The Fine Art Of Seducing David Cook [PG-13]
[title] The Fine Art Of Seducing David Cook
[author] another_crush
[beta] clionona
[pairing] David Cook/David Archuleta
[rating] PG-13
[word count] 1493
[summary] It's almost four in the morning, and David Archuleta cannot sleep.
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor David Archuleta. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence.
[warnings] Fluff (I can hear you gasping!) Also, first person (I can still hear you gasping!)
[author's notes] Written for Challenge #22 @ david_squared. I used prompt #2 ["Now, the making of a good compilation tape is a very subtle art. Many do's and don'ts. First of all you're using someone else's poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing."]
It is the last night of the tour and I don't want to go to bed, but I know that three in the morning is undoubtedly an hour to be sleeping. My eyes threaten to fall shut as I fight the urge to lie down and rest my head on the pillow. To avoid this basic need, I cast a last glance around this hotel room to check everything is packed.
I have all the gifts I have been given tucked in a box, ready to be lifted and put in the trunk of my father's car. I have my suitcase full of souvenirs and my head full of memories. I have a future to look forward to and a past to remember.
But I know I will miss him.
There is one stuffed rabbit that is not inside the box but safely wrapped around my bag, waiting for me to pick both of them up. I sigh heavily into the silence as slumber claims me, and I decide to sit down for a bit at the edge of my bed, keeping myself awake by tapping my feet on the floor at the rhythm of a song that is only inside my head and that sounds suspiciously similar to the first single of his new album. That is why I miss the knocking on my door at first, I am so lost in my own thoughts and memories.
The knocking gets louder. I blink, startled by the suddenness and insistence in the noise, wondering who else might be awake at this hour. When the sound becomes an almost unbearable nagging, I stand up and amble to the door, fully intending in sending whoever it is back to wherever they came from - I do need this time alone to relish in the memories that will fade with time and distance.
I open the door with a blow and then, bam, there he is, standing in front of my room with his left hand lifted and a fist almost colliding with the wood.
"Cook?" I ask surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"What do you think I'm doing?" he replies, waving something in his right hand. When I catch a glimpse of what it is, I blush crimson red - I can feel the heat spreading through my face - and step aside to grant him access. Now that's something I don't want to discuss while he is standing in a hotel corridor with my father asleep in the room across mine.
"Cook, please," I say, sitting back on my bed. "This is not exactly the best moment to---" I start, pointing at the glowing numbers of the clock on my bedside table, which read brightly twenty to four.
"It is the perfect moment," he says. For a second here I think he is drunk - he has to be - but there is no sign of swaying in his step and definitely not slurring in his speech. "I don't know what to make out of this."
He caringly puts down what he was clutching in his hand and I look at it apprehensively, eyeing the tape I left by his door before we all headed to the venue for the last sound check. At this moment it is really embarrassing for me to remain still in front of him while he is looking intently at me, as if searching for some answers to the questions he has yet to ask - for the questions I am not sure I can reply to. I knew I shouldn't have done it, I knew I shouldn't have left a mixed tape for him - in the age of CDs, who still enjoys mixed tapes?
"There's nothing to understand, Cook," I try to explain. "I was just being silly." I am frantically seeking for an anchor, and if that is pegging me as the teenager I am still, then I am clinging to that as if it is my lifeline.
"Don't try to feed me that bullshit about being a scatterbrained teenager, Archuleta," he says, and though I try to understand completely the meaning of half his sentence I guess he is calling me stupid. "You never do anything without a reason. And I came here to know... your reasons."
"At four in the morning?" I ask in disbelief before I can stop myself. As if on cue, my hand moved on its own accord to cover my mouth, aghast that I have been so rude to the man I am in love with.
It has taken me months of tears and heartache to finally come to terms with the fact that I will never be a whole member of the Church because of my feelings. I know what they say about people like me, but I have my parents' support - after walking in on me reading some dubious magazines, and through the talk that followed the discovery, my father decided that blood was thicker than religion. It was a happy day in Archuleta land.
"I needed time to think," he offers, shrugging. "It was a powerful choice of songs."
"Really?"
"Really, Archie." I cringe at the use of a nickname I hate so much, and he must feel it because he sighs. "David."
"Listen, Cook, maybe we shouldn't be---"
"But we have to," he insists, something in his voice pinning me to my bed. "See, David, this is the thing. There is only one thing that is more personal than making music, and that is making a good mixed tape. The making of a good compilation tape is a very subtle art, David. Many do's and don'ts. First of all... you're using someone else's poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing."
I nod all along because he is right, but something at the back of my mind is yelling at me because his words are just confusing me even more, and when he goes on rambling about music his fingers graze my clothed thigh and it is just a bit too much and I flinch away. I'm not sure why I do that, because I have been craving his touch ever since he told me he loved me on that stage in front of millions of people. He looks at me funny, and breathes in really deeply, holding it inside.
"I am scaring you, aren't I?" he says all of a sudden. "I barge into your room at fucking four in the morning---" I try not to cringe at the cussing because it is part of him and I love him whole. "At four in the morning. And start talking about lots of things that have nothing to do with what I really want to say."
"And what do you want to say?" I ask, subdued. During his speech he has leaned in slightly, inch by inch, and when I look up his face is almost brushing mine. My heart stops in my chest and the world seems to tumble to a halt.
"I'm... I'm not sure I can."
"Say it in one go," I advise him, almost guffawing at the absurd situation.
"Okay." He inhales again and then drops the bomb. "I think you're trying to seduce me, David Archuleta, and I have to say that it is working."
I am sure that my jaw has hit the basement of this hotel from the surprise his words have put upon me. Surely, I was trying to make sure he remembered me once we parted, and I tried to conceal my feelings for him but I am a clumsy boy and probably failed at it. But, even if I aimed for seduction, hearing him say that it is working is something that belongs to my wildest dreams. Does it mean he feels the same?
His hand is finally fully on my thigh and this time I am not scurrying away. His fingers make their way up and they jump from my leg to my forearm where it's resting and even upward to my shoulder. I am shivering.
"Cook..." I whisper, closing my eyes as the sensation overwhelms me.
"What I mean, David," and I love how he has stopped using the nickname. "What I mean is that I know I will go crazy if when you open your eyes I can't see in them the love I sensed when I listened to your gift. The love I--- the love I feel for you."
I have to comply and when I look straight into his hazel eyes, so close to mine I can see my reflection on them, and I fall into the waves I can see surfacing in them - I have this need of jumping without a safety net.
"Can you see it?" I whisper. He nods and dives in.
When his lips meet mine, my first kiss is full of promises and futures that are not broken.
I know I will not miss him anymore.
[author] another_crush
[beta] clionona
[pairing] David Cook/David Archuleta
[rating] PG-13
[word count] 1493
[summary] It's almost four in the morning, and David Archuleta cannot sleep.
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor David Archuleta. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence.
[warnings] Fluff (I can hear you gasping!) Also, first person (I can still hear you gasping!)
[author's notes] Written for Challenge #22 @ david_squared. I used prompt #2 ["Now, the making of a good compilation tape is a very subtle art. Many do's and don'ts. First of all you're using someone else's poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing."]
It is the last night of the tour and I don't want to go to bed, but I know that three in the morning is undoubtedly an hour to be sleeping. My eyes threaten to fall shut as I fight the urge to lie down and rest my head on the pillow. To avoid this basic need, I cast a last glance around this hotel room to check everything is packed.
I have all the gifts I have been given tucked in a box, ready to be lifted and put in the trunk of my father's car. I have my suitcase full of souvenirs and my head full of memories. I have a future to look forward to and a past to remember.
But I know I will miss him.
There is one stuffed rabbit that is not inside the box but safely wrapped around my bag, waiting for me to pick both of them up. I sigh heavily into the silence as slumber claims me, and I decide to sit down for a bit at the edge of my bed, keeping myself awake by tapping my feet on the floor at the rhythm of a song that is only inside my head and that sounds suspiciously similar to the first single of his new album. That is why I miss the knocking on my door at first, I am so lost in my own thoughts and memories.
The knocking gets louder. I blink, startled by the suddenness and insistence in the noise, wondering who else might be awake at this hour. When the sound becomes an almost unbearable nagging, I stand up and amble to the door, fully intending in sending whoever it is back to wherever they came from - I do need this time alone to relish in the memories that will fade with time and distance.
I open the door with a blow and then, bam, there he is, standing in front of my room with his left hand lifted and a fist almost colliding with the wood.
"Cook?" I ask surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"What do you think I'm doing?" he replies, waving something in his right hand. When I catch a glimpse of what it is, I blush crimson red - I can feel the heat spreading through my face - and step aside to grant him access. Now that's something I don't want to discuss while he is standing in a hotel corridor with my father asleep in the room across mine.
"Cook, please," I say, sitting back on my bed. "This is not exactly the best moment to---" I start, pointing at the glowing numbers of the clock on my bedside table, which read brightly twenty to four.
"It is the perfect moment," he says. For a second here I think he is drunk - he has to be - but there is no sign of swaying in his step and definitely not slurring in his speech. "I don't know what to make out of this."
He caringly puts down what he was clutching in his hand and I look at it apprehensively, eyeing the tape I left by his door before we all headed to the venue for the last sound check. At this moment it is really embarrassing for me to remain still in front of him while he is looking intently at me, as if searching for some answers to the questions he has yet to ask - for the questions I am not sure I can reply to. I knew I shouldn't have done it, I knew I shouldn't have left a mixed tape for him - in the age of CDs, who still enjoys mixed tapes?
"There's nothing to understand, Cook," I try to explain. "I was just being silly." I am frantically seeking for an anchor, and if that is pegging me as the teenager I am still, then I am clinging to that as if it is my lifeline.
"Don't try to feed me that bullshit about being a scatterbrained teenager, Archuleta," he says, and though I try to understand completely the meaning of half his sentence I guess he is calling me stupid. "You never do anything without a reason. And I came here to know... your reasons."
"At four in the morning?" I ask in disbelief before I can stop myself. As if on cue, my hand moved on its own accord to cover my mouth, aghast that I have been so rude to the man I am in love with.
It has taken me months of tears and heartache to finally come to terms with the fact that I will never be a whole member of the Church because of my feelings. I know what they say about people like me, but I have my parents' support - after walking in on me reading some dubious magazines, and through the talk that followed the discovery, my father decided that blood was thicker than religion. It was a happy day in Archuleta land.
"I needed time to think," he offers, shrugging. "It was a powerful choice of songs."
"Really?"
"Really, Archie." I cringe at the use of a nickname I hate so much, and he must feel it because he sighs. "David."
"Listen, Cook, maybe we shouldn't be---"
"But we have to," he insists, something in his voice pinning me to my bed. "See, David, this is the thing. There is only one thing that is more personal than making music, and that is making a good mixed tape. The making of a good compilation tape is a very subtle art, David. Many do's and don'ts. First of all... you're using someone else's poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing."
I nod all along because he is right, but something at the back of my mind is yelling at me because his words are just confusing me even more, and when he goes on rambling about music his fingers graze my clothed thigh and it is just a bit too much and I flinch away. I'm not sure why I do that, because I have been craving his touch ever since he told me he loved me on that stage in front of millions of people. He looks at me funny, and breathes in really deeply, holding it inside.
"I am scaring you, aren't I?" he says all of a sudden. "I barge into your room at fucking four in the morning---" I try not to cringe at the cussing because it is part of him and I love him whole. "At four in the morning. And start talking about lots of things that have nothing to do with what I really want to say."
"And what do you want to say?" I ask, subdued. During his speech he has leaned in slightly, inch by inch, and when I look up his face is almost brushing mine. My heart stops in my chest and the world seems to tumble to a halt.
"I'm... I'm not sure I can."
"Say it in one go," I advise him, almost guffawing at the absurd situation.
"Okay." He inhales again and then drops the bomb. "I think you're trying to seduce me, David Archuleta, and I have to say that it is working."
I am sure that my jaw has hit the basement of this hotel from the surprise his words have put upon me. Surely, I was trying to make sure he remembered me once we parted, and I tried to conceal my feelings for him but I am a clumsy boy and probably failed at it. But, even if I aimed for seduction, hearing him say that it is working is something that belongs to my wildest dreams. Does it mean he feels the same?
His hand is finally fully on my thigh and this time I am not scurrying away. His fingers make their way up and they jump from my leg to my forearm where it's resting and even upward to my shoulder. I am shivering.
"Cook..." I whisper, closing my eyes as the sensation overwhelms me.
"What I mean, David," and I love how he has stopped using the nickname. "What I mean is that I know I will go crazy if when you open your eyes I can't see in them the love I sensed when I listened to your gift. The love I--- the love I feel for you."
I have to comply and when I look straight into his hazel eyes, so close to mine I can see my reflection on them, and I fall into the waves I can see surfacing in them - I have this need of jumping without a safety net.
"Can you see it?" I whisper. He nods and dives in.
When his lips meet mine, my first kiss is full of promises and futures that are not broken.
I know I will not miss him anymore.