, head down and hands caressing the fingerboard as a little smile laced with melancholy graces his lips. The lights have been dimmed all around, the only brightness provided by the spotlight they’re shining down on him. Rickey Minor and the band begin to play the first few notes of Michael’s “It’s Too Late,” but an idea dawns on him, and when Rickey turns to him in confusion when he doesn’t start singing, he turns his face up and shakes his head. Rickey looks at him strangely, and David shakes his head again. Rickey nods this time, eyes brimming with understanding, and then turns to silence the band.
He takes a deep breath, prays to God above that his voice doesn’t break, begins to sing-“First time ever I laid with you”-then strums a few notes on his guitar. He pauses, feels his eyes water, chokes back a sob, then calms his heart long enough for him to continue with the next verse-“I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
The song is a little untitled something Michael had been working on a week or so before their rehearsals for “Idol Gives Back” began. David takes pleasure in knowing that Michael never knew-never knew that David had seen him sitting on the sofa, a leg draped over the other, a pen in one hand and a pad of paper in the other, brows furrowed in confusion and face slightly contorted in frustration; had watched him while he strummed a few notes on his guitar, shook his head disapprovingly, and then proceeded to try another chord; had listened to him while he sang his song in the shower during the nights David had faked sleeping early-and this, the repetition of this knowledge within his mind, is what releases the flood of emotions he has been fighting so hard to hold back.
His voice begins to crack on Do you know how much you mean?, his tears start freefalling on this hell I’m going through, and in the silence created by the refusal of his voice to properly function, it is his guitar that sings it’s not like me at all-I’m not the type to fall. His voice doesn’t come back to him immediately; instead, he keeps on playing his guitar and stares out into the audience. He sees tears-or, at the very least, teary eyes, empathetic smiles, and sympathetic looks. His fingers numb and he no longer recognizes the feeling of pressing down on his strings. He gives a little cry, his heart twisting and his stomach knotting and his lungs threatening to give way and his world nearly ready to crumble again, before Carly’s words ring sharply in his ears.
“You know perfectly well Michael wouldn’t want this for you, David. The last thing he wants for you is your self-destruction, and you know that; don’t dare be an idiot and try to tell me otherwise.”
He tries to steady himself, tries to whisper sweet nothings to his heart and his stomach and his lungs and the world around him to steady them, and prays Michael Michael Michael please be with me Michael please be with me, and resolutely decides to pick up the strength he had carelessly discarded days ago.
“I count the hours in between,” he croons, continuing the song with his eyes closed, his head bowed,
“between me and you:
Do you know how much you mean?
This hell I’m going through-
It’s not like me at all; I’m not the type to fall.
Nothing seems clear, until you are here.
The dark side of me, that I have never seen-
I count the hours in between.”
Silence shakes hands with the end of the song, the final notes ringing slightly before David stops the vibration of the strings with the palm of his hand. It takes another moment, as though judges and spectators alike are slowly being released from hypnotization, and the whole theater is on its feet, exploding in thunderous applause. The spotlight fades away and blends into the rest of the lights as they come on, and David bows his head, closes his eyes, and lets his tears fall, hands tightly holding on to his guitar as though it is his source of strength. Michael Michael Michael Michael. It is the only thing on his mind.
“I miss you,” he says under his breath, then inhales deeply, planting his feet firmly on the ground as he stands, slowly gathering the pieces of himself along the way. “I miss you so much.”
Neither Randy nor Paula nor Simon have taken their seat yet when David raises his gaze: Randy is looking up at him, eyes red and mouth slightly open, hands still clapping as the applause from the audience quiets down somewhat; Paula is looking up at him, face streaked with tears of mascara, even more tears forming in her eyes; and Simon is looking up at him, respect and awe and sympathy and every other emotion he never would have expected from the British judge displayed openly in his eyes.
“No words, dawg,” Randy says, now nodding approvingly, then shaking his head in disbelief. “That was-that was the best performance of the night, hands down, dude. Nobody can compare to that.”
He tips his head down in thanks look, Michel, they love it-they love your song before he turns his attention to Paula, who begins quietly, “David,” and then pauses. She wipes tears out of the corners of her eyes, and then goes on. “Michael was-Michael is-Michael is somebody very special to you, isn’t he?” His heart begins to pound rapidly against his chest; he fears that, should any word come out of his mouth, his heart would jump out. “I’m sure, wherever he is right now”-and her voice breaks as the mascara tears fall with a renewed vigor; David can feel his own face getting wetter and wetter, so he tilts his head up and attempts to wipe the tears away, but to no avail; the tears descend of their own accord-“I’m sure wherever Michael is right now, he loved that with every fiber of his being.” She tries to smile consolingly at him. “He’d have to be an idiot to not have loved that.” He tries to plaster amusement on his face, tries to laugh for her, but fails. She simply nods with understanding. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever been witness to. Thank you, David. Thank you so much.”
Did you like it, Michael? Did-did you hear that? The most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Did you hear that? And it’s all thanks to you, you know. Michael Michael Michael.
All eyes turn to Simon now, the only one left standing with everyone else still standing. He plants his hands firmly on the judges’ table and leans forward, and even from this distance, David can see pure honesty in his eyes. “David,” he says, “that was bloody brilliant. That was”-and for a moment, the world is shocked still and rendered speechless as Simon struggles to find his words-“that was the best performance this show has ever seen, that was the best performance this show will ever see.” The applause that erupts the second time around is impossibly louder than the first, and nearly drowns out his next words: “I’m sure Michael is very, very proud of you.”
And this, out of everything else in the world, is what David has been waiting for. These are the words that break his walls down; he stands there, guitar strap slung haphazardly now around his shoulders, his face in his hands, and he weeps. He weeps for Michael-weeps for the memories they could have made together, the songs they could have written, the jokes he could have cracked, the life he could have had; he weeps for himself-weeps for the days he spent drowning himself in sadness, weeps for the songs he could have written, the jokes he could have cracked, the life he could have lived; and he weeps for both of them-for the endless possibilities there had been for MichaelandDavid DavidandMichael Mavid Mavid Mavid, for the greatness they could have earned together and shared, for the simplicity of life they could have secured for themselves and for their families, for the love they could have continued to share, with each other and the world.
The breaths he takes are shaky. Ryan comes to center stage and offers him a shoulder to cry on; the others follow, Carly heading the pack and Brooke not far behind her, Kristy Lee with her eyes red and Syesha with a tissue in her hands, Jason’s face graced with an emotion David had never seen, the younger David with sympathetic, crying eyes. They crowd around him, arms spread wide, and they are there to accept him. He thinks he’s ready for it again-for acceptance.
He thinks he's ready to open his world again.
Michael Michael Michael Michael.
Thank you this is all for you I miss you I love you.
I love you.
“My only weakness is you,
My only reason is you.”
-“Superhuman,” Chris Brown ft. Keri Hilson
Author: Alex Sorensen ilytheira
Summary: Two ways Michael leaves David, two ways David copes with it.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don’t own Michael, or David, or anyone else mentioned in this work of fiction, for that matter. The title comes from two lines of Chris Brown’s “Superhuman,” rearranged for convenience, which I don’t own. I also don’t own Michael Johns’ “The Hours in Between,” used in the final segment of this story.
Warnings: It should be remembered over that this, and the story before it, is completely AU. Please take note that this does somewhat get into a sort of darker angst.
Author’s Notes: After a few days of conceptualization and the week or two (possibly even three) I spent writing this, I’ve finally got it finished. Whew.
The largest inspiration for this piece (aside from cherazz22784, of course♥) would have to be the song “Superhuman” by Chris Brown and Keri Hilson. I also took some time to give Chris Brown and Jordin Sparks’ “No Air” and, of course, Michael Johns’ “The Hours in Between,” a few listens.
Weakness and Reason, it should be remembered, is part companion piece, part sequel to my FFF contest entry, Made to be Broken. It would be very, very helpful if you read that first before diving headfirst into this one. There are, ah, repercussions from certain events in that one-shot that reverberate repeatedly through this one. Weakness differs slightly from Broken in that this is written from (third person limited) David’s point of view, whereas the latter is in (second person) Michael’s.
With all of that (and whew, that was a lot) out of the way, please enjoy. :]
David plays with five variations of his answer before he settles on “There’s no fucking way you can ‘breathe with no air.’” It just comes naturally to him now, and he knows his answer to Chris and Jordin’s plea inside and out, forwards and backwards and sideways, and any other way possible.
There is just no fucking way.
He stares at the audience as his eyes follow Michael’s descent from the large stage and onto the podium behind the judges’ table. The smallest breach in his anger comes as the Australian reaches out and clasps Luke’s hand briefly, but the anger doesn’t dissolve quickly enough, or for long enough, for it to dissipate entirely.
The musician is unfamiliar with the unconditional rage boiling within him.
He’ll never be more honest in his life, he thinks bitterly, as he admits to himself that he’s never experienced an emotion so intense, so dangerous, so terrifyingly powerful, and it scares him. It scares him when he thinks about the things he could possibly do if he lets the beast within him out. He breathes deeply to himself, once then twice then three times, opening and closing his fists to tighten his grip on his anger. He rests his hands on his knees, and gives the audience a withering glare as they applaud Michael’s final performance on Idol. Hypocrites, all of them; clapping and showing their support now, but not a few days ago, when a few simple pushes on the buttons on their telephones could have saved him from elimination? Idiots, more like it, a voice in his head sneers, but that voice is for another time, another situation, and he isn’t turning to it now.
He glares at them and hopes that the dark looks he’s shooting them could kill, and then he mouths to them the one thing he hopes they will never be - not after this.
“Are you happy now?”
He lets selfishness run right through his body, lets selfishness allow him to believe that if he couldn’t be happy, then nobody else had the right to. When his world stopped, their world stopped moving, too. It amuses him in the darkest of fashions that the very reason his world has stopped is them.
He watches Michael being wrapped in Paula’s arms, then Randy’s, Simon silently standing by as though frozen, a grim expression on his face with disbelief in his eyes and his mouth in a tight line. It’s the first time David’s seen them react like this to a contestant’s departure -he fights to keep the sneer off his face-and it’s the haughtiness in him that thinks Simon deserves every bit of shock and every ounce of guilt he’s going through right now.
It’s bestial ruthlessness that hopes dreams prays Simon and Randy regret ever having said anything negative about Michael, about Michael’s performance, about Michael’s song choice, about Michael Michael Michael.
It’s near-volcanic anger that hopes dreams prays somebody will call Ryan out and call him a motherfucker if he doesn’t get the chance to -because David swears to everything and anything above and below, the first opportunity he has, he will take it-in front of as many people as possible in complete, unhindered hatred, because it’s what he fucking deserves.
Who does he think he is, David angrily thinks to himself, playing with Michael and the rest of us like that?
Then David realizes the potency of his emotions, and it makes him stop in his tracks as he descends from the sofa bearing the most ridiculous shade of blue. He is the last one standing on the sofa as he watches Michael a little while longer, and he is the first one to turn away as Michael finds Stacey and she throws her arms around him. He contemplates whether to wait for him and approach him before his final interview, or to simply tackle everything after, and decides that the latter is the better option, more for his sanity than Michael’s. He walks zombie-like, slow and detached and nonchalant, and unintentionally bumps into Carly.
He pulls away from her immediately, taking two steps back and shaking his head. He glares at her as her concerned face stares at him. No. No no no no no. Pity is the last emotion he needs to see right now. The very least he wants right now is sympathy-from anybody. She opens her mouth to say something to him, but he shakes his head and stops her. No.
No, Carly.
Of course there’s nothing you can say.
Of course there’s nothing you can do to make it better.
You’ve got to be kidding me if you think there is.
She goes ahead of him, but not with one last disappointed look and a shake of her head; David disregards all of it.
David is back with his thoughts as he begins his journey to the dressing room he shares with -he laughs darkly-Michael. He’s never noticed it before, Michael bringing out all of the extremes in him, and it doesn’t please him at all that it’s taken Michael’s untimely departure for him to realize it. Everything’s much clearer to David now, though. He opens the door and sits down in front of the mirror, staring intently at his face reflected -stubble, angry eyes, dark circles underneath and all. Michael had brought out David’s strongest side, the side capable of loving another so much that it, in turn, brought out David’s weakest side-the dark hatred stemming from loving so hard, like the one he had felt in short bursts earlier.
It pleases, excites, and worries David all at the same time as he continues to gaze at the eyes staring intently back at him. The various loose ends his emotions could create interest him, and frighten him, and there is no way of telling what could have been better -losing Michael now or losing Michael later.
David entertains himself by basking in the silence for a good fifteen minutes before the spell is broken by the opening of the door. He cranes his neck and spies the Australian walking into his room with a goofy grin on his face, and does the one logical thing that alights on him through the clouds of every other damn thing.
“Hey,” Michael begins to say as David stands and walks toward him, “Carly said I’d find you here. You ready to-“
He crosses the distance between them quickly, and then takes a hold of the taller man’s hand. He pulls down, eliciting a sound from Michael, but David ignores it and looks up so that their foreheads are almost touching. David looks Michael straight in the eye, tilts his head to the side, whispers, “Damn it, Michael Johns,” and then kisses him.
You don’t have any idea what the hell you’re doing to me, do you?
Amusement no longer presents itself as a word worth anything in David’s vocabulary. Come to think of it, neither does sunshine. It makes absolutely no sense to him how the sun possibly has enough strength to streak itself across the sky, or how the clouds can come together as easily as they shift apart. God knows David wishes he has that kind of strength, that kind of fluidity right now. He laughs darkly at himself as he turns onto his side and covers his head with his blanket. Sunshine is unnecessary and irrelevant to him now. Who in their right mind would have the time for sunshine, anyway?
He hears the door to the room open quietly but refuses to turn around. He grunts in response to Jason’s concerned hovering -did he want to come down and eat lunch? What kind of stupid, pointless question was that?-biting his lip to prevent him from roaring angrily. He bites his lip long and hard enough that by the time Jason has left the room, David has the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He basks in the silence for a few more moments, relishes in the warmth of the blanket and comforter, before he throws them off. He sits up with a groan, leans back against the headboard, and shakes his head.
Oh, yeah.
He definitely has time for chipper socializing over scrambled eggs and whatever leftovers they took home last night as if he’s really in the mood for beef broccoli and peking duck.
David looks around the room, and when his eyes see the door to the restroom somewhat ajar, it is instinct that kicks in. He waits for a few moments, waiting for the six-foot-three Australian to emerge with his hair damp and rivulets of water still running down his chest, a towel casually swung around his hips, and a pleased smile on his face; and when no such person exits the restroom, he is in such a state of denial that he is disinclined to turn away until his eyes begin to water. He blinks and forces himself to look away and tune his gaze onto something else.
By any chance that the solace he seeks cannot be provided by his guitar or the pen that writes his lyrics, it is silence who assumes the role of his comforter. It is not so today. Today, silence is his antagonist, and she is more than determined to overpower him. Her fingers are slim and long and cold, slow in their path around his throat, ready at any moment to irreversibly break him; and he can feel her icy breathing down his neck. She is obviously not taking any chances-she is not letting even an inch of him survive her grasp. He breathes in and out and begins to look around frantically as the sweat drips down the side of his face. She whispers gently to him, coaxing, like a lover would-
It is the thought of the word that slips into his mind that forces the sound out of David’s throat. It is not a threatening sound, not a growl or a snarl; it is not a frightened sound, or one of exclamation, either. It is pained, low in his throat, much like a choked sob, a-a hurricane of emotions kept at bay by sheer willpower alone-and even that is threatening to crack-and it is with this sound that silence begins her departure. One by one, her fingers remove themselves from his throat, and before he can feel her vanish, before the temperature in the room is raised, he can feel her touch ghosting over face, light and dainty as a feather.
He fixes his gaze on the wall before his eyes swivel to focus on the windows and the view through them. He recognizes the city underneath him living breathing thriving, and the first emotion he feels is a dark one. He doesn’t like it, he doesn’t want to do it, but he loathes them loathes them loathes them. It surpasses his understanding of the human behavior how their lives go on as it would on any other ordinary day, while his downright refuses to go the direction he wishes it to. David throws the definition of selfishness away; he doesn’t care about it, doesn’t care about what anyone else might think.
What, is he no longer allowed time for himself?
He lets out a bark of bitter laughter. It’s truly fascinating, all of this negativity spouting out of him. There is, indubitably, only one reason for this. Michael Michael Michael. Him and his damn elimination. If it weren’t for that, David believes none of this would have surfaced.
There is something about the way the air says the name to him that makes him whip his head to the left, to the right, before he chastises himself for foolishness. Of course there’s nobody else in the room. Of course there isn’t, and he should have known better. He knows he can do better than wind-whispered names and imaginary entities.
Who cares, though? Nobody is around to criticize him here.
He shifts positions once more so that he is on his side again, away from the door and away from Jason’s bed. He gazes forlornly at the empty bed next to his, neat and well-kept and, for the past weeks, unused, and then his eyes are drawn to the pillow beside his. He doesn’t care that it’s only been a few hours since the Australian left the Idol home; time means nothing to him-already, it feels like an eternity without hearing Michael’s laughter or seeing the playful rise of his eyebrows. The emptiness he feels inside is indescribable; saying he feels no joy would be the largest understatement of the year; and it would be clear as day to anybody who caught a glimpse of him that he is absolutely nothing without the person who, slowly but surely, discovered everything-inside, outside, good, bad, ridiculous-about him.
He draws the pillow Michael has slept on for the past month or two close to him, allowing a small smile to dance on his lips as he breathes the scent of Michael into him. The smell of cologne and aftershave, with Michael’s own take on what the scent of masculinity should be thrown in there for good measure, is one that he loves without a doubt. David holds the pillow close to him, buries his nose where the smell is the strongest, and ignores the tears running down his cheeks.
They’re not worth paying any attention to anymore.
The meaning of “true happiness” is forever lost to David.
He wants them all to go away. He wants them all to leave him alone. But most of all, he wants Michael to come back, because David knows that only the Australian can pull him out of this. He doesn’t need the counselors they’ve provided; he doesn’t need anybody or anything else. He needs time to spend with himself, and he needs time to spend with his thoughts. He wanders through the room, larger and colder and emptier than it has ever been, every few seconds or so turning to the door, or to the window where the sunlight streams through.
Sunlight? The sunlight? Yeah. Yeah, sure. Whatever.
David doesn’t know if the sudden chill he feels comes from the vague recollection of depriving himself of sunlight’s gentle caress, or if it comes from being hit with the sudden realization that it is Michael’s caress he is never going to feel again the latter makes more sense, of course.
It’s the whole simplicity of the situation that hits him the hardest. He’d always envisioned Michael’s-Michael’s exit to be something-something that was so out of the blue that it could only be Michael, but not-not like this. Not the absurdity that is all this.
He closes his eyes and memories the frightening scene that had only been two days ago slam him relentlessly. He can still feel it all over his fingers the blood warm blood Michael’s blood, can still feel and smell and see the oozing liquid. He can still feel the burning intensity with which he repeatedly cursed the damn car door the door the unlocked door the open door with.
And he can still see them the eyes dead eyes Michael’s eyes dead glazed over dead dull dead empty dead dead dead, and they haunt him every time he begins his waltz with his mistress, sleep. It is those eyes he has to thank those eyes dead eyes Michael’s eyes for the ever-darkening circles under his.
He stops pacing and ends up at the window. Looking out, he finds that the lives merrily going on underneath him is too much. His simple existence Michael’s simple nonexistence is too much. His breathing starts to quicken, he can feel the sweat already starting to run down the side of his forehead. He lets out a tormented scream from deep within his chest, banging his fists simultaneously on the windowsill and the wall. He lets out another one, this time a roar from deep within his broken soul, the cry echoed by his fragmented heart, and the tears-oh, the tears-are never-ending. He cries and cries and cries as he slides down, pounding his hands aimlessly against the solidity preventing him from throwing himself off the building. The pain in his arms builds slowly, and as soon as they become a burning pain, David drops them, leaving them limp at his side.
He breathes deeply, blinks twice, and feels the tears running down his cheeks and even more welling up in his eyes. The moment he lets the light shine through his eyes, he sees nothing but a blurred version of the reality he has come to know but will never come to accept, and because the scene that greets his vision is so painfully simple, he screams again.
David is so caught in the storm of emotions raging through him and threatening to tear him into pieces that, at first, he is oblivious to the pale arms wrapping themselves around him, turning him, and pressing him close to a shirt with the scent of lavender. “Oh, David,” a voice whispers into his hair, and immediately, he knows it is Carly but wishes it was Michael. He stops in mid-scream, his breathing heavy and his appearance disheveled, body still violently shaking in Carly’s tight grip.
The moment he tilts his head up so that he is looking at her profile, he can see that there are tears running down her face, too. In this moment, David finds it within himself to replace the anger with the realization that it is Carly who is the very angel of his salvation that he never would have had the courage to ask for. He buries his face into her shirt and lets the sobs run their course through his body. He holds on to her, the only stability, the only sanity, to come to him in his state of chaos, and it is for this that he is eternally thankful for her, to her. She holds him close to her, running a hand up and down his back and another cradling his head.
“Oh, David,” she repeats after minutes of a comfortable silence, her voice mournful, concerned, distressed. “What are you doing to yourself?”
David vaguely toys with the notion of pushing Carly away, but only for a moment; he abandons all thoughts of pushing anybody away to the wind upon realization that he can barely muster enough strength to grunt in response. The sincerest he can be to her is respond with a shake of his head, a tightening of his arms around her. There is no proper way to answer her question, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing to himself, he’s not giving a damn about what he’s doing to himself; it doesn’t really matter anyway. Not really-not anymore. It irks him that the thought even crossed Carly’s mind, of whatever is happening to him, whatever it may be, actually mattering to her when it doesn’t even matter to him.
He wills himself limp in her arms as she rocks him steadily. He presses his ears against her chest and closes his eyes, listening intently for her heartbeat. “David,” she murmurs so quietly that, against the thumping of her heart, he has trouble comprehending. “Please? Please don’t do this to yourself.”
I’ll do whatever I damn please to myself had been the first response that fluttered through his mind; pushing her away, like he is doing now, had been the second. He shoves weakly against her, but his fragility in this state is no match against her unwavering strength. She is his Berlin Wall now, keeping him from doing whatever he wants to by keeping him under her control. If he squints hard enough, he can sneak a glance of East Germany from here, a shove and a shuffle away; regardless of the consequences, he wants to get over and around the damn wall. Of course, she doesn’t budge at all.
She presses her hand against his head, running her hand through his hair; the gesture, so reminiscent of what Michael often did to him as they lay together, a spent and sweaty tangle of limbs, causes him to twitch instinctively. Nobody else had ever done that to him. He shies away now, ducking his head, beginning to distance himself from her. Even in the most minute amount of millimeters between the, though, he knows that there is no escape from her, no way he is making his way over his wall without a fight of course there’s no easy way out.
Carly repeats his name like an ancient spell, her hand in his hair moving at the same rhythm her whispers ghost over his skin. She breaks her chain with, “He wouldn’t want this, David, you know he-“
He hisses dangerously, “What do you know?” The flatness of his voice is nothing like he had ever expected. “How do you know he wouldn’t want this?”
She scoffs at him-that wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for did you really think she was going to back off? What are you, an idiot?; his eyes narrow. “How do I know? How do I know, David-what am I, an idiot?” He shakes himself from her grasp and pulls away, glaring at her as she calmly meets his gaze. “Do you really think self-destruction is what Michael wants for you?”
David finds the strength to get on his knees, to reach up and grasp the windowsill for support, to stand up and tower over Carly with the anger he thought he had already buried. “How dare you, Carly.” His voice is low, almost imperceptible. “What gives you the right-?”
“I have every right!” She stands, too, fresh tears running down her cheeks, her eyes highlighted by determination. The volume of her voice falls. “I have every right, David. I’m your friend; I only want what’s best for you, and-“
He shakes his head. “What’s best for me?” Contempt darkens his gaze. “I think, Carly, that we established, a long time ago, that Michael was the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re telling me now that you’re supposed to compare, that your comforting me right now is better than everything he was?” He sees the results of his words the moment he sees her flinch sharply, but much to his chagrin -and, grudgingly, his admiration-she plows on.
“I never said that.” The shakiness of her voice and the weakening in her stance makes him falter, but only for a moment. “I don’t want you to think that I ever said that, because I never did. I”-she takes quick breaths, swallowing often between words-“you know, I-I knew Michael, too, David.” He opens his mouth, ready to agree with her of course you knew him everybody did just not as much as I did, but she shushes him by pressing a finger to her lips. “I knew him, not as well as you did, but I knew him, and from what I knew of him, this is the last thing he wants for you.”
David finds it hard to stare Carly down with her blue eyes wide and hopeful and imploring, so he turns away. He grips the windowsill so hard his knuckles begin to turn white, and he leans, resting his forehead against the window.
“It’s what I want for myself,” he retorts. “I don’t know what it is, I don’t give a fuck what it is anymore, but it’s what I want for me.”
“Please don’t be so selfish, David,” she pleads, and he wants to snarl at her roar at her snap at her, but he doesn’t. For the sake of their friendship Michael’s and hers his and hers whatever will be left of it after this he doesn’t. “We’re suffering, too. All of us. And it’s not just you or the people living in this house, David. The people whose lives he touched are affected, too-Luke, Jason, his fans. Do you really think you’re alone in suffering? Do you really think you’re the only one who’s grieving?” Stacey’s name remains unspoken; David can see it clearly in a neat, looping script, hanging in the air.
“You’re calling me selfish?” He raises his voice. “You’re calling me selfish? Carly, what the hell is this-“
“-I don’t know, David, you tell me-“
“-I’m the selfish one? He’s the high-and-mighty one who decided to one day get killed and leave all of us here, and I’m the selfish one? Really?”
“It’s not like he wanted to die!” Carly’s disheveled appearance and shrill voice remind David of a Fury. “It’s not like he wanted to die, David, and you should know that more than anyone else!”
His knuckles are whiter than paper now. He can see his tears on his hands, on the windowsill. He turns to look at her and, gulping down the large lump in his throat, he tells her, all of his vulnerability in his voice, “I didn’t-did you think I wanted him to die?” He shakes his head, melancholy written all over his face. “He had the nerve to leave me one time, Carly; I just didn’t know he had the guts to do it again.”
“It’s not like he left you on purpose, David.” Carly reaches out and touches his shoulder; he’s too tired of this of crying of crying of crying over Michael to resist her. “I don’t think, if he had the choice the first time around, he would have left you, but you and I both know that that wasn’t his decision to make.” Bitterness washes over him again; Carly’s eyes catch wind of it before he begins to wade into it. “And he didn’t do it on purpose this time, either.” She puts both hands on his shoulders now, and for the second time today, she turns him around and gathers him into her arms.
“He loved you so much.” I know that. “He would never purposely hurt you.” I know that. “You know perfectly well that Michael wouldn’t want this for you, David.” I know that. “The last thing he wants for you is your self-destruction, and you know that.” I know that. “Don’t you dare be an idiot and try to tell me otherwise. You know that.”
I know that I know that I know that I know that.
“I know that.”
And he and Carly collapse together.
David walks out with his guitar and sits on the stool placed on center stage, adjusting the strap of his instrument so that it sits lazily on his lap. His gathers his breath, head down and hands caressing the fingerboard as a little smile laced with melancholy graces his lips. The lights have been dimmed all around, the only brightness provided by the spotlight they’re shining down on him. Rickey Minor and the band begin to play the first few notes of Michael’s “It’s Too Late,” but an idea dawns on him, and when Rickey turns to him in confusion when he doesn’t start singing, he turns his face up and shakes his head. Rickey looks at him strangely, and David shakes his head again. Rickey nods this time, eyes brimming with understanding, and then turns to silence the band.
He takes a deep breath, prays to God above that his voice doesn’t break, begins to sing-“First time ever I laid with you”-then strums a few notes on his guitar. He pauses, feels his eyes water, chokes back a sob, then calms his heart long enough for him to continue with the next verse-“I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
The song is a little untitled something Michael had been working on a week or so before their rehearsals for “Idol Gives Back” began. David takes pleasure in knowing that Michael never knew-never knew that David had seen him sitting on the sofa, a leg draped over the other, a pen in one hand and a pad of paper in the other, brows furrowed in confusion and face slightly contorted in frustration; had watched him while he strummed a few notes on his guitar, shook his head disapprovingly, and then proceeded to try another chord; had listened to him while he sang his song in the shower during the nights David had faked sleeping early-and this, the repetition of this knowledge within his mind, is what releases the flood of emotions he has been fighting so hard to hold back.
His voice begins to crack on Do you know how much you mean?, his tears start freefalling on this hell I’m going through, and in the silence created by the refusal of his voice to properly function, it is his guitar that sings it’s not like me at all-I’m not the type to fall. His voice doesn’t come back to him immediately; instead, he keeps on playing his guitar and stares out into the audience. He sees tears-or, at the very least, teary eyes, empathetic smiles, and sympathetic looks. His fingers numb and he no longer recognizes the feeling of pressing down on his strings. He gives a little cry, his heart twisting and his stomach knotting and his lungs threatening to give way and his world nearly ready to crumble again, before Carly’s words ring sharply in his ears.
“You know perfectly well Michael wouldn’t want this for you, David. The last thing he wants for you is your self-destruction, and you know that; don’t dare be an idiot and try to tell me otherwise.”
He tries to steady himself, tries to whisper sweet nothings to his heart and his stomach and his lungs and the world around him to steady them, and prays Michael Michael Michael please be with me Michael please be with me, and resolutely decides to pick up the strength he had carelessly discarded days ago.
“I count the hours in between,” he croons, continuing the song with his eyes closed, his head bowed,
“between me and you:
Do you know how much you mean?
This hell I’m going through-
It’s not like me at all; I’m not the type to fall.
Nothing seems clear, until you are here.
The dark side of me, that I have never seen-
I count the hours in between.”
Silence shakes hands with the end of the song, the final notes ringing slightly before David stops the vibration of the strings with the palm of his hand. It takes another moment, as though judges and spectators alike are slowly being released from hypnotization, and the whole theater is on its feet, exploding in thunderous applause. The spotlight fades away and blends into the rest of the lights as they come on, and David bows his head, closes his eyes, and lets his tears fall, hands tightly holding on to his guitar as though it is his source of strength. Michael Michael Michael Michael. It is the only thing on his mind.
“I miss you,” he says under his breath, then inhales deeply, planting his feet firmly on the ground as he stands, slowly gathering the pieces of himself along the way. “I miss you so much.”
Neither Randy nor Paula nor Simon have taken their seat yet when David raises his gaze: Randy is looking up at him, eyes red and mouth slightly open, hands still clapping as the applause from the audience quiets down somewhat; Paula is looking up at him, face streaked with tears of mascara, even more tears forming in her eyes; and Simon is looking up at him, respect and awe and sympathy and every other emotion he never would have expected from the British judge displayed openly in his eyes.
“No words, dawg,” Randy says, now nodding approvingly, then shaking his head in disbelief. “That was-that was the best performance of the night, hands down, dude. Nobody can compare to that.”
He tips his head down in thanks look, Michel, they love it-they love your song before he turns his attention to Paula, who begins quietly, “David,” and then pauses. She wipes tears out of the corners of her eyes, and then goes on. “Michael was-Michael is-Michael is somebody very special to you, isn’t he?” His heart begins to pound rapidly against his chest; he fears that, should any word come out of his mouth, his heart would jump out. “I’m sure, wherever he is right now”-and her voice breaks as the mascara tears fall with a renewed vigor; David can feel his own face getting wetter and wetter, so he tilts his head up and attempts to wipe the tears away, but to no avail; the tears descend of their own accord-“I’m sure wherever Michael is right now, he loved that with every fiber of his being.” She tries to smile consolingly at him. “He’d have to be an idiot to not have loved that.” He tries to plaster amusement on his face, tries to laugh for her, but fails. She simply nods with understanding. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever been witness to. Thank you, David. Thank you so much.”
Did you like it, Michael? Did-did you hear that? The most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Did you hear that? And it’s all thanks to you, you know. Michael Michael Michael.
All eyes turn to Simon now, the only one left standing with everyone else still standing. He plants his hands firmly on the judges’ table and leans forward, and even from this distance, David can see pure honesty in his eyes. “David,” he says, “that was bloody brilliant. That was”-and for a moment, the world is shocked still and rendered speechless as Simon struggles to find his words-“that was the best performance this show has ever seen, that was the best performance this show will ever see.” The applause that erupts the second time around is impossibly louder than the first, and nearly drowns out his next words: “I’m sure Michael is very, very proud of you.”
And this, out of everything else in the world, is what David has been waiting for. These are the words that break his walls down; he stands there, guitar strap slung haphazardly now around his shoulders, his face in his hands, and he weeps. He weeps for Michael-weeps for the memories they could have made together, the songs they could have written, the jokes he could have cracked, the life he could have had; he weeps for himself-weeps for the days he spent drowning himself in sadness, weeps for the songs he could have written, the jokes he could have cracked, the life he could have lived; and he weeps for both of them-for the endless possibilities there had been for MichaelandDavid DavidandMichael Mavid Mavid Mavid, for the greatness they could have earned together and shared, for the simplicity of life they could have secured for themselves and for their families, for the love they could have continued to share, with each other and the world.
The breaths he takes are shaky. Ryan comes to center stage and offers him a shoulder to cry on; the others follow, Carly heading the pack and Brooke not far behind her, Kristy Lee with her eyes red and Syesha with a tissue in her hands, Jason’s face graced with an emotion David had never seen, the younger David with sympathetic, crying eyes. They crowd around him, arms spread wide, and they are there to accept him. He thinks he’s ready for it again-for acceptance.
He thinks he's ready to open his world again.
Michael Michael Michael Michael.
Thank you this is all for you I miss you I love you.
I love you.
“My only weakness is you,
My only reason is you.”
-“Superhuman,” Chris Brown ft. Keri Hilson