Riffs Of Amazement [PG]
[title] Riffs Of Amazement
[author] another_crush
[beta] clionona. All remaining mistakes are my own.
[pairing] David Cook/Neal Tiemann
[rating] PG
[word count] 1294
[summary] Neal has yet to find the source of his happiness out of writing, playing, sharing and promoting music.
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor Neal Tiemann. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence.
[warnings] Second person.
[author's notes] Written for cherrymaryberry and penrith1, who requested fic out of this picture and this one from the Newburgh concert.
For sara84 too, you know why.
Alexis told you once, when she was about to move to New York, that you should be happy and that she knew she wasn't the source of your happiness. You were left with a confused mind and a pained heart, as you watched your ex girlfriend, your best girl friend, slide away in a taxi. You read in her eyes that she meant it deep inside, and it slew you to believe her.
Now, so many years later, you have started to think that maybe she was right. Maybe she knew what she was talking about.
The Newburgh crowd is soaring before you. David is giving a thousand per cent of his voice, croaky and strained when he is backstage but strong and powerful when he gets on the stage for his fans. You are amazed at his ability to transform in front of an audience, to give his all even when he is obviously feeling out of it - only David Cook could take antibiotics and shit like that and still be awake enough to perform like a pro.
Maybe that is because he is a professional, you remind yourself. You all are professionals now, and it makes your heart swell with pride and happiness - all your dreams coming to life every night, unfolding from the notes you manage to steal from you guitar in impossible riffs. Every dream but one. Because, in all those years since Alexis told you her thoughts, you have found out the true source of your happiness, and though the discovery itself made you shiver with fear and anticipation, its nature had you tumbling down into a heap of useless lyrics.
You tell everyone who asks that music is what makes you happy - writing music, playing music, sharing music, promoting music. What you keep to yourself, though, is the second half of that statement; you don't say that happiness for you is writing music, playing music, sharing music, promoting music, with him. All those months when he was away finding his dream you were left behind with your wingless hopes dying on the floor. It was then when you realized that he was the beginning and the end of your musical career, but also the beginning and the end of who you were, of who you are.
You were too scared to admit it back then, to see rejection reflected in his eyes, and you are too scared now, almost a year later and sharing your life again, all crumpled in tiny bunks in a smelly tour bus driving through the country with your guitars and your music as your only way of expression.
You think of this very same morning, of the breakfast together and the jokes spread all around. You remember clearly Andy mocking Kyle when David entered the small recreational area, and then, all of a sudden, the bassist, the drummer and your best friend stared at you with that knowing look in their eyes as you followed Dave's movements out of the corner of your eye trying to be subtle at it and, obviously, failing miserably. Andy shook his head in pity, his hand on your shoulder, but you shrugged him off with a snarl, telling him to go mind his own business.
"But, Neal, you're hurting so much," Andy said, his eyes sad. "You're hurting because you don't tell him how you feel."
"And how do I feel, little Skibby?" you retorted, smirk in place to cover, belatedly, the fondness you feel whenever David is concerned.
"Don't make me go and tell him, Neal," he threatened you. You knew better than to beg him not to, and you knew even better than to deny the fact. Andy could see right through you. You chose the best way out - you lied about not being hungry, even though your stomach was screaming, and you left. You don't know what they talked, if they maintained a conversation at all.
David is dancing to the beat of Hot For Teacher. It is a song made for you, although not as much as Man In The Box, but you take what you are given without protesting because in this tour you are that guy who comes along. You don't have any power to decide. Joey is going wild with his riffs, Andy is dancing across the stage to meet Kyle's beating. You can see them if you squint your eyes and move your head toward them, and just then you lose sight of David, who was centered on the stage.
You're swaying with the beat, your whole body loose and your heart beating in time with the notes, when a hand finds its way down your shoulder and across your chest, and warmth fills your insides. You don't need to turn around to know that it's David singing softly and then he stops and allows you to have your moment of glory before leaning further in and whispering the words that change your world forever.
"I love you too, Doc."
You stumble upon your feet, losing your stance for a nanosecond. You hope no one has noticed it. As the crowd keeps cheering and he chuckles, you are sure no one has seen it.
He is singing again into the microphone, and you wonder if his words were registered by the device before. You sincerely hope they weren't.
Your heart is doing somersaults for the rest of the show, and when you all get onstage after the encores for the group bow, his hand is on your back. You shiver, still thinking that you have imagined it all - his fingers just over your heart, his chin on your shoulder, the softness of his voice in your ear - when he grabs your wrist and leads you out, leaving the rest to fend for themselves as you two run to the dressing room.
Once inside, he closes the door and looks at you with cryptic eyes.
"Dave," you start, but you cut yourself abruptly because you don't know what to say, what to do, and fuck if this isn't awkward, if this isn't going to make everything uncomfortable from now on.
"Andy told me," he says simply, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, all sweaty and smelly yet perfect. "Andy told me and I... I couldn't believe it, to be honest, because, really, Neal, you... You never said anything!"
"Dave," you repeat, but he doesn't like to be interrupted while rambling, so he keeps on and you stand there limply, waiting for him to finish his rant so you can kiss him.
"But I didn't have any reason to not believe Andy, you know, so I went along and I did that stupid thing onstage and now you're going to hate me and I won't be able to stand it, because you haven't said a thing, you never talk to me anymore and I miss it and I didn't know I was missing you until I realized that the reason why it hurt so much was because you---"
You lunge forward and do the only effective thing to shut him up. You kiss him, soft, almost playfully, your lip rings teasing his skin just slightly. "Breathe," you tell him once you both come up for air.
He is looking at you in amazement, and you know your face reflects the same feeling.
You will thank Alexis for opening your eyes all those years ago once she comes backstage to pay you the compulsory visit she promised you long ago if you ever toured near New York. But for now, you are going to do something you promised yourself you would never do.
You are making up for lost time kissing the source of your happiness.
[author] another_crush
[beta] clionona. All remaining mistakes are my own.
[pairing] David Cook/Neal Tiemann
[rating] PG
[word count] 1294
[summary] Neal has yet to find the source of his happiness out of writing, playing, sharing and promoting music.
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor Neal Tiemann. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence.
[warnings] Second person.
[author's notes] Written for cherrymaryberry and penrith1, who requested fic out of this picture and this one from the Newburgh concert.
For sara84 too, you know why.
Alexis told you once, when she was about to move to New York, that you should be happy and that she knew she wasn't the source of your happiness. You were left with a confused mind and a pained heart, as you watched your ex girlfriend, your best girl friend, slide away in a taxi. You read in her eyes that she meant it deep inside, and it slew you to believe her.
Now, so many years later, you have started to think that maybe she was right. Maybe she knew what she was talking about.
The Newburgh crowd is soaring before you. David is giving a thousand per cent of his voice, croaky and strained when he is backstage but strong and powerful when he gets on the stage for his fans. You are amazed at his ability to transform in front of an audience, to give his all even when he is obviously feeling out of it - only David Cook could take antibiotics and shit like that and still be awake enough to perform like a pro.
Maybe that is because he is a professional, you remind yourself. You all are professionals now, and it makes your heart swell with pride and happiness - all your dreams coming to life every night, unfolding from the notes you manage to steal from you guitar in impossible riffs. Every dream but one. Because, in all those years since Alexis told you her thoughts, you have found out the true source of your happiness, and though the discovery itself made you shiver with fear and anticipation, its nature had you tumbling down into a heap of useless lyrics.
You tell everyone who asks that music is what makes you happy - writing music, playing music, sharing music, promoting music. What you keep to yourself, though, is the second half of that statement; you don't say that happiness for you is writing music, playing music, sharing music, promoting music, with him. All those months when he was away finding his dream you were left behind with your wingless hopes dying on the floor. It was then when you realized that he was the beginning and the end of your musical career, but also the beginning and the end of who you were, of who you are.
You were too scared to admit it back then, to see rejection reflected in his eyes, and you are too scared now, almost a year later and sharing your life again, all crumpled in tiny bunks in a smelly tour bus driving through the country with your guitars and your music as your only way of expression.
You think of this very same morning, of the breakfast together and the jokes spread all around. You remember clearly Andy mocking Kyle when David entered the small recreational area, and then, all of a sudden, the bassist, the drummer and your best friend stared at you with that knowing look in their eyes as you followed Dave's movements out of the corner of your eye trying to be subtle at it and, obviously, failing miserably. Andy shook his head in pity, his hand on your shoulder, but you shrugged him off with a snarl, telling him to go mind his own business.
"But, Neal, you're hurting so much," Andy said, his eyes sad. "You're hurting because you don't tell him how you feel."
"And how do I feel, little Skibby?" you retorted, smirk in place to cover, belatedly, the fondness you feel whenever David is concerned.
"Don't make me go and tell him, Neal," he threatened you. You knew better than to beg him not to, and you knew even better than to deny the fact. Andy could see right through you. You chose the best way out - you lied about not being hungry, even though your stomach was screaming, and you left. You don't know what they talked, if they maintained a conversation at all.
David is dancing to the beat of Hot For Teacher. It is a song made for you, although not as much as Man In The Box, but you take what you are given without protesting because in this tour you are that guy who comes along. You don't have any power to decide. Joey is going wild with his riffs, Andy is dancing across the stage to meet Kyle's beating. You can see them if you squint your eyes and move your head toward them, and just then you lose sight of David, who was centered on the stage.
You're swaying with the beat, your whole body loose and your heart beating in time with the notes, when a hand finds its way down your shoulder and across your chest, and warmth fills your insides. You don't need to turn around to know that it's David singing softly and then he stops and allows you to have your moment of glory before leaning further in and whispering the words that change your world forever.
"I love you too, Doc."
You stumble upon your feet, losing your stance for a nanosecond. You hope no one has noticed it. As the crowd keeps cheering and he chuckles, you are sure no one has seen it.
He is singing again into the microphone, and you wonder if his words were registered by the device before. You sincerely hope they weren't.
Your heart is doing somersaults for the rest of the show, and when you all get onstage after the encores for the group bow, his hand is on your back. You shiver, still thinking that you have imagined it all - his fingers just over your heart, his chin on your shoulder, the softness of his voice in your ear - when he grabs your wrist and leads you out, leaving the rest to fend for themselves as you two run to the dressing room.
Once inside, he closes the door and looks at you with cryptic eyes.
"Dave," you start, but you cut yourself abruptly because you don't know what to say, what to do, and fuck if this isn't awkward, if this isn't going to make everything uncomfortable from now on.
"Andy told me," he says simply, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, all sweaty and smelly yet perfect. "Andy told me and I... I couldn't believe it, to be honest, because, really, Neal, you... You never said anything!"
"Dave," you repeat, but he doesn't like to be interrupted while rambling, so he keeps on and you stand there limply, waiting for him to finish his rant so you can kiss him.
"But I didn't have any reason to not believe Andy, you know, so I went along and I did that stupid thing onstage and now you're going to hate me and I won't be able to stand it, because you haven't said a thing, you never talk to me anymore and I miss it and I didn't know I was missing you until I realized that the reason why it hurt so much was because you---"
You lunge forward and do the only effective thing to shut him up. You kiss him, soft, almost playfully, your lip rings teasing his skin just slightly. "Breathe," you tell him once you both come up for air.
He is looking at you in amazement, and you know your face reflects the same feeling.
You will thank Alexis for opening your eyes all those years ago once she comes backstage to pay you the compulsory visit she promised you long ago if you ever toured near New York. But for now, you are going to do something you promised yourself you would never do.
You are making up for lost time kissing the source of your happiness.