(no subject)
Title: Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas (And Make Your Yuletide Gay)
Author: Fictionarie
Rating: G.
Summary: David is cold.
Disclaimer: They are not mine. If they were, I would be too busy having fun with them to write about it.
A/N: So I was in my car, listening to Dave sing this, and I heard those two lines which, put in a complete different context, just made me giggle. A lot. Just a simple ficlet, a bit of holiday fluff.
David Cook is cold. Cold down to his bones, and he can't remember if he'd ever been this cold before. He stood outside in New York for hours tonight, singing two Christmas songs and 'helping' to light the massive tree at Rockefeller Center. He hasn't been able to feel his fingers for some time now since, unlike Neil, he does not have super cool fingerless gloves. Not that they would have helped his fingers, though. Christ, even his brain is frozen now, isn't it? After the performances, after the cameras stopped rolling, he stayed outside, talking to fans, posing for pictures, trying to hold a sharpie in his numb hands. All he wanted to do now was get back to the hotel, find hot chocolate, a hot shower and a pile of blankets. Fumbling, he managed to pull his iPhone out of his pocket, checking to see if Michael had called, he was in LA, and David wanted to know if he had seen the performance, what he thought. Nothing. Worst. Boyfriend. Ever.
Making it into his hotel room, David doesn't even bother turning on the lights. His face is still slightly frozen as he just starts pulling clothing off, wanting to get into the shower as soon as possible. Which is when he hears a noise. Standing there in his boxers, socks, sweater and leather jacket, he freezes. He is not alone in the room.
"Nice job fucking up the lyrics, Cook. A sixty-some year old song, and you can't even remember that. Judy Garland is crying somewhere. In her drug induced haze."
Fumbling, David gropes for the light switch, blinking as he flips it on to see Michael lounging on the bed, giving him that perfect shit eating grin that he just wants to wipe off his face with his tongue. "It was cold," he whines, pouting at his boyfriend, not even questioning as to why he's here instead of across the country. "You try playing guitar, singing and not screwing up on national television in subzero temperatures."
Michael just laughed as David managed to get down to just his boxers and a t-shirt as he made his way over to the bed, his cheeks still red from the cold. "Oh, come here you big baby." Wrapping his arms around David, he can feel how cool his skin is to the touch, pulling them both down to the bed, twisting their bodies together. Kissing his temple, Michael slips out of the bed to kill the lights before joining him once more, pulling the blankets tightly up.
Outside, the Christmas lights strung up on the hotel cast a pale light on them through the window and inside, David finally finds warmth.
Author: Fictionarie
Rating: G.
Summary: David is cold.
Disclaimer: They are not mine. If they were, I would be too busy having fun with them to write about it.
A/N: So I was in my car, listening to Dave sing this, and I heard those two lines which, put in a complete different context, just made me giggle. A lot. Just a simple ficlet, a bit of holiday fluff.
David Cook is cold. Cold down to his bones, and he can't remember if he'd ever been this cold before. He stood outside in New York for hours tonight, singing two Christmas songs and 'helping' to light the massive tree at Rockefeller Center. He hasn't been able to feel his fingers for some time now since, unlike Neil, he does not have super cool fingerless gloves. Not that they would have helped his fingers, though. Christ, even his brain is frozen now, isn't it? After the performances, after the cameras stopped rolling, he stayed outside, talking to fans, posing for pictures, trying to hold a sharpie in his numb hands. All he wanted to do now was get back to the hotel, find hot chocolate, a hot shower and a pile of blankets. Fumbling, he managed to pull his iPhone out of his pocket, checking to see if Michael had called, he was in LA, and David wanted to know if he had seen the performance, what he thought. Nothing. Worst. Boyfriend. Ever.
Making it into his hotel room, David doesn't even bother turning on the lights. His face is still slightly frozen as he just starts pulling clothing off, wanting to get into the shower as soon as possible. Which is when he hears a noise. Standing there in his boxers, socks, sweater and leather jacket, he freezes. He is not alone in the room.
"Nice job fucking up the lyrics, Cook. A sixty-some year old song, and you can't even remember that. Judy Garland is crying somewhere. In her drug induced haze."
Fumbling, David gropes for the light switch, blinking as he flips it on to see Michael lounging on the bed, giving him that perfect shit eating grin that he just wants to wipe off his face with his tongue. "It was cold," he whines, pouting at his boyfriend, not even questioning as to why he's here instead of across the country. "You try playing guitar, singing and not screwing up on national television in subzero temperatures."
Michael just laughed as David managed to get down to just his boxers and a t-shirt as he made his way over to the bed, his cheeks still red from the cold. "Oh, come here you big baby." Wrapping his arms around David, he can feel how cool his skin is to the touch, pulling them both down to the bed, twisting their bodies together. Kissing his temple, Michael slips out of the bed to kill the lights before joining him once more, pulling the blankets tightly up.
Outside, the Christmas lights strung up on the hotel cast a pale light on them through the window and inside, David finally finds warmth.