You'll Never See Me Cry [G]
[title] You'll Never See Me Cry
[author] Lire Casander
[beta] clionona. Any remaining mistakes are my own fault.
[main character] David Cook
[rating] G
[word count] 2022
[summary] David and his band perform Permanent during the Idol Finale.
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor any of the other band members/real people mentioned. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence. I do not own Permanent either.
[warnings] Second person, changing POV. I think it is pretty easy to follow, though.
[author's notes] Written for courts because she wanted fic about this particular moment. I don't know if this is what you had in mind, but just know that I have at least another idea for the scene that might be written sometime this weekend.
You sit behind your piano, your hair almost blocking your vision. You like it that way, so you don't have to witness his downfall if it ever happens. You have been there during the rehearsal, you have seen the tears in his eyes, you have felt the trembling in his voice. You don't think you can take it again if he breaks down and starts to sob on his microphone, too wrecked to be anything but a crying, incoherent mess. You went through that experience once, and the lighting engineers were fast enough to turn down the lights and leave the stage in a perfect, pitch black darkness so no one could actually see you and Neal running by his side and holding him pieced together for the remainder of that particular show.
You were there when he dissolved backstage afterwards, and if you were allowed to say something about that, you would admit it was one of the most awful situations you have gone through in your whole life. But your conscience, that small voice in your head telling you what to do, what to say, how to behave, that voice keeps whispering in your ear that you can't say anything, you can't discuss it with anyone, not even Neal, for David would never forgive you. You have always trusted your Jimmy Cricket and his wise advice, and today is not the day to start ignoring it.
So you sit down, put your fingers over the piano keys and wait.
~ * ~
There is a shadow covering you at first, before your cue to start playing. You thank whoever is watching over you for the soothing darkness hovering over your head as you bow it down and stare numbly at your fingers on the strings, ready to strum and steal music out of the guitar. You close your eyes briefly, waiting for the first sign to begin your dance, flexing your left hand in and out to test if the pain will be too much for you tonight, but it can be handled. You smile.
A sound catches your attention; your gaze flicks across the stage till it meets Kyle's, who is testing his cymbals lowly, barely a murmur of tinkling and clinking that serves as a background music. Kyle's eyes blink quickly and you lose whatever emotion they were showing in the haze of pre-show nerves, hanging forever in the silence of things neither of you will ever say. And then your gaze is wandering through the stage, taking in the movements everyone makes the seconds before a performance, the nerves Joey is trying to conceal with small jumps, up and down, up and down. Andy is looking at his piano as if it held the answers to all the impossible questions of the universe.
David is just staring into space, somewhere in the general direction of his mic stand, and if you didn't know him as well as you do, you would have thought he was just relaxing a bit, going over the lyrics he is about to sing. But you know better. You know this is permanent, this is what life will be made of from now on - you worrying about him never being fine again, praying to a God you don't believe in for your friend to come back to you. You know it is obviously in vain, but you cannot help the pain in your chest when you see, even from your spot at his left, a step behind, the tears pooling in your best friend's eyes.
~ * ~
You put the sticks back on your thighs, the sigh escaping your lips barely audible. Your eyes roam over the cymbals and the drumset you have grown so used to that it's almost like an extension of your own body. The stage seems broader than the last time you came here to tape a performance, and you think that maybe your impressions are wrong because this time it is not only a live performance, but the first time you are going to play this song since the events from two weeks ago. You have banned yourself from naming it, from acknowledging it, because it hurt so much back then and it is still a sore topic, and you are sure it will be painful to talk about ten years from now.
You didn't know anything about David Cook when you auditioned for his band, but in the months that have passed ever since, during those nights in a tour bus, playing games or just lazing around, the five of them together, in the quiet solace of a shared secret or the loud havoc of pranks put onto each other, in this time you have managed to get a glimpse of the real Dave, the David hidden underneath the make up and the fake smiles. You like what you see, what you sense behind his gaze, all those things that left him the night he received that call, the night he almost called it quits with his music career and his life in the spotlight, the same life that had brought him apart from the ones he love.
You may not have known David for long, but you surely get him.
His back is turned to you, and still you can see how tense he is. You are sure he is putting up a fake show of being calm and collected though he may be crying inside. His hands are twitching below the camera level.
He taps his foot on the floor and you get ready. Even if this song is not a song for drums, the band has managed to introduce a bit of banging, sweet and soft. Just like the melody. Just like David.
Like everything had been before performing in Florida.
~ * ~
You jump slightly when the camera doesn't focus on you. The moment you see that red light pointing toward you, you still, hand on the neck of your bass, curls hiding your ever present smile that has been fading away lately. You are ready to act in front of the cameras, to behave as if nothing has happened, as if that day at the beginning of the month never rolled by, as if this song isn't a reminder of everything he has lost.
David wears his heart on his sleeve, you already know that; what people don't know about this frontman who charms with a smile is that he also drags his feelings out for grabs and usually manages to make everyone else feel what he is feeling. And you, all sensibility under a goofy façade, are affected by his new state of mind - by his strength to keep up with his job even though all he wanted was to crawl up in a corner and cry, even if all he should have done was get on a plane and fly away.
The producer is behind the camera, three fingers high signaling the seconds. One down, and you position yourself on the stage. Two down, and you pray he doesn't cry and break down again for this time it is national television you are playing at and not a small venue full of amateur film directors.
Three fingers down, and you follow the cue, remaining completely still, head down, heart beating hard.
~ * ~
The piano notes fill the air, and on the fourth (or maybe fifth, you sing by habit and not by counting the steps) you enter the song, voice barely breaking around the edges. You are so proud of yourself, so amazed at how far you have come since your world crumbled, that you wish you could show it somehow. You know your heart on your sleeve is enough proof for everyone - the way you cry during the farewell song in all of your shows, how you broke in front of everyone in the States and all around the world during this very same song you are about to perform in about ten seconds. Everything regarding your music and its relationship with your personal life is for your audience to pick at, and sometimes you are afraid that by letting so much of you in the open you might not recognize whatever little you have left inside.
The green light blinds you mere seconds before Andy starts to play the piano and you follow, voice controlled and collected, singing a song about eternal love and never-ending trust, always looking up front, never faltering, until the very edge of the bridge when the band has to enter, just like in any other live performance, and you want to stop, to stare, to search the crowd and find his eyes. But you know he is not here, he is not coming back, and something inside of you snaps at this and your voice quivers and falters toward the end, even with Neal and Andy and Joey and Kyle supporting you.
As you sing will you think that you're all alone when no one's there to hold your hand you remember all those times you weren't able to be there, to actually help, only making long distance calls and speaking words you didn't feel because you were too tired, too cramped, to think properly. You slay yourself for all those lost chances of showing love, for your inability at voicing your feelings in any other way different from lyrics and songs and music that sometimes doesn't even make sense but it's what moves you deep inside. Your very core is made of notes and staves, and in this moment of weakness, when you can feel your insides being torn, you think you hear his voice, singing softly to you just like when you were a child and he lulled you to sleep.
You hold your head and finish your song, go through a little interview about what it feels like to have lost someone so dear and still be able to function; if only they knew how much you are hurting, if only they knew about the endless dark nights, the bottomless bottles of Jack Daniels, the temptation of a razor and the chant of desperation. If they knew, you wouldn't be their Idol anymore. And you wonder how much you have to give to feel complete again.
~ * ~
You track down David Cook's steps after the show is over and everything is said and done. You have been told that his band is hanging out in the green room, but there is no one to be found there, so you settle for searching in the dressing room assigned to them. You walk down the long white corridor, oblivious to the noise of people celebrating this end and wishing for a successful summer, until you reach the door you are looking for.
You knock twice but get no reply, so you push the door open and poke your head inside. The scene unfolding before you is not what you had expected at all. Maybe you were waiting to see a big band orgy, or just the guys hanging out together. Never this.
David is in the middle of the room, bent over forward, his knees weak and trembling; he is panting hard, and you can see drops caressing his skin. The tall blond guitarist (Neal?) is rubbing circles on his back and the pianist (you're sure Andy is his name) is kneeling beside him, whispering. The other band members are hovering around, helping in whatever they are doing. David lifts his gaze from the floor and for a second locks it with yours.
It's then when you realize he is crying.
You stammer something about congratulating them on an amazing live show and retreat with the feeling of having interrupted something really intimate.
You walk back up the corridor, thinking about how much their song means to David Cook, wondering if you have it in yourself to write a song giving all your heart, not holding back. And you know that, just because he is able to do so, no matter if Kris won and you sang back vocals for him, David Cook will be forever someone's eternal Idol.
[author] Lire Casander
[beta] clionona. Any remaining mistakes are my own fault.
[main character] David Cook
[rating] G
[word count] 2022
[summary] David and his band perform Permanent during the Idol Finale.
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor any of the other band members/real people mentioned. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence. I do not own Permanent either.
[warnings] Second person, changing POV. I think it is pretty easy to follow, though.
[author's notes] Written for courts because she wanted fic about this particular moment. I don't know if this is what you had in mind, but just know that I have at least another idea for the scene that might be written sometime this weekend.
You sit behind your piano, your hair almost blocking your vision. You like it that way, so you don't have to witness his downfall if it ever happens. You have been there during the rehearsal, you have seen the tears in his eyes, you have felt the trembling in his voice. You don't think you can take it again if he breaks down and starts to sob on his microphone, too wrecked to be anything but a crying, incoherent mess. You went through that experience once, and the lighting engineers were fast enough to turn down the lights and leave the stage in a perfect, pitch black darkness so no one could actually see you and Neal running by his side and holding him pieced together for the remainder of that particular show.
You were there when he dissolved backstage afterwards, and if you were allowed to say something about that, you would admit it was one of the most awful situations you have gone through in your whole life. But your conscience, that small voice in your head telling you what to do, what to say, how to behave, that voice keeps whispering in your ear that you can't say anything, you can't discuss it with anyone, not even Neal, for David would never forgive you. You have always trusted your Jimmy Cricket and his wise advice, and today is not the day to start ignoring it.
So you sit down, put your fingers over the piano keys and wait.
~ * ~
There is a shadow covering you at first, before your cue to start playing. You thank whoever is watching over you for the soothing darkness hovering over your head as you bow it down and stare numbly at your fingers on the strings, ready to strum and steal music out of the guitar. You close your eyes briefly, waiting for the first sign to begin your dance, flexing your left hand in and out to test if the pain will be too much for you tonight, but it can be handled. You smile.
A sound catches your attention; your gaze flicks across the stage till it meets Kyle's, who is testing his cymbals lowly, barely a murmur of tinkling and clinking that serves as a background music. Kyle's eyes blink quickly and you lose whatever emotion they were showing in the haze of pre-show nerves, hanging forever in the silence of things neither of you will ever say. And then your gaze is wandering through the stage, taking in the movements everyone makes the seconds before a performance, the nerves Joey is trying to conceal with small jumps, up and down, up and down. Andy is looking at his piano as if it held the answers to all the impossible questions of the universe.
David is just staring into space, somewhere in the general direction of his mic stand, and if you didn't know him as well as you do, you would have thought he was just relaxing a bit, going over the lyrics he is about to sing. But you know better. You know this is permanent, this is what life will be made of from now on - you worrying about him never being fine again, praying to a God you don't believe in for your friend to come back to you. You know it is obviously in vain, but you cannot help the pain in your chest when you see, even from your spot at his left, a step behind, the tears pooling in your best friend's eyes.
~ * ~
You put the sticks back on your thighs, the sigh escaping your lips barely audible. Your eyes roam over the cymbals and the drumset you have grown so used to that it's almost like an extension of your own body. The stage seems broader than the last time you came here to tape a performance, and you think that maybe your impressions are wrong because this time it is not only a live performance, but the first time you are going to play this song since the events from two weeks ago. You have banned yourself from naming it, from acknowledging it, because it hurt so much back then and it is still a sore topic, and you are sure it will be painful to talk about ten years from now.
You didn't know anything about David Cook when you auditioned for his band, but in the months that have passed ever since, during those nights in a tour bus, playing games or just lazing around, the five of them together, in the quiet solace of a shared secret or the loud havoc of pranks put onto each other, in this time you have managed to get a glimpse of the real Dave, the David hidden underneath the make up and the fake smiles. You like what you see, what you sense behind his gaze, all those things that left him the night he received that call, the night he almost called it quits with his music career and his life in the spotlight, the same life that had brought him apart from the ones he love.
You may not have known David for long, but you surely get him.
His back is turned to you, and still you can see how tense he is. You are sure he is putting up a fake show of being calm and collected though he may be crying inside. His hands are twitching below the camera level.
He taps his foot on the floor and you get ready. Even if this song is not a song for drums, the band has managed to introduce a bit of banging, sweet and soft. Just like the melody. Just like David.
Like everything had been before performing in Florida.
~ * ~
You jump slightly when the camera doesn't focus on you. The moment you see that red light pointing toward you, you still, hand on the neck of your bass, curls hiding your ever present smile that has been fading away lately. You are ready to act in front of the cameras, to behave as if nothing has happened, as if that day at the beginning of the month never rolled by, as if this song isn't a reminder of everything he has lost.
David wears his heart on his sleeve, you already know that; what people don't know about this frontman who charms with a smile is that he also drags his feelings out for grabs and usually manages to make everyone else feel what he is feeling. And you, all sensibility under a goofy façade, are affected by his new state of mind - by his strength to keep up with his job even though all he wanted was to crawl up in a corner and cry, even if all he should have done was get on a plane and fly away.
The producer is behind the camera, three fingers high signaling the seconds. One down, and you position yourself on the stage. Two down, and you pray he doesn't cry and break down again for this time it is national television you are playing at and not a small venue full of amateur film directors.
Three fingers down, and you follow the cue, remaining completely still, head down, heart beating hard.
~ * ~
The piano notes fill the air, and on the fourth (or maybe fifth, you sing by habit and not by counting the steps) you enter the song, voice barely breaking around the edges. You are so proud of yourself, so amazed at how far you have come since your world crumbled, that you wish you could show it somehow. You know your heart on your sleeve is enough proof for everyone - the way you cry during the farewell song in all of your shows, how you broke in front of everyone in the States and all around the world during this very same song you are about to perform in about ten seconds. Everything regarding your music and its relationship with your personal life is for your audience to pick at, and sometimes you are afraid that by letting so much of you in the open you might not recognize whatever little you have left inside.
The green light blinds you mere seconds before Andy starts to play the piano and you follow, voice controlled and collected, singing a song about eternal love and never-ending trust, always looking up front, never faltering, until the very edge of the bridge when the band has to enter, just like in any other live performance, and you want to stop, to stare, to search the crowd and find his eyes. But you know he is not here, he is not coming back, and something inside of you snaps at this and your voice quivers and falters toward the end, even with Neal and Andy and Joey and Kyle supporting you.
As you sing will you think that you're all alone when no one's there to hold your hand you remember all those times you weren't able to be there, to actually help, only making long distance calls and speaking words you didn't feel because you were too tired, too cramped, to think properly. You slay yourself for all those lost chances of showing love, for your inability at voicing your feelings in any other way different from lyrics and songs and music that sometimes doesn't even make sense but it's what moves you deep inside. Your very core is made of notes and staves, and in this moment of weakness, when you can feel your insides being torn, you think you hear his voice, singing softly to you just like when you were a child and he lulled you to sleep.
You hold your head and finish your song, go through a little interview about what it feels like to have lost someone so dear and still be able to function; if only they knew how much you are hurting, if only they knew about the endless dark nights, the bottomless bottles of Jack Daniels, the temptation of a razor and the chant of desperation. If they knew, you wouldn't be their Idol anymore. And you wonder how much you have to give to feel complete again.
~ * ~
You track down David Cook's steps after the show is over and everything is said and done. You have been told that his band is hanging out in the green room, but there is no one to be found there, so you settle for searching in the dressing room assigned to them. You walk down the long white corridor, oblivious to the noise of people celebrating this end and wishing for a successful summer, until you reach the door you are looking for.
You knock twice but get no reply, so you push the door open and poke your head inside. The scene unfolding before you is not what you had expected at all. Maybe you were waiting to see a big band orgy, or just the guys hanging out together. Never this.
David is in the middle of the room, bent over forward, his knees weak and trembling; he is panting hard, and you can see drops caressing his skin. The tall blond guitarist (Neal?) is rubbing circles on his back and the pianist (you're sure Andy is his name) is kneeling beside him, whispering. The other band members are hovering around, helping in whatever they are doing. David lifts his gaze from the floor and for a second locks it with yours.
It's then when you realize he is crying.
You stammer something about congratulating them on an amazing live show and retreat with the feeling of having interrupted something really intimate.
You walk back up the corridor, thinking about how much their song means to David Cook, wondering if you have it in yourself to write a song giving all your heart, not holding back. And you know that, just because he is able to do so, no matter if Kris won and you sang back vocals for him, David Cook will be forever someone's eternal Idol.