american idol // cook&skib // don't give up on us
Title: don't give up on us.
Summary: out of everyone, andy is the one who actually gets it, the only one who’s legitimately excited for david when he tells him the news.
Rating: r.
Author's Note: so this was dying to be written. in case you're unsure, andy skib is david cook's pre-idol friend and lead singer of his former band, midwest kings. here is an adorable interview of him, and here he is making an appearance in david's latest vlog. i don't know much about andy, but as you hopefully know, this is fiction and intended to be simply that. :]
~3376 words.
Out of everyone, Andy is the one who actually gets it, the only one who’s legitimately excited for him when he tells him the news.
Even though David pretends it’s no big deal, like he got forced to audition and he just begrudgingly went along with it, Andy sees through his blasé bullshit and calls him out on it, and soon enough they’re both grinning like little kids and eagerly discussing impractical outcomes of this “little singing show.” And David hasn’t even left the stadium.
“You’ll be as big as Hannah Montana!” Andy informs him over the phone, just to piss him off. David can tell he’s smirking. “You’ll open for, like, Justin Timberlake!”
“I don’t want to open for Justin Timberlake,” David complains, and he’s laughing, but Andy’s not paying attention. He rarely does.
“No wait! Justin Timberlake will open for you! And they’ll play your music video on TRL all the time. Maybe you can go on tour with the Jonas Brothers, I hear they’re pretty hot right now.”
The conversation continues that way for another twenty minutes, until David threatens him for the thirty-seventh time that he’s going to hang up, seriously, and then after one last Clay Aiken comparison (“no offense, man, but he is so much hotter”), he actually does.
Andy calls him back a minute later, and when David answers - how could he not? - his tone is completely different. “I’m excited for you, David. I really am,” Andy tells him, and David sort of smiles in an embarrassed but happy kind of way.
“Thanks, Andy,” he says, running his hand through his hair. He turns his back to his brother so that he doesn’t overhear (because he knows he’s using what Andrew calls his bitch voice), and clears his throat. “I knew you would be.”
***
They have a sleepover (Man Party, they call it, because the term sleepover is so gay) the night before David has to fly out to California. David brings the beer and music, and Andy - like always - brings the popcorn. He has some weird affinity for buttery popcorn (“it’s a party staple,” he explained once, like that was enough of a reason) and even though David doesn’t like it that much, they end up popping and finishing three whole bags by midnight.
“What do you think it’s going to be like?” David asks casually around two in the morning, as if Andy had been there, done that, as if he’d have any clue. He’s draped over a beanbag chair in the corner of his room, periodically sipping a warm beer. An old Midwest Kings song is playing softly behind him (they just like to criticize themselves, they agree every time they go to play it, although secretly they both think this CD is the shit) but neither of them even notice it anymore.
Andy doesn’t have to ask what he means. He jumps up to grab another drink, and when he comes back, he sits close to David, right by his feet. “Weird,” he answers seriously, thoughtfully. He rubs his chin. “At first, anyway.”
“Yeah,” David nods, and then decides he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s overwhelming and not-so-subtly reminds him that, fuck, he’s not even done packing yet.
Andy sighs and leans against David’s legs, very naturally. His fingers creep over the bones in David’s foot. “Promise you won’t forget me?” he says, lifting his eyebrows.
David laughs, because it sort of tickles and because he’s being ridiculous, and ruffles his hair affectionately. “How could I? I’m sure you’ll be texting me a million times a day.”
“A million and one,” Andy corrects him. He props his head up on David’s knee. “I’ll understand if you don’t answer, though, I’m sure you’ll be getting cozy with Clay Aiken.”
“Oh, shut up.” David bends forward until his face is only a few inches from Andy’s. He smiles, one hand circling the back of Andy’s neck, and they each make a face and press their foreheads together for a tiny, infinitesimal amount of time.
“Shit, man, you reek of butter,” David laughs, pushing him away, and the moment’s gone, just like that. Andy shoves him back and within seconds they’re wrestling across the carpet, knocking over their beers and making enough noise to cause David’s brother to throw a shoe or something at their door (his way of not-so-politely telling them to shut the fuck up).
They do, eventually, shut the fuck up, but not before collapsing in a sweaty, panting heap on the carpet. “I’ll miss you, dude,” Andy tells him sincerely, wrapping an arm around David’s neck and pulling him into an awkward hug.
“You can visit me,” David offers, without even knowing if that’s true. Maybe he’s not allowed.
“I will,” Andy promises. Whatever. They’ll find a way.
***
Sometime early on - he’s not really sure when, it might’ve been the Top 24 - he starts calling Andy every night. Even if he doesn’t have a reason; sometimes Andy will answer the phone and the only thing David has to tell him is, “Hey, want to hear this joke Michael told me today?” and Andy plays along and laughs when he’s supposed to, and listens when he’s not.
He describes Andy to the guys like he’s his little brother or, he doesn’t know, his son. Not even on purpose, okay, he’s just really proud of him. That’s all.
“He’s amazing,” he tells Michael one night, each lying in their respective beds. He’s not even sure how the subject was brought up, but still, he’s got plenty to say. “His voice is flawless. Seriously. And he’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. I mean, my parents love him.”
“You talk about him like he’s your boyfriend,” Michael observes, laughing, and even though he means it harmlessly, David sort of freezes up.
“I do?” he says, blinking in surprise. He clears his throat. “He’s - he’s not…”
Michael snorts, rolling over to face him. “I know, mate! I know. You just talk about him really… affectionately.” When he sees David’s face, he rolls his eyes and adds, “It’s not a bad thing. Lighten up, Dave.” He reaches over and turns off his lamp, plunging the room into both darkness and silence, and leaving David alone to his thoughts. (Do I really think of him that way? Of course not, Michael’s full of shit.)
David has gotten into the habit of telling Andy every little detail about his day, but when he calls him the next night (“you’re acting really weird,” Andy tells him almost right away, and then he thinks maybe I do think of him that way), despite his pressing urge to tell him just so they can laugh about how insane it is (and it is insane, so insane), he leaves the conversation with Michael out.
He’s not sure Andy would think it was that funny. (Maybe because it’s true.)
***
Everyone loves Andy.
That’s entirely expected, David knows, but there was a period of about four seconds where he was jogging (okay, sprinting) down the stairs to meet him for the first time in, like, weeks and he had the sudden and horrible thought what if he hates them? or, even worse, what if they hate him?
But it’s not that way - probably never could be that way, because Andy is entirely unhateable - and every single one of them genuinely seems to like Andy. The girls fall in love with him at first sight. David’s pulling him around the room like he’s some sort of human show-and-tell, beaming all proudly, practically shoving him into everyone’s face like look, this is my Andy! and if anyone’s overwhelmed or annoyed, they don’t make it known.
Michael and Andy especially seem to click at once, over some dumb joke that goes right over David’s head. He’s glad his new best friend and his old best friend get along so well, but for a moment he’s got that irrational middle school idea that they’ll start to like each other more than they like him, that they’ll abandon him and run off and forget all about him.
He immediately pushes the thought away when Andy stifles a yawn and turns to him. “It’s been a long night,” he says pointedly, and David understands that he means he’s ready to head upstairs to their room. Michael and Jason have graciously agreed to crash in a different room for the night (because Andy needs a bed, David tells himself, not because they think we’re going to be doing stuff) so they say their goodnights and head up alone.
“They’re cool,” Andy says in the elevator, as if he’d been doubting that fact despite what David told him over the phone. He loops his arm around David’s shoulders. “Not as cool as you, though,” he adds, and jokingly flicks his ear.
“I bet you feel awesome,” David says, ducking out of Andy’s grip when the doors slide open, “getting to hang out with one of the American Idols. A million little girls would love to be you right now, you know.”
Andy snorts. “Whatever, narcissist. Where’s your room? I really have to pee.”
Unlocking the door, David hopes he remembered to pick up his dirty clothes that morning - and then mentally kicks himself for even thinking that, because this is Andy, and Andy has definitely seen clothes dirtier than anything in here, and when the hell have they ever cleaned for each other? And anyway, Andy rushes straight into the bathroom without pause, so it’s not like it matters.
Still, though, David sort of straightens the blankets on his own bed - because there are three in the room, and he’s willing to let Andy have first pick - and is hauling his suitcase to one of the dressers when the bathroom door opens.
Andy comes into the room with the end of a toothbrush poking out of his mouth. He jiggles it around as he turns on the spot and surveys the room. “This is it?” he says when he’s done, facing David. “You guys are on, like, the most famous show on TV, and they give you these boring rooms?”
David shrugs. He kind of likes this room. It’s home away from home, anyway, and it’s not like he has a choice. He glances over at Andy and narrows his eyes. “Is that my toothbrush?”
Stifling back a smirk, Andy pops the toothbrush out and peers at it. “Oh,” he says, like he’s totally surprised. “I guess it is. Whoops.”
He runs back into the bathroom just in time to dodge the pillow launched at his head.
***
The night plays out like any random night at David’s or Andy’s; a lot of roughhousing, something ends up broken, they pull out their guitars and mess around and sing (and for a minute they sound good, but then Andy starts laughing, and pretty soon, they’re making up raps and beatboxing and the guitars go completely forgotten), and eventually, hours too late, they decide they better get to sleep.
“Which bed do you want?” David asks, biting back a yawn. He splays his hand across the three options, in his best Vanna White impersonation, but then Andy gives him a weird look.
“You choose first,” he says, and David’s freaking tired and not about to argue, so he kicks his shoes off, strips down to his boxers, and crawls into his own bed, under the covers.
Andy follows suit. Literally follows suit, because he’s undressing (it’s not like they’re modest around each other, definitely not) but then he’s walking towards David’s bed and then he’s lifting the corner of the blanket and then he’s sliding in right next to David.
This is new, David thinks, and not in an entirely pleasant way, because it’s weird, or at least, it should be. “What are you doing?” he asks, and he tries to keep his voice light and joking, but he can’t, not right now.
Andy turns to look at him. “I missed you,” he says simply, “and I don’t feel right sleeping in those other dudes’ beds, and yours looks comfy, and -” He breaks off, amused. Apparently this is not a Big Deal to him like it is to David. “Don’t have a heart attack, David. I can get out… if you want me to.”
If he wants him to. Does he want him to? (No, David thinks, too quickly, and because of that, yes, he does want him to.) “It’s your choice,” he finally says, which is the wrong answer, because Andy just sort of nods happily and inches the blankets up. They’re like centimeters away from each other, and they’re shirtless, okay. This is not normal.
But none of that matters, he guesses, because within seconds, Andy is asleep and breathing heavily, steadily. David turns on his side (away from Andy) and stares into the darkness, pretending not to feel Andy’s arm against his back.
***
Sometime during the night, he rolls over, and the silence jostles him out of sleep. Andy snores, and okay, it’s a soft snore, but right now, there’s no snoring at all. Which means he’s awake.
Something warm - a hand, he realizes, Andy’s hand - touches his arm a second later. “You up?” Andy whispers, his voice sleep-clogged and sort of dreamy.
David lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he whispers back, and maybe he’s imagining it, but something’s different. He blinks and tries to get his eyes to adjust to the dark.
Andy’s hand travels up David’s shoulder, to his collarbone, to his neck. “David,” he says, quietly, and then he’s moving closer, and the bed’s sinking between them, and he has no clue what’s happening but he doesn’t mind it, much, either.
If Andy weren’t rubbing circles into the skin below his ear, David would think this was a dream, but he is, and it’s way too real, and then Andy’s pressing his forehead against David’s, and it’s totally different than the time at David’s house, but also sort of not, and when he breathes the words, “I miss you so much,” David feels them throughout his entire body, and he closes his eyes, and Andy presses his lips against his, tentatively, like he’s testing it out.
David reacts - how could he not? - and then they’re kissing, and it’s disorienting and sort of sloppy and completely perfect, and they’re kicking the blankets away, and if all it takes is being away for a month or two for Andy to kiss him like this, then he should have tried out for American Idol a long, long time ago.
***
When David wakes up, the bed is empty. That’s the first indication that last night didn’t really happen - and he has to glance over and see Andy’s suitcase before he can even reassure himself that Andy really is visiting - but then he presses his fingers against his lips, and they’re puffy and swollen in the good way, and that can only mean one thing.
The bathroom door swings open, and Andy enters in a towel, fresh from the shower, humming. “Morning,” he says to David, running a hand through his damp hair, and David wonders if they’re supposed to talk about what happened or pretend it never happened.
“Shower’s all yours,” Andy says, and so David assumes it’s the latter. But then Andy grabs a tshirt and turns away from David, and he says, “Shit, David, cut your nails, look what you did to me,” and David feels guilty but kind of turned on, too, when he sees the scratch marks on Andy’s back.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, clumsily, because what else do you say to that? It’ll never happen again?
Andy smiles at him. “It’s cool. You better jump in the shower, though, I think that Michael guy was knocking on the door ten minutes ago. He left kind of quickly when I opened the door naked.”
David’s heart sort of stops at that, but then Andy rolls his eyes and says, “I’m kidding, Cook,” and then he launches a towel at David’s head and orders him into the shower, like a mom or a chaperone (or a boyfriend, David thinks, and then mentally rolls his eyes).
He hops in the shower, alone, and just when he’s squeezing shampoo into his hand, he can hear Andy singing in the bedroom. He smiles into the shower spray. He could get used to this.
***
They don’t talk anymore about what happened, because Andy’s plane is at nine that night, and they’re not alone for a minute until then. David can’t even drive him to the airport because the producers (stupid fucking producers) schedule an impromptu meeting about rehearsals, so after dinner, David helps him pack his suitcase and tries to think of an appropriate way to say goodbye.
But Andy doesn’t do appropriate and before they even have it zipped, he abandons his stuff and pulls David into a hug that’s less awkward than it should be. He presses his face into David’s shoulder and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Are you okay with last night?” he asks, and it’s weird because he looks nervous, and Andy Skib does not do nervous. “I know it’s pretty… crazy.”
“Yeah, well.” David punches him lightly on the shoulder, to bring some balance back into the room. It’s the kind of shift that happens when they change the name sleepover to Man Party; it’s the same idea, but it makes him feel better. “I’m more than okay,” he finally says, trying not to sound too eager. “And, you know, I’d be more than okay if it happened again…”
Andy laughs and turns back to his belongings. “Call me when you’re the American Idol,” he winks, hauling his suitcase off the dresser. “I’ll be on the first flight out.”
For a moment, as he’s brushing by, David thinks Andy’s going to kiss him - and it’s ridiculous, he’s the older one, why doesn’t he just kiss Andy? - but then the moment passes and nothing happens. Andy flashes him a grin and heads out the door.
***
David does call him when he’s the American Idol. In fact, it’s the first phone call he makes, and even though a lot of people say they’re excited for him, the only one he trusts is Andy.
It’s late, probably too late to call (but Andy answers on the first ring, anyway) and he’s only just managed to escape the press hounds and the congratulators and the fans - and he loves his fans, he really does, he’s just dying to talk to Andy, and so when he picks up, he grins and says simply, “Well?”
“You’re no Clay Aiken,” Andy says, but David can tell he’s grinning and so he laughs, too. “Man, David. You’re amazing, you know that?”
“Oh, come on.” The last thing David wants is for this to be weird, for Andy to act like he’s someone different now. He clears his throat. “I believe you made me a promise,” he says, changing the subject. “Something about you… and a plane…”
“Did I?” Andy says, and David can picture him rubbing his chin like he always does. His stomach flips over involuntarily. “Hmm, doesn’t sound familiar.”
He could probably make himself sound less desperate, if he tried, but he hardly cares anymore. “Andy,” he says in a whiney voice. “I want to see you.”
There’s a pause on the other line, and then the sound of Andy’s muffled laughter. “Then maybe you should come to the hotel lobby,” he says, and David nearly drops the phone.
“I swear, Andy, if you’re fucking with me -” he threatens him, except he’s already pressing the elevator button. Okay, repeatedly.
A moment later, the doors slide open. Andy grins at him, in the got you! kind of way, lowering his cell phone. “Hey,” he says, and David reaches out and grabs his shirt and pulls him closer, because it’s not going to be like last time, he’s not going to let the moment pass him by, and so he leans in and kisses him, hard.
“Good to see you too,” Andy mumbles, laughing, against David’s lips.
“Andy.” He kisses him again, softer this time, and just once, but then he pulls away. “You taste like popcorn,” he complains, wrinkling his nose.
“My bad,” Andy shrugs, snagging David’s hotel room key from his hand and heading for the door. He pauses and glances over his shoulder. “Is that going to stop you?” he asks, disappearing inside the room.
David doesn’t pause for a second. “Nope,” he says, eagerly, and follows him inside.
Summary: out of everyone, andy is the one who actually gets it, the only one who’s legitimately excited for david when he tells him the news.
Rating: r.
Author's Note: so this was dying to be written. in case you're unsure, andy skib is david cook's pre-idol friend and lead singer of his former band, midwest kings. here is an adorable interview of him, and here he is making an appearance in david's latest vlog. i don't know much about andy, but as you hopefully know, this is fiction and intended to be simply that. :]
~3376 words.
Out of everyone, Andy is the one who actually gets it, the only one who’s legitimately excited for him when he tells him the news.
Even though David pretends it’s no big deal, like he got forced to audition and he just begrudgingly went along with it, Andy sees through his blasé bullshit and calls him out on it, and soon enough they’re both grinning like little kids and eagerly discussing impractical outcomes of this “little singing show.” And David hasn’t even left the stadium.
“You’ll be as big as Hannah Montana!” Andy informs him over the phone, just to piss him off. David can tell he’s smirking. “You’ll open for, like, Justin Timberlake!”
“I don’t want to open for Justin Timberlake,” David complains, and he’s laughing, but Andy’s not paying attention. He rarely does.
“No wait! Justin Timberlake will open for you! And they’ll play your music video on TRL all the time. Maybe you can go on tour with the Jonas Brothers, I hear they’re pretty hot right now.”
The conversation continues that way for another twenty minutes, until David threatens him for the thirty-seventh time that he’s going to hang up, seriously, and then after one last Clay Aiken comparison (“no offense, man, but he is so much hotter”), he actually does.
Andy calls him back a minute later, and when David answers - how could he not? - his tone is completely different. “I’m excited for you, David. I really am,” Andy tells him, and David sort of smiles in an embarrassed but happy kind of way.
“Thanks, Andy,” he says, running his hand through his hair. He turns his back to his brother so that he doesn’t overhear (because he knows he’s using what Andrew calls his bitch voice), and clears his throat. “I knew you would be.”
***
They have a sleepover (Man Party, they call it, because the term sleepover is so gay) the night before David has to fly out to California. David brings the beer and music, and Andy - like always - brings the popcorn. He has some weird affinity for buttery popcorn (“it’s a party staple,” he explained once, like that was enough of a reason) and even though David doesn’t like it that much, they end up popping and finishing three whole bags by midnight.
“What do you think it’s going to be like?” David asks casually around two in the morning, as if Andy had been there, done that, as if he’d have any clue. He’s draped over a beanbag chair in the corner of his room, periodically sipping a warm beer. An old Midwest Kings song is playing softly behind him (they just like to criticize themselves, they agree every time they go to play it, although secretly they both think this CD is the shit) but neither of them even notice it anymore.
Andy doesn’t have to ask what he means. He jumps up to grab another drink, and when he comes back, he sits close to David, right by his feet. “Weird,” he answers seriously, thoughtfully. He rubs his chin. “At first, anyway.”
“Yeah,” David nods, and then decides he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s overwhelming and not-so-subtly reminds him that, fuck, he’s not even done packing yet.
Andy sighs and leans against David’s legs, very naturally. His fingers creep over the bones in David’s foot. “Promise you won’t forget me?” he says, lifting his eyebrows.
David laughs, because it sort of tickles and because he’s being ridiculous, and ruffles his hair affectionately. “How could I? I’m sure you’ll be texting me a million times a day.”
“A million and one,” Andy corrects him. He props his head up on David’s knee. “I’ll understand if you don’t answer, though, I’m sure you’ll be getting cozy with Clay Aiken.”
“Oh, shut up.” David bends forward until his face is only a few inches from Andy’s. He smiles, one hand circling the back of Andy’s neck, and they each make a face and press their foreheads together for a tiny, infinitesimal amount of time.
“Shit, man, you reek of butter,” David laughs, pushing him away, and the moment’s gone, just like that. Andy shoves him back and within seconds they’re wrestling across the carpet, knocking over their beers and making enough noise to cause David’s brother to throw a shoe or something at their door (his way of not-so-politely telling them to shut the fuck up).
They do, eventually, shut the fuck up, but not before collapsing in a sweaty, panting heap on the carpet. “I’ll miss you, dude,” Andy tells him sincerely, wrapping an arm around David’s neck and pulling him into an awkward hug.
“You can visit me,” David offers, without even knowing if that’s true. Maybe he’s not allowed.
“I will,” Andy promises. Whatever. They’ll find a way.
***
Sometime early on - he’s not really sure when, it might’ve been the Top 24 - he starts calling Andy every night. Even if he doesn’t have a reason; sometimes Andy will answer the phone and the only thing David has to tell him is, “Hey, want to hear this joke Michael told me today?” and Andy plays along and laughs when he’s supposed to, and listens when he’s not.
He describes Andy to the guys like he’s his little brother or, he doesn’t know, his son. Not even on purpose, okay, he’s just really proud of him. That’s all.
“He’s amazing,” he tells Michael one night, each lying in their respective beds. He’s not even sure how the subject was brought up, but still, he’s got plenty to say. “His voice is flawless. Seriously. And he’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. I mean, my parents love him.”
“You talk about him like he’s your boyfriend,” Michael observes, laughing, and even though he means it harmlessly, David sort of freezes up.
“I do?” he says, blinking in surprise. He clears his throat. “He’s - he’s not…”
Michael snorts, rolling over to face him. “I know, mate! I know. You just talk about him really… affectionately.” When he sees David’s face, he rolls his eyes and adds, “It’s not a bad thing. Lighten up, Dave.” He reaches over and turns off his lamp, plunging the room into both darkness and silence, and leaving David alone to his thoughts. (Do I really think of him that way? Of course not, Michael’s full of shit.)
David has gotten into the habit of telling Andy every little detail about his day, but when he calls him the next night (“you’re acting really weird,” Andy tells him almost right away, and then he thinks maybe I do think of him that way), despite his pressing urge to tell him just so they can laugh about how insane it is (and it is insane, so insane), he leaves the conversation with Michael out.
He’s not sure Andy would think it was that funny. (Maybe because it’s true.)
***
Everyone loves Andy.
That’s entirely expected, David knows, but there was a period of about four seconds where he was jogging (okay, sprinting) down the stairs to meet him for the first time in, like, weeks and he had the sudden and horrible thought what if he hates them? or, even worse, what if they hate him?
But it’s not that way - probably never could be that way, because Andy is entirely unhateable - and every single one of them genuinely seems to like Andy. The girls fall in love with him at first sight. David’s pulling him around the room like he’s some sort of human show-and-tell, beaming all proudly, practically shoving him into everyone’s face like look, this is my Andy! and if anyone’s overwhelmed or annoyed, they don’t make it known.
Michael and Andy especially seem to click at once, over some dumb joke that goes right over David’s head. He’s glad his new best friend and his old best friend get along so well, but for a moment he’s got that irrational middle school idea that they’ll start to like each other more than they like him, that they’ll abandon him and run off and forget all about him.
He immediately pushes the thought away when Andy stifles a yawn and turns to him. “It’s been a long night,” he says pointedly, and David understands that he means he’s ready to head upstairs to their room. Michael and Jason have graciously agreed to crash in a different room for the night (because Andy needs a bed, David tells himself, not because they think we’re going to be doing stuff) so they say their goodnights and head up alone.
“They’re cool,” Andy says in the elevator, as if he’d been doubting that fact despite what David told him over the phone. He loops his arm around David’s shoulders. “Not as cool as you, though,” he adds, and jokingly flicks his ear.
“I bet you feel awesome,” David says, ducking out of Andy’s grip when the doors slide open, “getting to hang out with one of the American Idols. A million little girls would love to be you right now, you know.”
Andy snorts. “Whatever, narcissist. Where’s your room? I really have to pee.”
Unlocking the door, David hopes he remembered to pick up his dirty clothes that morning - and then mentally kicks himself for even thinking that, because this is Andy, and Andy has definitely seen clothes dirtier than anything in here, and when the hell have they ever cleaned for each other? And anyway, Andy rushes straight into the bathroom without pause, so it’s not like it matters.
Still, though, David sort of straightens the blankets on his own bed - because there are three in the room, and he’s willing to let Andy have first pick - and is hauling his suitcase to one of the dressers when the bathroom door opens.
Andy comes into the room with the end of a toothbrush poking out of his mouth. He jiggles it around as he turns on the spot and surveys the room. “This is it?” he says when he’s done, facing David. “You guys are on, like, the most famous show on TV, and they give you these boring rooms?”
David shrugs. He kind of likes this room. It’s home away from home, anyway, and it’s not like he has a choice. He glances over at Andy and narrows his eyes. “Is that my toothbrush?”
Stifling back a smirk, Andy pops the toothbrush out and peers at it. “Oh,” he says, like he’s totally surprised. “I guess it is. Whoops.”
He runs back into the bathroom just in time to dodge the pillow launched at his head.
***
The night plays out like any random night at David’s or Andy’s; a lot of roughhousing, something ends up broken, they pull out their guitars and mess around and sing (and for a minute they sound good, but then Andy starts laughing, and pretty soon, they’re making up raps and beatboxing and the guitars go completely forgotten), and eventually, hours too late, they decide they better get to sleep.
“Which bed do you want?” David asks, biting back a yawn. He splays his hand across the three options, in his best Vanna White impersonation, but then Andy gives him a weird look.
“You choose first,” he says, and David’s freaking tired and not about to argue, so he kicks his shoes off, strips down to his boxers, and crawls into his own bed, under the covers.
Andy follows suit. Literally follows suit, because he’s undressing (it’s not like they’re modest around each other, definitely not) but then he’s walking towards David’s bed and then he’s lifting the corner of the blanket and then he’s sliding in right next to David.
This is new, David thinks, and not in an entirely pleasant way, because it’s weird, or at least, it should be. “What are you doing?” he asks, and he tries to keep his voice light and joking, but he can’t, not right now.
Andy turns to look at him. “I missed you,” he says simply, “and I don’t feel right sleeping in those other dudes’ beds, and yours looks comfy, and -” He breaks off, amused. Apparently this is not a Big Deal to him like it is to David. “Don’t have a heart attack, David. I can get out… if you want me to.”
If he wants him to. Does he want him to? (No, David thinks, too quickly, and because of that, yes, he does want him to.) “It’s your choice,” he finally says, which is the wrong answer, because Andy just sort of nods happily and inches the blankets up. They’re like centimeters away from each other, and they’re shirtless, okay. This is not normal.
But none of that matters, he guesses, because within seconds, Andy is asleep and breathing heavily, steadily. David turns on his side (away from Andy) and stares into the darkness, pretending not to feel Andy’s arm against his back.
***
Sometime during the night, he rolls over, and the silence jostles him out of sleep. Andy snores, and okay, it’s a soft snore, but right now, there’s no snoring at all. Which means he’s awake.
Something warm - a hand, he realizes, Andy’s hand - touches his arm a second later. “You up?” Andy whispers, his voice sleep-clogged and sort of dreamy.
David lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he whispers back, and maybe he’s imagining it, but something’s different. He blinks and tries to get his eyes to adjust to the dark.
Andy’s hand travels up David’s shoulder, to his collarbone, to his neck. “David,” he says, quietly, and then he’s moving closer, and the bed’s sinking between them, and he has no clue what’s happening but he doesn’t mind it, much, either.
If Andy weren’t rubbing circles into the skin below his ear, David would think this was a dream, but he is, and it’s way too real, and then Andy’s pressing his forehead against David’s, and it’s totally different than the time at David’s house, but also sort of not, and when he breathes the words, “I miss you so much,” David feels them throughout his entire body, and he closes his eyes, and Andy presses his lips against his, tentatively, like he’s testing it out.
David reacts - how could he not? - and then they’re kissing, and it’s disorienting and sort of sloppy and completely perfect, and they’re kicking the blankets away, and if all it takes is being away for a month or two for Andy to kiss him like this, then he should have tried out for American Idol a long, long time ago.
***
When David wakes up, the bed is empty. That’s the first indication that last night didn’t really happen - and he has to glance over and see Andy’s suitcase before he can even reassure himself that Andy really is visiting - but then he presses his fingers against his lips, and they’re puffy and swollen in the good way, and that can only mean one thing.
The bathroom door swings open, and Andy enters in a towel, fresh from the shower, humming. “Morning,” he says to David, running a hand through his damp hair, and David wonders if they’re supposed to talk about what happened or pretend it never happened.
“Shower’s all yours,” Andy says, and so David assumes it’s the latter. But then Andy grabs a tshirt and turns away from David, and he says, “Shit, David, cut your nails, look what you did to me,” and David feels guilty but kind of turned on, too, when he sees the scratch marks on Andy’s back.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, clumsily, because what else do you say to that? It’ll never happen again?
Andy smiles at him. “It’s cool. You better jump in the shower, though, I think that Michael guy was knocking on the door ten minutes ago. He left kind of quickly when I opened the door naked.”
David’s heart sort of stops at that, but then Andy rolls his eyes and says, “I’m kidding, Cook,” and then he launches a towel at David’s head and orders him into the shower, like a mom or a chaperone (or a boyfriend, David thinks, and then mentally rolls his eyes).
He hops in the shower, alone, and just when he’s squeezing shampoo into his hand, he can hear Andy singing in the bedroom. He smiles into the shower spray. He could get used to this.
***
They don’t talk anymore about what happened, because Andy’s plane is at nine that night, and they’re not alone for a minute until then. David can’t even drive him to the airport because the producers (stupid fucking producers) schedule an impromptu meeting about rehearsals, so after dinner, David helps him pack his suitcase and tries to think of an appropriate way to say goodbye.
But Andy doesn’t do appropriate and before they even have it zipped, he abandons his stuff and pulls David into a hug that’s less awkward than it should be. He presses his face into David’s shoulder and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Are you okay with last night?” he asks, and it’s weird because he looks nervous, and Andy Skib does not do nervous. “I know it’s pretty… crazy.”
“Yeah, well.” David punches him lightly on the shoulder, to bring some balance back into the room. It’s the kind of shift that happens when they change the name sleepover to Man Party; it’s the same idea, but it makes him feel better. “I’m more than okay,” he finally says, trying not to sound too eager. “And, you know, I’d be more than okay if it happened again…”
Andy laughs and turns back to his belongings. “Call me when you’re the American Idol,” he winks, hauling his suitcase off the dresser. “I’ll be on the first flight out.”
For a moment, as he’s brushing by, David thinks Andy’s going to kiss him - and it’s ridiculous, he’s the older one, why doesn’t he just kiss Andy? - but then the moment passes and nothing happens. Andy flashes him a grin and heads out the door.
***
David does call him when he’s the American Idol. In fact, it’s the first phone call he makes, and even though a lot of people say they’re excited for him, the only one he trusts is Andy.
It’s late, probably too late to call (but Andy answers on the first ring, anyway) and he’s only just managed to escape the press hounds and the congratulators and the fans - and he loves his fans, he really does, he’s just dying to talk to Andy, and so when he picks up, he grins and says simply, “Well?”
“You’re no Clay Aiken,” Andy says, but David can tell he’s grinning and so he laughs, too. “Man, David. You’re amazing, you know that?”
“Oh, come on.” The last thing David wants is for this to be weird, for Andy to act like he’s someone different now. He clears his throat. “I believe you made me a promise,” he says, changing the subject. “Something about you… and a plane…”
“Did I?” Andy says, and David can picture him rubbing his chin like he always does. His stomach flips over involuntarily. “Hmm, doesn’t sound familiar.”
He could probably make himself sound less desperate, if he tried, but he hardly cares anymore. “Andy,” he says in a whiney voice. “I want to see you.”
There’s a pause on the other line, and then the sound of Andy’s muffled laughter. “Then maybe you should come to the hotel lobby,” he says, and David nearly drops the phone.
“I swear, Andy, if you’re fucking with me -” he threatens him, except he’s already pressing the elevator button. Okay, repeatedly.
A moment later, the doors slide open. Andy grins at him, in the got you! kind of way, lowering his cell phone. “Hey,” he says, and David reaches out and grabs his shirt and pulls him closer, because it’s not going to be like last time, he’s not going to let the moment pass him by, and so he leans in and kisses him, hard.
“Good to see you too,” Andy mumbles, laughing, against David’s lips.
“Andy.” He kisses him again, softer this time, and just once, but then he pulls away. “You taste like popcorn,” he complains, wrinkling his nose.
“My bad,” Andy shrugs, snagging David’s hotel room key from his hand and heading for the door. He pauses and glances over his shoulder. “Is that going to stop you?” he asks, disappearing inside the room.
David doesn’t pause for a second. “Nope,” he says, eagerly, and follows him inside.