Snow Over Calcuta [Cookleta] [PG]
[title] Snow Over Calcuta
[author] Lire Casander
[beta] Unbeta'ed. Any mistakes are my own fault.
[pairing] David Cook/David Archuleta
[rating] PG
[word count] 2240
[summary] He's been writing the whole night, although it seems like his entire life has been a stressful preparation for this simple event of putting into words what he feels deep inside.
[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] I know Archie has gone on mission to South America, but I needed him to have flown to Asia for this fic, so I took the liberty of sending him there instead of wherever he is now in South America.
[author's notes] I know it's been too long. I can't promise I'm back - will I ever be back? - but this is a start, even though I still feel rusty and memories of some nasty events of the past are coming back to me to block my writing. I hope you enjoy this one!
The hand over the paper halts and a drop of salty water splashes in between lines. He realizes he's crying but he can't stop writing, not now, maybe not for a long time, not even if his hand threatens to split from his body out of pain and exhaustion. He's been writing the whole night, although it seems like his entire life has been a stressful preparation for this simple event of putting into words what he feels deep inside.
When I was born, snow was falling from the sky onto our front yard. I don't really remember it, but my parents have always told me about the snowflakes covering everything, making that end of the year even more special. The same parents that divorced years later, who couldn't look at each other in the eye when all came to an end, the same people that brought me up and taught me to do right and avoid wrong, who wouldn't talk to each other without yelling, turning our beautiful home into a hell so burning that melted the snow which had kept us safe for years on end.
Even happiness has to end sometime, I guess.
When I was twelve, I already knew what I wanted to do with my life, in my life. Truth is, I've probably known all the time, I was just busy playing hide and seek with my dreams. But then, even if I had already decided my future, a Higher power had another plans for me. God has always been a huge part of my life, I have never tried to bury that anywhere to be cooler or to sound more fashionable. God is fashionable, and He is cool. At the time I didn't need anything else, and yet I wondered why He had sent me the gift of understanding what my path was, only to put such a gigantic obstacle in it. At the age of twelve, I lost my voice. Call it whatever, paralysis, illness, sore throat, bad luck. It was God's act, and I had to accept it, I was told.
When I was thirteen, I believed I would never sing again. I found my voice later on, I learned to talk once again with this strange tone that was never mine. Doctors said I was lucky, that it was a miracle. My parents pushed me in front of everyone in church and claimed that I was their little gift, the miracle no one could understand.
I only knew I was angry and sad and pitiful and terribly alone.
When I was sixteen, God visited me one night. We were sitting by the fireplace, my siblings were singing along with my mother, my wonderful mom who would do anything for any of us. And then I felt this urge of singing, just a tune or two, whatever. Even if I sounded like a croaking bug, I needed to do it. I craved music. And music came out of my throat, untamed, dangling from my mouth in sweet lines of lyrics and melody. I sang just a line or two, everyone looked at me, silence fell over us. Then, it was all mirth and joy and life.
I risked it all at seventeen. I would risk it all over again if given the chance, to relive those memories that now haunt me in my dreams.
At seventeen, I entered American Idol, and my entire existence was put on screen for display. It was such a big rollercoaster of emotions, being the youngest, reaching out to almost touch the sky, singing, unashamed, unabashed, free at last. I didn't care about my father interfering, because it was what he did, he protected me. But then, then, you showed up in my dreams, all the time, and I knew I couldn't trust my father with that.
You. Seriously, how couldn't you know that I had fallen so hard, so fast, for you? And then again, how would you? As flaily as I am, as nervous and talkative, I never said a thing. For one, it was wrong, I had been told, and then, even if it had been right, why would you like boys? And in particular a boy such as young as me, such as naïve? So I didn't say a thing for the length of the contest, and I feared you just knew when we hugged at the finale - you said I love you, so close to me that I just thought you knew - but you didn't.
The tour after the show didn't make it any easier. My father kept me under a tight control, so I couldn't do anything but sing and think. And, believe me, thinking, that I did, and it wasn't pretty. I ended up convincing myself that what I felt wasn't right, that if I acted on it I would become a sinner, that God hadn't created me to love another man like that. And behind all those reasons lied the fear of losing a friendship that was just beginning to blossom - your goofy self had, for some strange reason, taken me under your wing, and that was the best I could ask for. If I couldn't have you the way my heart longed for, having you as the older brother I never had should be enough.
And it was, until Adam died.
I didn't see you until fourteen days after he passed away. Don't ask why I remember the exact number of days, you don't really need to know that I remember every little detail concerning you - the color of the t-shirt you wore the first day we met (black and blue with a strange drawing resembling a fish only it wasn't), the way you swore at Neal and Andy the day they came visit to the mansion (I wouldn't say the words out loud, do you think I'd write them down?), the size of your bag the day you said goodbye after the tour ended (too big for my liking, if you ask me, I would have fitted into it without problem). I remember everything.
Adam had died, and a few days afterwards you were flying with the Anthemic out of the States and into Manila. You have always been a fighter, you wouldn't let your fans down. You told me once that Adam wouldn't have wanted his family to wipe and sob and be an useless puddle of tears when he passed away. That was when I knew you would never give up on something you'd thought that would be worth of your efforts, no matter the cost. It was then when I realized that I would never become such an important part of your life that fighting for me would be worth it.
On that stage, you insisted on performing that song. Everyone knew all along that you couldn't get through it, not so close to the date, not in a long time. Yet you were convinced that you would be able to reach the final notes. I had to do something - and it wasn't only me. Andy had been trying to make eye contact with me during all your performance; at one point I could see him pleading, and wishing I had understood all the signs right I jumped into the stage and sang with you. Andy looked so relieved - he later thanked me and told me he wasn't sure I had caught his glimpses - that I allowed myself to smile if just only a little bit.
Later on, life and music kept us apart so forgetting you seemed easy as pie. My parents divorced, I was in the middle of their raw fights trying to salvage what was left of my family, so I was very busy. But by the end of it all, you were still in the back of my mind, waiting for the best moment to open that back door and show up in my memories. I had to learn to let go of you somehow, to let loose the dream that could never be since you never knew of my feelings, and I was sure you didn't feel the same - surely you loved me with the love of a brother, but not with the passion of a lover.
By the time I turned twenty-one, I had already decided to go on a mission. Maybe coming back to my religious roots might help me find myself, the balance I needed. I announced it all around, put my career on hold, flew to India and waited for the miracle to happen once again. But God doesn't like to be given such ultimatum - He knows what's best for us all, and seemingly I took the wrong path here.
For now, at twenty-two, it's snowing in Calcuta. No one here remembers that it had ever snowed before. But the truth is, today is my birthday and it's snowing here. I don't know what to think anymore; I don't know if it's a sign or just the consequence of the changing climate and the global warming.
I've seen misery here. I didn't want to come here in the first place - Costa Rica, maybe Haiti, were my choices. But the church needed me in India, and to India I traveled. And when I first had a look at the place - the charity hospital, the hospice, the orphanage - I felt it was where I should be. For the first time in so long, I knew I fitted in.
Humanity has its own rules, but in this corner of the world, rules are always overlooked. Little girls are abandoned at birth. Babies are left orphans at a very young age because of illnesses you have only heard of. Young people, girls and boys alike, sell their bodies for a hot meal. My help isn't enough, I know, but when they come to me with this desperate look in their eyes and leave with a spark of hope, it's God talking through them, telling me you did it, you are good, you are good. It's his way of communicating with me.
The snow at the other side of the window of the small room I share with three other boys is falling heavily now. Despite the eerie of the hour, there are children making a snow man on the street. Snow has the power of healing.
I've come to terms with myself in these past months. Finally I know who I am - I know God loves me and brought me to Earth to be happy and spread happiness. Liking other men - being gay, as you might as much imagined by now - is part of his plan. He wouldn't have wanted His children to live in a world without hope; he wouldn't have let me be like this if I weren't good the way I am. I will make mistakes, of course, but I refuse to believe that I'm not His son just because I'm not the normal type.
By the way, what's normal? I've met so many good people here, I've learned a lot from them. Is it normal to live in a world where half of the people are dying every day? I daresay no. Is it normal to fall in love with someone, regardless of their gender? I daresay yes. But the church insists in ignoring the first and condemning the second. Know what? I don't need a church that's based on hatred. God is everywhere. I can talk to Him and help His work on Earth on my own.
I still don't know why I'm writing this to you, of all people. I'm not even sure I'll send the letter, I wouldn't know where to. Are you still based in Los Angeles? Have you moved back to your mom's house? I sincerely have no idea.
I loved you once. I've never really stopped. I've seen so much pain and strife that I guess I don't want to slip through this life with this burden in my heart. So I guess this is why I am writing this in the middle of the first snow storm in Calcuta in ages.
I love you. I don't know how it happened, or why it did, but I love you. I don't even expect you to love me back - I'm not such a fool as to actually think that, but God help me, I wish you did. I don't have any right to ask you for a love that maybe was never there between you and me, but all your words, all your actions over the years, have made me believe that maybe, just maybe, there was, once upon a time, a love in your heart that was for me only.
He doesn't even sign. He doesn't write another line, another word, he just stares blankly at the paper and sighs. It isn't his best idea ever, but it's what he needs to do right now. He wipes away his tears and folds the sheet in four before slipping it into a white envelope. He can't go back now - he's too far gone, his feelings so in the open that he can touch them with the tip of his index finger.
He leaves the envelope on top of the stack of letters to be send back home, and closes the door of the small living room, hoping against hope that he hasn't made the worst mistake of his life.
[author] Lire Casander
[beta] Unbeta'ed. Any mistakes are my own fault.
[pairing] David Cook/David Archuleta
[rating] PG
[word count] 2240
[summary] He's been writing the whole night, although it seems like his entire life has been a stressful preparation for this simple event of putting into words what he feels deep inside.
[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] I know Archie has gone on mission to South America, but I needed him to have flown to Asia for this fic, so I took the liberty of sending him there instead of wherever he is now in South America.
[author's notes] I know it's been too long. I can't promise I'm back - will I ever be back? - but this is a start, even though I still feel rusty and memories of some nasty events of the past are coming back to me to block my writing. I hope you enjoy this one!
The hand over the paper halts and a drop of salty water splashes in between lines. He realizes he's crying but he can't stop writing, not now, maybe not for a long time, not even if his hand threatens to split from his body out of pain and exhaustion. He's been writing the whole night, although it seems like his entire life has been a stressful preparation for this simple event of putting into words what he feels deep inside.
When I was born, snow was falling from the sky onto our front yard. I don't really remember it, but my parents have always told me about the snowflakes covering everything, making that end of the year even more special. The same parents that divorced years later, who couldn't look at each other in the eye when all came to an end, the same people that brought me up and taught me to do right and avoid wrong, who wouldn't talk to each other without yelling, turning our beautiful home into a hell so burning that melted the snow which had kept us safe for years on end.
Even happiness has to end sometime, I guess.
When I was twelve, I already knew what I wanted to do with my life, in my life. Truth is, I've probably known all the time, I was just busy playing hide and seek with my dreams. But then, even if I had already decided my future, a Higher power had another plans for me. God has always been a huge part of my life, I have never tried to bury that anywhere to be cooler or to sound more fashionable. God is fashionable, and He is cool. At the time I didn't need anything else, and yet I wondered why He had sent me the gift of understanding what my path was, only to put such a gigantic obstacle in it. At the age of twelve, I lost my voice. Call it whatever, paralysis, illness, sore throat, bad luck. It was God's act, and I had to accept it, I was told.
When I was thirteen, I believed I would never sing again. I found my voice later on, I learned to talk once again with this strange tone that was never mine. Doctors said I was lucky, that it was a miracle. My parents pushed me in front of everyone in church and claimed that I was their little gift, the miracle no one could understand.
I only knew I was angry and sad and pitiful and terribly alone.
When I was sixteen, God visited me one night. We were sitting by the fireplace, my siblings were singing along with my mother, my wonderful mom who would do anything for any of us. And then I felt this urge of singing, just a tune or two, whatever. Even if I sounded like a croaking bug, I needed to do it. I craved music. And music came out of my throat, untamed, dangling from my mouth in sweet lines of lyrics and melody. I sang just a line or two, everyone looked at me, silence fell over us. Then, it was all mirth and joy and life.
I risked it all at seventeen. I would risk it all over again if given the chance, to relive those memories that now haunt me in my dreams.
At seventeen, I entered American Idol, and my entire existence was put on screen for display. It was such a big rollercoaster of emotions, being the youngest, reaching out to almost touch the sky, singing, unashamed, unabashed, free at last. I didn't care about my father interfering, because it was what he did, he protected me. But then, then, you showed up in my dreams, all the time, and I knew I couldn't trust my father with that.
You. Seriously, how couldn't you know that I had fallen so hard, so fast, for you? And then again, how would you? As flaily as I am, as nervous and talkative, I never said a thing. For one, it was wrong, I had been told, and then, even if it had been right, why would you like boys? And in particular a boy such as young as me, such as naïve? So I didn't say a thing for the length of the contest, and I feared you just knew when we hugged at the finale - you said I love you, so close to me that I just thought you knew - but you didn't.
The tour after the show didn't make it any easier. My father kept me under a tight control, so I couldn't do anything but sing and think. And, believe me, thinking, that I did, and it wasn't pretty. I ended up convincing myself that what I felt wasn't right, that if I acted on it I would become a sinner, that God hadn't created me to love another man like that. And behind all those reasons lied the fear of losing a friendship that was just beginning to blossom - your goofy self had, for some strange reason, taken me under your wing, and that was the best I could ask for. If I couldn't have you the way my heart longed for, having you as the older brother I never had should be enough.
And it was, until Adam died.
I didn't see you until fourteen days after he passed away. Don't ask why I remember the exact number of days, you don't really need to know that I remember every little detail concerning you - the color of the t-shirt you wore the first day we met (black and blue with a strange drawing resembling a fish only it wasn't), the way you swore at Neal and Andy the day they came visit to the mansion (I wouldn't say the words out loud, do you think I'd write them down?), the size of your bag the day you said goodbye after the tour ended (too big for my liking, if you ask me, I would have fitted into it without problem). I remember everything.
Adam had died, and a few days afterwards you were flying with the Anthemic out of the States and into Manila. You have always been a fighter, you wouldn't let your fans down. You told me once that Adam wouldn't have wanted his family to wipe and sob and be an useless puddle of tears when he passed away. That was when I knew you would never give up on something you'd thought that would be worth of your efforts, no matter the cost. It was then when I realized that I would never become such an important part of your life that fighting for me would be worth it.
On that stage, you insisted on performing that song. Everyone knew all along that you couldn't get through it, not so close to the date, not in a long time. Yet you were convinced that you would be able to reach the final notes. I had to do something - and it wasn't only me. Andy had been trying to make eye contact with me during all your performance; at one point I could see him pleading, and wishing I had understood all the signs right I jumped into the stage and sang with you. Andy looked so relieved - he later thanked me and told me he wasn't sure I had caught his glimpses - that I allowed myself to smile if just only a little bit.
Later on, life and music kept us apart so forgetting you seemed easy as pie. My parents divorced, I was in the middle of their raw fights trying to salvage what was left of my family, so I was very busy. But by the end of it all, you were still in the back of my mind, waiting for the best moment to open that back door and show up in my memories. I had to learn to let go of you somehow, to let loose the dream that could never be since you never knew of my feelings, and I was sure you didn't feel the same - surely you loved me with the love of a brother, but not with the passion of a lover.
By the time I turned twenty-one, I had already decided to go on a mission. Maybe coming back to my religious roots might help me find myself, the balance I needed. I announced it all around, put my career on hold, flew to India and waited for the miracle to happen once again. But God doesn't like to be given such ultimatum - He knows what's best for us all, and seemingly I took the wrong path here.
For now, at twenty-two, it's snowing in Calcuta. No one here remembers that it had ever snowed before. But the truth is, today is my birthday and it's snowing here. I don't know what to think anymore; I don't know if it's a sign or just the consequence of the changing climate and the global warming.
I've seen misery here. I didn't want to come here in the first place - Costa Rica, maybe Haiti, were my choices. But the church needed me in India, and to India I traveled. And when I first had a look at the place - the charity hospital, the hospice, the orphanage - I felt it was where I should be. For the first time in so long, I knew I fitted in.
Humanity has its own rules, but in this corner of the world, rules are always overlooked. Little girls are abandoned at birth. Babies are left orphans at a very young age because of illnesses you have only heard of. Young people, girls and boys alike, sell their bodies for a hot meal. My help isn't enough, I know, but when they come to me with this desperate look in their eyes and leave with a spark of hope, it's God talking through them, telling me you did it, you are good, you are good. It's his way of communicating with me.
The snow at the other side of the window of the small room I share with three other boys is falling heavily now. Despite the eerie of the hour, there are children making a snow man on the street. Snow has the power of healing.
I've come to terms with myself in these past months. Finally I know who I am - I know God loves me and brought me to Earth to be happy and spread happiness. Liking other men - being gay, as you might as much imagined by now - is part of his plan. He wouldn't have wanted His children to live in a world without hope; he wouldn't have let me be like this if I weren't good the way I am. I will make mistakes, of course, but I refuse to believe that I'm not His son just because I'm not the normal type.
By the way, what's normal? I've met so many good people here, I've learned a lot from them. Is it normal to live in a world where half of the people are dying every day? I daresay no. Is it normal to fall in love with someone, regardless of their gender? I daresay yes. But the church insists in ignoring the first and condemning the second. Know what? I don't need a church that's based on hatred. God is everywhere. I can talk to Him and help His work on Earth on my own.
I still don't know why I'm writing this to you, of all people. I'm not even sure I'll send the letter, I wouldn't know where to. Are you still based in Los Angeles? Have you moved back to your mom's house? I sincerely have no idea.
I loved you once. I've never really stopped. I've seen so much pain and strife that I guess I don't want to slip through this life with this burden in my heart. So I guess this is why I am writing this in the middle of the first snow storm in Calcuta in ages.
I love you. I don't know how it happened, or why it did, but I love you. I don't even expect you to love me back - I'm not such a fool as to actually think that, but God help me, I wish you did. I don't have any right to ask you for a love that maybe was never there between you and me, but all your words, all your actions over the years, have made me believe that maybe, just maybe, there was, once upon a time, a love in your heart that was for me only.
He doesn't even sign. He doesn't write another line, another word, he just stares blankly at the paper and sighs. It isn't his best idea ever, but it's what he needs to do right now. He wipes away his tears and folds the sheet in four before slipping it into a white envelope. He can't go back now - he's too far gone, his feelings so in the open that he can touch them with the tip of his index finger.
He leaves the envelope on top of the stack of letters to be send back home, and closes the door of the small living room, hoping against hope that he hasn't made the worst mistake of his life.