american idol // david&david // sooner surrender.
Title: sooner surrender.
Summary: it's not david archuleta that’s bugging david cook. it's more… his presence.
Rating: pg13.
~6693 words.
There are a lot of things you hate about being on this plane.
It’s not the flying part, because you conquered that fear years ago, and it’s not the crappy peanuts or the corny in-flight movie. You can live with those.
Mostly, it’s the kid sitting next to you. You don’t like sitting next to kids on planes. They’re loud, obnoxious, and generally rude to their fellow passengers. And, you think, they have no respect for privacy. Because there is only one armrest, and you’re the adult here, so it should obviously be yours, but no. The kid is selfishly hogging it.
Okay, so the kid is David Archuleta, and you’re pretty sure he’s the farthest thing from selfish. Ever. He’s definitely not being loud or obnoxious-he’s barely said a word the entire time, except “oh gosh, oops” when he accidentally spilled his water down the front of his jeans, and “wow, Cook, look!” when he glanced out the window and pointed to the scenery below-and as for rude… you’re not sure he even knows how to fake it.
It’s not him that’s bugging you. It’s more… his presence. You’re not even sure why you’re both here. Why they stuck you on the same flight. Why he’s sitting right next to you. The two of you just came in first and second place on one of the most popular TV shows in the world. Surely they could afford separate flights. Or… seats. Or something.
You sort of feel bad, not wanting to be here. Especially when Archie’s so excited, so optimistic about it all.
But you can’t be excited, not right now. Not with him so close. Not with his arm unintentionally pressing against your side. You almost wish it was intentional, because then you could casually push it away. You could make a joke about it, and he would laugh, but he would shift in his seat and he would stop touching you. Probably for the rest of the flight. And that would be ideal.
Sure, you could easily ask him. Hey, Archie, remember that thing called personal space, and how some people value it? Except you’re pretty sure that would mortify him-because seriously, he gets embarrassed so easily-and you won’t do that to him. You can’t do that to him.
So you settle back into your seat, train your eyes on the cheesy movie playing overhead, and try your hardest to completely and wholeheartedly ignore David Archuleta’s existence.
It works.
For about a minute.
“I love this movie,” Archie says suddenly, grabbing your shoulder. You turn his way and flash him a smile, but you can’t force yourself to respond.
Inside, however, you’re thinking one thing. Shit.
***
You don’t hate David Archuleta.
Truthfully, up until a few days ago, you didn’t feel anything for him. Maybe a little bit of the younger brother syndrome. But it’s not like you guys were best friends. You had Michael, and Carly, and Jason, whenever he was awake. And Archie… well, Syesha thought he was cute. And Brooke would always make sure he was included, no matter what you guys were doing.
There were a million reasons you didn’t hang out with him. He was seventeen. You were twenty-five (which is like, a quarter of a century, and holy shit that makes you feel old). In your free time, you messed around with your guitar. Wreaked havoc with Michael. Played tricks on the other contestants. Sometimes, you drank.
When Archie had free time, he did homework. For school. High school, to be exact.
So you went your way and he went his and for the most part, you simply coexisted in the American Idol bubble. There were no life-shaking moments between the two of you. Your paths-despite being so similar; you both knew you were the “front runners,” and yet even that didn’t bring you closer-never really even overlapped.
Until the finale.
Because then, it wasn’t the two of you and everyone else. It was the two of you, period.
And something, maybe in the air, or it might have just been in your mind, shifted. There was this… weirdness. Like when Archie came to your room in the middle of the night and asked if he could crash in your room. And you said yes, because the kid looked terrified, but then he fell asleep on your bed and you got all these awful… feelings, that were hard to repress, and you ended up spending the night on the floor, sans blankets or even pillows. You woke up with a crick in your neck and an urge to throw up that had nothing to do with your sleeping conditions.
You’ve mostly avoided him since then. Well, as much as you possibly could avoid him while being shoved together by the producers at every given chance. You had a few much-needed days off after the finale, where you sat at home and tried to clear your head of everything not normal. (Pedophilic desires, you were pretty sure, were filed under the category not normal).
And you really thought it worked… until you hit the airport, and hey, there he was. Smiling and reaching for a hug that you didn’t dare refuse.
“Cook,” he had said sincerely, burying his head into your shoulder, and you were definitely just imagining that it fit perfectly, of course. “I missed you.” And you knew he meant it, even though it had been like three days, and what could he possibly miss? You are not, you wanted to tell him, worth missing. You’re not worth much, really, once you get past the singing voice and maybe the guitar.
But you didn’t tell him that. What you said was, “Hey, Archie, missed you too,” and you didn’t mean it but he believed you did, and that was all that mattered.
“I can’t wait for New York,” he had said, grabbing your elbow without hesitation. You grinned your false agreement but hurriedly shook him off, pretending you had to make a bathroom run. You were pretty sure he started to follow you, so you ducked into a huge group of tourists until you were completely out of sight.
Perching on one of the toilets, you had to remind yourself how to breathe steadily. You already knew this was going to be a long trip. Somehow, you had to stay away from Archie as much as possible, or else things would be… bad. Really bad. You’re-going-to-jail bad.
You don’t hate David Archuleta. You’re just not sure you can stand to be around him.
***
When the plane begins to land (damn that turbulence) Archie’s fingers twitch like he’s considering latching on to your arm. You lean away from him, a little, and he rethinks his decision, instead gripping tightly the armrest that should be yours.
“I can’t wait to get to the hotel,” he tells you, looking a little pale. “I’m really tired.”
“You could have slept on the plane,” you say, and it comes out more callously than you intended. You should apologize, but you don’t. Whatever.
He blinks and shifts his eyes to the window. “I can’t really sleep on moving things,” he mumbles, like he’s not sure you’re even listening. You’re not, sort of, or at least you’re trying not to. “I’m just waiting until we get to our hotel room, so I can go to bed.”
You stare at him. “Our?” you repeat, lifting your eyebrows. And okay, you could be nicer about it. You just don’t want him to have the wrong idea. “You and I are not sharing a room, Archie.”
He goes bright red and looks, you’re amazed to see, a little insulted and somewhat frustrated. You’ve never seen him angry before, and you figure this is about as close as it will ever get. “I meant me and my dad,” he says, with only the slightest hint of forced politeness, and then he promptly turns his body away from yours and busies himself with one of the airline magazines.
You want to reach out and touch his shoulder, tell him you’re sorry. That you wouldn’t mind sharing a room with him, and that you actually think he’s a great guy, and that despite your bad mood for the past week, you’re excited to do all the interviews and performances with him.
You don’t tell him any of this. He makes a little huffy noise as he scans what to do if the plane explodes in midair, and you practically shove your iPod headphones into your ears because you don’t think you can stand to hear him make any more sounds like that.
The two of you don’t speak for the rest of the afternoon.
***
“I’m being an asshole,” you tell Michael, when he answers on the first ring. It’s kind of pathetic how quickly you dialed his number. Check into the hotel, ride the elevator to the seventh floor, nod once to Archie (whose room is, of course, right across the hall), drop your bags by the door, call Michael Johns. You haven’t even tested the mattress yet, or searched for the key to the mini-bar.
“Am I supposed to be surprised?” he asks, laughing. You can hear his TV volume being lowered in the background. “Why are you being an asshole?”
Sighing, you prop your head up against your fist. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Okay, well, let’s see. Are you being an asshole to everyone around you?” he says in his best psychiatrist voice. Michael has spent a lot of time trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. To be honest, he’s usually pretty good at it.
“No.”
“To one person in particular?”
“Yes.”
“David Archuleta?” he guesses, and you sigh again. He makes a humming noise. “I thought so.”
“So what’s your opinion, Dr. Johns?” You both know you’re only going to take this half-seriously. Mostly it’s to humor you.
“My opinion,” he says, and you’re pretty sure he’s chewing on the phone cord, “is that your problem isn’t with Archie. Your problem is with you.”
You’re silent for a minute, so he continues.
“You know he’s a great kid. And you kind of… envy, so to speak, the fact that he’s only seventeen and hasn’t had to work very hard in life to get where he is. And you hate that everyone expects you to treat him like a little brother, because that’s not how you feel about him at all.”
You’re still silent, but now your heart is beating very fast because everything Michael said is true and how the hell does he know that? Does he know about that night in your room, Archie asleep in your bed and how you couldn’t help but watch him and how you almost reached out to touch him but then he rolled over and scared you witless? Could he sense that?
“Dave?” Michael says, loudly. “You there?”
“Sorry,” you say, and clear your throat. “But you were completely wrong.”
You hang up the phone and chuck it across the room, ignoring all three calls from Michael in the next twenty minutes. Instead, you very monotonously test out the mattress-it’s okay, though a little firm-and find the key to the mini-bar. It’s stocked of all of your favorite drinks, you notice. But then you close the door because you have to wake up early tomorrow and you do not want to be on the Today show, completely hungover. That, you muse, would be a horrible idea.
***
The problem with transitioning from Oklahoma bartender to American Idol is that you haven’t kicked your old habits yet, and that is why you’re awake at three o’clock in the morning and flipping through the channels on TV.
You finally land on some late night talk show, and the host has a very sympathetic face and looks kind of sad that his phones aren’t ringing, and because you’re bored or maybe just sleep-deprived, you decide to give him a call on the hotel telephone. You don’t give yourself time to think about it. You just pick up the receiver and dial.
He doesn’t answer, but some robotic-sounding lady does, and she asks what you want to talk to the host about. “Um,” you say, because you hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Sex?” she prompts you.
“No,” you say, a little too quickly. No way. Sex is off-limits. At least for now.
The robot woman sighs. You wonder how much she must hate her job, receiving all these calls from lonely men with nothing better to do on a Thursday night. “Money problems?” she continues, sounding bored.
You shake your head, but then you remember she can’t see you. “No.”
“All right. How about relationship issues?”
Why not? you think. Maybe the dude will have something helpful to say. At the very least, it ought to be good for a laugh. “Okay,” you agree, shrugging, and she sounds so relieved that she transfers the call right away. The bright blue phone on the TV rings. You watch, amused, as the host answers and suddenly you’re both watching him talk on the television and hearing him in your ear. It’s oddly thrilling.
“Thanks for calling in! Can I get your name?” the host asks, and you blanche for a second.
“Michael,” you improvise, trying to sound convincing. With only a second or two delay, your voice echoes back from the TV. You’re terrified for a second that someone-your mom, maybe, or Simon Cowell-is watching and will recognize you, but then you remember what time it is and you relax, a little.
“Okay, Michael, it’s good to hear from you. I’m told you’ve got some relationship problems tonight. So who’s the woman?”
“Um,” you say.
“A man?” the host corrects himself.
“Sort of,” you say.
“Ahhh.” The host nods his head like the two of you are in on some big secret-he must know that you’re watching him, because you’re pretty sure that wink was intended for you-and he rubs his hands together. “So… you met this person. And they… weren’t what you expected. And now you’re confused about what you really want? Am I right?”
Your throat is thick. “Yes,” you force out, swallowing hard. This guy was good. How did he do that?
“That’s not unusual,” he tells you, and the other fourteen people that are probably watching right now. “You have no control over desires and attractions. And there’s nothing wrong with it. My advice, Michael, is to go for it. You only have this one life. Don’t let other people judge you for following your heart.”
“Yeah?” you say, and you’re starting to get a little excited. Maybe this guy is right, you think. Maybe you should just act on your feelings. Then you could stop being such an asshole to someone completely undeserving.
“Definitely. Thanks for sharing your story, Michael. Plenty of other men wrestle with their confusion about being attracted to transvestites, so let me remind you that you’re not alone in this. Bye now.”
The phone clicks, and you stare at the TV in horrified silence. A transvestite? You want to call him back, explain to him that it’s not someone who used to be a man, it’s just someone who isn’t quite a man yet. But what good would that do? It’s not like he knows who you are.
The absurdity of the situation finally hits you, and you burst out laughing-loud, gut-busting laughter-and you don’t stop laughing until twenty minutes later, when the front desk calls and asks you to keep it down, because the surrounding rooms have filed noise complaints.
Vaguely, you wonder if Archie was the one who called, or maybe his dad. You decide you don’t care. You flip on your stomach and prank call the Home Shopping Network three more times before you even consider trying to sleep.
***
Of course, as things like this always seem to happen to you, Archie is waiting for the elevator when you drag yourself out of bed and into the hallway in the morning. He flashes you a smile that’s half-cheerful but half-anxious, and you nod to him before reaching out and pressing the elevator button. You know he already pushed it. You kind of just want to make a point.
His smile doesn’t falter. “How’d you sleep, Cook?” he asks, and for a second you think he’s being smug-maybe he did make the call-but then you realize he’s just being his usual bright-eyed and sincere self. At six in the morning. Well, whatever.
“Fine, I guess,” you say, shrugging. “No better than during Idol, but no worse, either.”
“Yeah,” he says, thoughtfully. Not making eye contact with you. “Same here. I didn’t get to sleep until at least midnight.”
You snort, and he frowns, and the two of you stop making small talk, because it’s going nowhere. Once again, you feel bad but it’s not your fault, really. It’s early and you didn’t get nearly enough sleep and you haven’t had your morning coffee and you have to spend an entire day with a seventeen-year-old that you may or may not like in an undignified manner. That’s almost too much to handle all in one day.
David lets out a quiet sigh, sort of mournful, and you burn with guilt. You tug your cell phone out of your pocket, just as the elevator doors are sliding open, and send Michael a quick text: I’m still being an asshole.
The two of you step inside, preparing yourselves for the onslaught of people that are sure to be waiting downstairs. Your phone buzzes somewhere around the third floor.
It’s Michael, and it’s a short and simple text that really doesn’t help you at all.
So stop, it says.
You wish you could.
***
“Archie? I love this kid,” you say on national television, jabbing a finger at him with a big grin. He laughs and nudges you with his elbow and everyone says that you guys obviously have such a great relationship, that they can tell you’re just like brothers, that you must be such a good role model for David, and both of you smile and nod and agree.
You feel like the biggest faker in the world, and you really, really hate it.
***
You have no control over your own life anymore. What you’re having for dinner was probably scheduled weeks in advance, and they don’t bother asking how you’d like to wear your hair today, and apparently now, even uncomfortable backseat car rides with David Archuleta are totally unavoidable.
Archie is not a straightforward kid, but you’ve got another twenty minutes until you get to the hotel, and he clears his throat and asks, timidly, “Are you mad at me?”
“No,” you say, staring out the window. There’s not much to see. “Why would I be mad at you?”
You can’t see him, but you feel him shift awkwardly in his seat next to you. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But you seem kind of…” He trails off, like he’s being extra careful because he’s afraid to offend you. “You just seem like you’re mad.”
“I’m not.” You count the street signs you pass, try to make words out of license plates, anything to avoid looking at him.
“Okay,” says Archie, apparently willing to drop the subject that easily. He clasps his hands together in his lap and lets out a quiet sigh. Something about his posture-how upset he looks, or how defeated-twists your stomach into a tight ball and you clear your throat.
“I’m not mad,” you repeat, and the two of you make eye contact for the first time in days. He smiles, tense and worried, and you unconsciously scratch at the stubble on your chin.
“Okay,” he says again, not looking away.
“Seriously,” you insist. Just because.
He unfolds his hands and sort of pats you on the shoulder, just once. Like he’s eight years older than you and full of wisdom and you’re the dumb kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing. “I believe you,” he says, and then you go back to staring out the window.
***
You’re leaning against the door (because the closet is too small, you’ve discovered, but the hotel room is too big) when you hear the argument. It takes you like five minutes to catch on because there are two voices involved, but only one is yelling. The other one just pipes up when given opportunity-which, judging by what you can hear through the crack, isn’t often.
“You need to concentrate,” says the loud, angry voice, and then you hear a whack that you’re pretty sure is a fist against a doorframe. “Did you even read the list of answers I gave you?”
“Yeah, but-” says the other, meek voice, and you know right away it’s Archie.
“No!” interrupts the first voice. Archie’s dad, of course. “When they ask you about the finale, you say-”
“I know what to say,” Archie replies, so quietly you have to press your ear hard against the door to listen.
“If you knew what to say you wouldn’t be stumbling over every other word,” Archie’s dad shoots back. “Maybe if you paid half as much attention to your own answers as you do to David Cook-”
Hearing your name involved should make you more curious, you think, but instead you just feel sort of sick. You scoot away from the door, so you can’t hear what they’re saying, and prop your feet up against the wall. It’s ten PM on a Friday night. If this were your old life, you’d be playing your guitar in a small bar to a crowd of thirty, maybe forty people. You’d offer to buy a drink for a pretty brunette and in return, she’d drop to her knees in one of the bathroom stalls. You’d zip up and she’d go home with her girlfriends and you’d never hear from her again.
Across the hall, a door slams and someone thunders away, angry footsteps against the tiled floor. You don’t have to look to know it’s Jeff Archuleta, and your heart beats a little too quickly. In your old life, there were no seventeen-year-olds you felt overly protective towards. You stand up and grab a pillow, a few cans of soda, and some of the chocolate bars they want you to eat so they can overcharge your hotel room bill. In your old life, you never would have done this.
You don’t really miss that life right now.
***
He doesn’t look as surprised to see you as you maybe would have, in his position.
“Hey,” he says, kind of sadly from his spot on the bed, with his feet all curled up underneath him, and you get that uncomfortable tugging feeling in your stomach that you’ve come to despise. Tonight, though, instead of running from it, you grit your teeth and ignore it. You have a mission, and it’s to make sure Archie never looks this miserable again.
“Hey,” you echo, with a somewhat strained smile. You hold out the junk food. “I brought this. Want to watch shitty made-for-TV movies and get fat?”
He winces at the cussword, but doesn’t say anything about it like he used to, during Idol. Probably because of how you’ve been acting towards him lately, you think. Instead, he shrugs. “Okay,” he says, reaching for the remote.
You toss him a candy bar and settle down on the end of his bed. The two of you flip through channels in silence when suddenly he glances at you, looking pained, and says, “Did you hear-?” He stops himself abruptly. “Never mind.”
You know what he’s asking, and you know what he wants to hear. “I bought this food from the lobby,” you lie, and he immediately looks relieved. “I’ve been down there pretty much all night.”
“Oh,” he says, nodding. Even his features relax. “Cool.”
He clicks it to TV Guide, suddenly, and there the two of you are-you and Archie and, oh, Kimberly Caldwell. You expect him to keep flipping, because that’s what you would have done, but he doesn’t. He sort of lowers the remote with an odd expression on his face, like he doesn’t know whether or not it’s okay to laugh. It’s not, you tell him silently. Please don’t.
“-excited because I finally get to actually talk you,” you hear yourself say to Kimberly, and oh man, this is spookily surreal, and if you didn’t know what was coming next, you maybe would be able to enjoy this. But you do know what’s coming next, and as much as you’re mentally urging yourself to shut up, the TV David Cook keeps talking, and is that a smirk? What were you thinking?
“I’ve been hearing you say these nice things to me all season,” you continue, and then, shit, the flower. You actually gave her a flower. It had seemed a good idea at the time, completely harmless, but now, watching it back, you’re not sure you’ve ever been so mortified. But, of course, you keep talking. “And so I’m actually going to ask you out to dinner right now.”
As both you and Kimberly whoop and holler on TV (holy shit, how embarrassing), you slide your gaze over to Archie. His eyes are intently glued to the screen, but he’s got this smile that looks completely out of place and the top of his nose is sort of crinkled. You glance back to the other Archie, the one standing beside you as Kimberly throws her arms around your neck. His expression is exactly the same.
You and Archie get beckoned away, and as you’re walking off screen, Kimberly Caldwell jumps up and down and shouts, “I just got asked out on a date!”
Apparently having seen enough, the David Archuleta that is sitting right next to you hits the power button and the room is silent for a good ten seconds.
“Well,” you say finally, and you can’t help it, you’re sort of maybe blushing. “That was humiliating.”
Archie gives off a little laugh. “I think it’s cute,” he replies, and of all times, he chooses now to joke around, to tease you. Seriously? “I mean, when you guys get married, you’ll have this moment documented forever. You can show it to your kids!”
“Oh, shut up.” Despite yourself, you’re laughing too. You reach over and shove him, but apparently you’ve taught him well. He’s not done yet.
“Look, kids, this is where Daddy asked Mommy out on national TV,” Archie deadpans, and the tips of his ears are turning red, because he’s new to this. Like he’s still being reserved, in case he pushes it too far and actually offends you. He glances over and says, more seriously, “Aren’t you glad she said yes? Gosh, that’d be so-”
“Yeah, well.” Propping your chin up on your fist, you shrug. “I’ve done worse.”
Archie continues to look at you, slowly, taking in your expression. “Do you miss her?” he asks.
“Who? Kimberly?” The flippant way you say her name puts a silly little smile on Archie’s face, which he quickly stifles. You lift an eyebrow at him quizzically. “We don’t really talk anymore.”
“Really?” He grabs a handful of the scratchy hotel blankets and breaks eye contact. “How come?”
Because I have inappropriate feelings for someone else? your brain says before you can stop it. “Things didn’t work out,” is what you actually do say, and oh, you feel sick again.
But Archie, sympathetic as ever, mistakes your grimace for a sign that you’re hurting over the breakup-if you could call it that, the whole relationship was mostly fabricated by the media-and he lightly places his hand over yours, fingers aligned. “I’m sorry,” he says.
You can’t help it. You jerk away, out of his grip, off the bed. When he touches you like that… “Archie,” you say, and you’re breathing harder than you expected, “you can’t… don’t do that.”
Archie curls into himself on the bed, arms wrapped around his legs, wearing a wounded expression that twists your stomach like a knife. “Tell me what I’m doing, Cook,” he says quietly. You can barely look at him. “You hardly said a word to me for the first few months, and then when we’re in the finale together you-you act like we’re friends, and then I spend the night in your room and you just stop talking to me! And then we came to New York and I tried to be nice but you were… you obviously didn’t want me around. So I tried to leave you alone, even though I asked you-I asked you-and you said you weren’t mad at me. And then you come in here with food and drinks and suddenly you’re my friend again and then you do this. So what exactly am I doing?”
You’ve never heard him say so much at one time. His face is red and his chest is heaving, and you can tell he is really upset. Which, fuck, makes you feel absolutely awful.
“I’m sorry,” is all you can tell him. You move for the door, not turning back around to face him. You’re already halfway across the hall. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
***
Usually you skip breakfast-a cup of coffee is more than enough, most mornings-but when you wake up, two hours before you have to be ready, you decide to head down and check out the continental meal in the lobby.
Archie and his dad are already sitting at a table, and they glance up when you walk in. Well. No running away now. You lift a hand to them in greeting and head over to the buffet to fill a plate. When you’re done, Archie’s dad gestures you over and very reluctantly you sit down beside Archie.
“Morning,” you tell them both.
“Good morning, David,” Archie’s dad says, very politely. You feel a flash of contempt for him, remembering last night’s argument and the way he yelled at David. Next to you, Archie is picking at his food without actually eating anything. The breakfast lingers in silence
“Well,” Jeff says finally. He scrapes his fork against his now-empty plate and stands up. “I’m going to make some calls.” He pats his son on the back, once, and walks away, leaving the two of you alone.
Even though Archie’s plate is still full, he clears his throat and picks it up. “Well, I should-”’
“Archie, wait.” You grab his arm and force him back into his seat. “We need to talk.”
He regards you solemnly, mouth drawn in a straight line. “Come on, Cook. You can’t just change your mind again.”
“I won’t,” you say, and then, “I’m not. I have a lot to explain, I know.” You’re still gripping his arm, you realize, and so you slowly peel your fingers away. “Look, just… can you come to my room tonight?” The words slipped out before you could stop them. Your heart starts to pound, but it’s not like you can take them back.
“Okay,” Archie says after a minute. He doesn’t look at you. “I’ll come.”
***
You slip into an empty bathroom first chance you get. Outside, Archie is performing in front of hundreds-thousands?-of screaming fans. He sounds amazing.
Head pounding, you duck into a stall and fumble for your cell phone, dialing Michael’s number. It shows up like forty times on your recent call list. Oops.
Michael answers on the third ring, with a sort of drawn out sigh. “What now?” he says instead of a greeting.
You close your eyes. You have to sing in, like, twenty minutes, but first. This is important. “Mike,” you say, clearing your throat. “Tell me again, that thing you told me. About how… how bad it is to, um, act on feelings. Feelings that you’re pretty sure are wrong.”
He’s quiet for a second, but when he speaks, he doesn’t sound surprised. “How pretty sure are you?” he asks, except you’re almost positive he’s just looking for confirmation.
“I don’t know,” you admit, pressing fingers against your eyelids. “Let’s just say my parents wouldn’t approve.”
“Well, that’s a part of life, mate,” he tells you sympathetically. “It doesn’t matter what your parents want. It’s what you want. What does your heart say?”
You consider that question, and then, swallowing hard, “My heart says go for it.”
“Well then.” You can practically hear Michael smile into the phone. “I think you’ve got your answer.”
***
Lunch that day is pleasant. At least, more pleasant than you were expecting. It could’ve been because as soon as the two of you climb in the limo together, you reach across, squeeze his arm, and tell him genuinely, “Archie, you kicked ass.”
He smiles, embarrassed but happy. “Don’t cuss,” he says, and you laugh and call him a prude-like old times.
Things certainly aren’t perfect yet, but it’s a start. It’s a start.
***
The phone rings a little after eleven. It surprises you, because you’re not even being loud this time, but when you answer, it’s Archie. “David Cook?” he says unsurely, and you bite back a smile.
“You know, Archie, if this had been a wrong number, you would have just alerted the entire hotel that we’re staying here.”
“Oh gosh!” he says, sounding deeply troubled. “I didn’t-I didn’t really think of that…”
Laughing, you cut him off. “I’m kidding, Archie. What’s up?”
“Do you still want me to, um, come over?”
Shit. You didn’t forget, but you had kind of convinced yourself that he had. Well. “Yeah. Is that okay with your dad?”
Archie’s quiet for a second. “He’s asleep already.”
“Okay, then.” You quickly reach for a pair of jeans, because at this point, you’re not sure welcoming him into your room in a pair of boxers is the best idea. “The door’s open. See you soon.”
***
Despite the door already being cracked, Archie knocks before pulling it open. “Hi,” he says, standing in the threshold awkwardly, like he’s afraid to actually enter all the way.
“Hey there.” You gesture to a chair, a safe distance away from your spot against the bed. “You can sit down.”
“Okay,” Archie says, except he doesn’t go for the chair you pointed to. He sits on the floor near your feet, crosses his legs, and looks at you. “I think this is the part where you start explaining,” he offers boldly, and you lift your eyebrows in surprise.
“Please,” he adds after a moment, proving once again he’s completely unable to sound demanding.
You fold your hands together, leaning back against the bed. “You’re right. But, um, I can’t really give you a decent answer. Not one that you’ll want to hear.”
Archie shrugs his shoulders up slightly. “Try me?”
Everything in your head is saying no. Bad idea. Horrible, awful, disastrous idea. But then-Archie’s wearing striped pajama pants, of course he is; Michael told you to go for it, and why not?; his hair is sticking up in funny places, and you’ve realized but not commented on the fact that lately he’s been styling it like you; his expression is so innocent but candid, and he’s not hiding anything, so why should you? You can’t. It’s as simple as that.
So you draw in a breath and say, in one rush, “Um, see, the thing is, I’m pretty sure I… you know, like you.”
He stares at you blankly, as if to say and?
“I…” Oh, shit. Now you have to explain it. “…I like you, Archie.” He still doesn’t get it, and you’ve never felt more like a thirteen-year-old girl in your life, but he’s waiting, so. “Okay, um, remember the night before the finale, when you slept in my room? Except… except you fell asleep next to me, on my bed.”
Archie nods, but slowly, looking a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles, and you quickly cut him off.
“No, no. That’s not what I mean. It was fine, it just… I realized something, that night.” You reach out and grab his foot, giving it a playful shake. Just to have something to do with your hands, because you can’t sit here and say something like this without moving. You can barely look him in the eye. “I like you,” you repeat. “A lot. More than I should.”
Archie’s still staring at you, but this time, it’s in a totally different way. He swallows hard. “Really?” he says quietly, and great, you’ve probably scarred him for life now.
You pull your hand away from his foot, standing up. “I shouldn’t have said that,” you tell him immediately, running a hand through your hair. “Fuck, Archie, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t cuss,” Archie says, and he-he’s smiling. You did not expect this. He climbs to his feet as well, and he’s two feet away from you, and you feel a little ridiculous, but in a good way.
“Sorry,” you say again, and then, “You’re not totally freaked out?”
He laughs, carefree, for the first time in days. “Come on, Cook. I’d have to be blind to not… you know, feel the same way?” He blushes a little and adds something like, “No offense to blind people…” but you’re not listening anymore.
“You, um, you feel the same?” you ask, just for confirmation, and suddenly this conversation has taken a completely new direction, one that you like. A lot.
Archie glances into your eyes for a second, down to his feet, then back up at you. “Yeah,” he says, sort of self-consciously tugging at one of his sleeves. “I always have. Since the beginning. That’s why… when I thought you were mad at me. I thought maybe you figured it out.” He opens his mouth, like he’s going to say more, but you don’t let him. You grab him by the arm and pull him closer. He bumps against your chest and laughs, quietly, nervously.
“I know what you’re doing,” he says slyly, looking right into your eyes.
“Oh yeah? What am I doing?”
He’s silent, for a moment, but he looks confident. And not embarrassed, like you sort of feel. About this whole situation. He clears his throat. “You’re going to kiss me.”
You feel your eyes widen, and okay, you’re smirking. “Oh, am I?”
“Yes.” He says it so passionately that your stomach does a little flip. His free hand reaches out and grazes yours, trailing fingers across your palm. And then his serious expression falters, a smile breaking through. He leans up on his tiptoes, inches from your face. “Please?”
“Don’t do that,” you mumble, and you should say no, you should avoid this situation completely. But you know you’re not going to, and Archie knows it, too.
“Please,” he repeats, leaning closer. His tone is light, playful. “Please, Cook. Pl-”
You kiss him. Long and hard and with both hands on either side of his face, and he’s kissing you back. It’s not a peck, like maybe you intended, and when you pull away for breath, he presses his forehead against yours.
“Is this okay?” you ask him, and though he doesn’t answer, you know it is; if it wasn’t okay, he wouldn’t be taking your hand, wouldn’t be leading you towards your bed-Archie is leading you to your bed-and he definitely wouldn’t be pulling you towards him to kiss you again.
***
When you wake up, everything feels different and you’re not sure why. You consider for a few seconds. For one, you’re still wearing your socks and shoes. The sun is just barely filtering into the room and your alarm hasn’t sounded yet, which means it’s early. Oh, and David Archuleta is curled into your side, your arm across his chest.
Right, you think. There’s that.
Last night feels surreal, like it happened to some lucky guy named David Cook that couldn’t possibly be you. But it was, and you’re glad. You learned a lot last night. You learned that Archie used tongue (and was possibly a better kisser than you, and really, you’ve kissed a lot more people, so how exactly is that fair?), you learned that you can be a complete jerk for weeks and that a guy with a golden heart could still forgive you, and you learned that you don’t have all the time in the world-in fact, you fly out in two days.
That flight will be different. You’ll share your headphones with Archie. You’ll let him grip onto you when the plane takes off and everything is shaky, at least for a second. You won’t take him into the bathroom and join the Mile High club, but you’ll take a nap and let the possibility run through your mind, unrestricted. Archie will understand.
But that’s in two days, and you plan on making what time you have left count. With that in mind, you roll over to your side and lightly shake Archie awake.
He blinks a few times and then smiles happily up at you, like he’s surprised that you’re still there. “Good morning,” he says, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Yeah,” you reply, and then you lean in and kiss him lightly, pulling away before he can even properly respond. You touch the side of his face fondly and grin. “It is.”
Summary: it's not david archuleta that’s bugging david cook. it's more… his presence.
Rating: pg13.
~6693 words.
There are a lot of things you hate about being on this plane.
It’s not the flying part, because you conquered that fear years ago, and it’s not the crappy peanuts or the corny in-flight movie. You can live with those.
Mostly, it’s the kid sitting next to you. You don’t like sitting next to kids on planes. They’re loud, obnoxious, and generally rude to their fellow passengers. And, you think, they have no respect for privacy. Because there is only one armrest, and you’re the adult here, so it should obviously be yours, but no. The kid is selfishly hogging it.
Okay, so the kid is David Archuleta, and you’re pretty sure he’s the farthest thing from selfish. Ever. He’s definitely not being loud or obnoxious-he’s barely said a word the entire time, except “oh gosh, oops” when he accidentally spilled his water down the front of his jeans, and “wow, Cook, look!” when he glanced out the window and pointed to the scenery below-and as for rude… you’re not sure he even knows how to fake it.
It’s not him that’s bugging you. It’s more… his presence. You’re not even sure why you’re both here. Why they stuck you on the same flight. Why he’s sitting right next to you. The two of you just came in first and second place on one of the most popular TV shows in the world. Surely they could afford separate flights. Or… seats. Or something.
You sort of feel bad, not wanting to be here. Especially when Archie’s so excited, so optimistic about it all.
But you can’t be excited, not right now. Not with him so close. Not with his arm unintentionally pressing against your side. You almost wish it was intentional, because then you could casually push it away. You could make a joke about it, and he would laugh, but he would shift in his seat and he would stop touching you. Probably for the rest of the flight. And that would be ideal.
Sure, you could easily ask him. Hey, Archie, remember that thing called personal space, and how some people value it? Except you’re pretty sure that would mortify him-because seriously, he gets embarrassed so easily-and you won’t do that to him. You can’t do that to him.
So you settle back into your seat, train your eyes on the cheesy movie playing overhead, and try your hardest to completely and wholeheartedly ignore David Archuleta’s existence.
It works.
For about a minute.
“I love this movie,” Archie says suddenly, grabbing your shoulder. You turn his way and flash him a smile, but you can’t force yourself to respond.
Inside, however, you’re thinking one thing. Shit.
***
You don’t hate David Archuleta.
Truthfully, up until a few days ago, you didn’t feel anything for him. Maybe a little bit of the younger brother syndrome. But it’s not like you guys were best friends. You had Michael, and Carly, and Jason, whenever he was awake. And Archie… well, Syesha thought he was cute. And Brooke would always make sure he was included, no matter what you guys were doing.
There were a million reasons you didn’t hang out with him. He was seventeen. You were twenty-five (which is like, a quarter of a century, and holy shit that makes you feel old). In your free time, you messed around with your guitar. Wreaked havoc with Michael. Played tricks on the other contestants. Sometimes, you drank.
When Archie had free time, he did homework. For school. High school, to be exact.
So you went your way and he went his and for the most part, you simply coexisted in the American Idol bubble. There were no life-shaking moments between the two of you. Your paths-despite being so similar; you both knew you were the “front runners,” and yet even that didn’t bring you closer-never really even overlapped.
Until the finale.
Because then, it wasn’t the two of you and everyone else. It was the two of you, period.
And something, maybe in the air, or it might have just been in your mind, shifted. There was this… weirdness. Like when Archie came to your room in the middle of the night and asked if he could crash in your room. And you said yes, because the kid looked terrified, but then he fell asleep on your bed and you got all these awful… feelings, that were hard to repress, and you ended up spending the night on the floor, sans blankets or even pillows. You woke up with a crick in your neck and an urge to throw up that had nothing to do with your sleeping conditions.
You’ve mostly avoided him since then. Well, as much as you possibly could avoid him while being shoved together by the producers at every given chance. You had a few much-needed days off after the finale, where you sat at home and tried to clear your head of everything not normal. (Pedophilic desires, you were pretty sure, were filed under the category not normal).
And you really thought it worked… until you hit the airport, and hey, there he was. Smiling and reaching for a hug that you didn’t dare refuse.
“Cook,” he had said sincerely, burying his head into your shoulder, and you were definitely just imagining that it fit perfectly, of course. “I missed you.” And you knew he meant it, even though it had been like three days, and what could he possibly miss? You are not, you wanted to tell him, worth missing. You’re not worth much, really, once you get past the singing voice and maybe the guitar.
But you didn’t tell him that. What you said was, “Hey, Archie, missed you too,” and you didn’t mean it but he believed you did, and that was all that mattered.
“I can’t wait for New York,” he had said, grabbing your elbow without hesitation. You grinned your false agreement but hurriedly shook him off, pretending you had to make a bathroom run. You were pretty sure he started to follow you, so you ducked into a huge group of tourists until you were completely out of sight.
Perching on one of the toilets, you had to remind yourself how to breathe steadily. You already knew this was going to be a long trip. Somehow, you had to stay away from Archie as much as possible, or else things would be… bad. Really bad. You’re-going-to-jail bad.
You don’t hate David Archuleta. You’re just not sure you can stand to be around him.
***
When the plane begins to land (damn that turbulence) Archie’s fingers twitch like he’s considering latching on to your arm. You lean away from him, a little, and he rethinks his decision, instead gripping tightly the armrest that should be yours.
“I can’t wait to get to the hotel,” he tells you, looking a little pale. “I’m really tired.”
“You could have slept on the plane,” you say, and it comes out more callously than you intended. You should apologize, but you don’t. Whatever.
He blinks and shifts his eyes to the window. “I can’t really sleep on moving things,” he mumbles, like he’s not sure you’re even listening. You’re not, sort of, or at least you’re trying not to. “I’m just waiting until we get to our hotel room, so I can go to bed.”
You stare at him. “Our?” you repeat, lifting your eyebrows. And okay, you could be nicer about it. You just don’t want him to have the wrong idea. “You and I are not sharing a room, Archie.”
He goes bright red and looks, you’re amazed to see, a little insulted and somewhat frustrated. You’ve never seen him angry before, and you figure this is about as close as it will ever get. “I meant me and my dad,” he says, with only the slightest hint of forced politeness, and then he promptly turns his body away from yours and busies himself with one of the airline magazines.
You want to reach out and touch his shoulder, tell him you’re sorry. That you wouldn’t mind sharing a room with him, and that you actually think he’s a great guy, and that despite your bad mood for the past week, you’re excited to do all the interviews and performances with him.
You don’t tell him any of this. He makes a little huffy noise as he scans what to do if the plane explodes in midair, and you practically shove your iPod headphones into your ears because you don’t think you can stand to hear him make any more sounds like that.
The two of you don’t speak for the rest of the afternoon.
***
“I’m being an asshole,” you tell Michael, when he answers on the first ring. It’s kind of pathetic how quickly you dialed his number. Check into the hotel, ride the elevator to the seventh floor, nod once to Archie (whose room is, of course, right across the hall), drop your bags by the door, call Michael Johns. You haven’t even tested the mattress yet, or searched for the key to the mini-bar.
“Am I supposed to be surprised?” he asks, laughing. You can hear his TV volume being lowered in the background. “Why are you being an asshole?”
Sighing, you prop your head up against your fist. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Okay, well, let’s see. Are you being an asshole to everyone around you?” he says in his best psychiatrist voice. Michael has spent a lot of time trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. To be honest, he’s usually pretty good at it.
“No.”
“To one person in particular?”
“Yes.”
“David Archuleta?” he guesses, and you sigh again. He makes a humming noise. “I thought so.”
“So what’s your opinion, Dr. Johns?” You both know you’re only going to take this half-seriously. Mostly it’s to humor you.
“My opinion,” he says, and you’re pretty sure he’s chewing on the phone cord, “is that your problem isn’t with Archie. Your problem is with you.”
You’re silent for a minute, so he continues.
“You know he’s a great kid. And you kind of… envy, so to speak, the fact that he’s only seventeen and hasn’t had to work very hard in life to get where he is. And you hate that everyone expects you to treat him like a little brother, because that’s not how you feel about him at all.”
You’re still silent, but now your heart is beating very fast because everything Michael said is true and how the hell does he know that? Does he know about that night in your room, Archie asleep in your bed and how you couldn’t help but watch him and how you almost reached out to touch him but then he rolled over and scared you witless? Could he sense that?
“Dave?” Michael says, loudly. “You there?”
“Sorry,” you say, and clear your throat. “But you were completely wrong.”
You hang up the phone and chuck it across the room, ignoring all three calls from Michael in the next twenty minutes. Instead, you very monotonously test out the mattress-it’s okay, though a little firm-and find the key to the mini-bar. It’s stocked of all of your favorite drinks, you notice. But then you close the door because you have to wake up early tomorrow and you do not want to be on the Today show, completely hungover. That, you muse, would be a horrible idea.
***
The problem with transitioning from Oklahoma bartender to American Idol is that you haven’t kicked your old habits yet, and that is why you’re awake at three o’clock in the morning and flipping through the channels on TV.
You finally land on some late night talk show, and the host has a very sympathetic face and looks kind of sad that his phones aren’t ringing, and because you’re bored or maybe just sleep-deprived, you decide to give him a call on the hotel telephone. You don’t give yourself time to think about it. You just pick up the receiver and dial.
He doesn’t answer, but some robotic-sounding lady does, and she asks what you want to talk to the host about. “Um,” you say, because you hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Sex?” she prompts you.
“No,” you say, a little too quickly. No way. Sex is off-limits. At least for now.
The robot woman sighs. You wonder how much she must hate her job, receiving all these calls from lonely men with nothing better to do on a Thursday night. “Money problems?” she continues, sounding bored.
You shake your head, but then you remember she can’t see you. “No.”
“All right. How about relationship issues?”
Why not? you think. Maybe the dude will have something helpful to say. At the very least, it ought to be good for a laugh. “Okay,” you agree, shrugging, and she sounds so relieved that she transfers the call right away. The bright blue phone on the TV rings. You watch, amused, as the host answers and suddenly you’re both watching him talk on the television and hearing him in your ear. It’s oddly thrilling.
“Thanks for calling in! Can I get your name?” the host asks, and you blanche for a second.
“Michael,” you improvise, trying to sound convincing. With only a second or two delay, your voice echoes back from the TV. You’re terrified for a second that someone-your mom, maybe, or Simon Cowell-is watching and will recognize you, but then you remember what time it is and you relax, a little.
“Okay, Michael, it’s good to hear from you. I’m told you’ve got some relationship problems tonight. So who’s the woman?”
“Um,” you say.
“A man?” the host corrects himself.
“Sort of,” you say.
“Ahhh.” The host nods his head like the two of you are in on some big secret-he must know that you’re watching him, because you’re pretty sure that wink was intended for you-and he rubs his hands together. “So… you met this person. And they… weren’t what you expected. And now you’re confused about what you really want? Am I right?”
Your throat is thick. “Yes,” you force out, swallowing hard. This guy was good. How did he do that?
“That’s not unusual,” he tells you, and the other fourteen people that are probably watching right now. “You have no control over desires and attractions. And there’s nothing wrong with it. My advice, Michael, is to go for it. You only have this one life. Don’t let other people judge you for following your heart.”
“Yeah?” you say, and you’re starting to get a little excited. Maybe this guy is right, you think. Maybe you should just act on your feelings. Then you could stop being such an asshole to someone completely undeserving.
“Definitely. Thanks for sharing your story, Michael. Plenty of other men wrestle with their confusion about being attracted to transvestites, so let me remind you that you’re not alone in this. Bye now.”
The phone clicks, and you stare at the TV in horrified silence. A transvestite? You want to call him back, explain to him that it’s not someone who used to be a man, it’s just someone who isn’t quite a man yet. But what good would that do? It’s not like he knows who you are.
The absurdity of the situation finally hits you, and you burst out laughing-loud, gut-busting laughter-and you don’t stop laughing until twenty minutes later, when the front desk calls and asks you to keep it down, because the surrounding rooms have filed noise complaints.
Vaguely, you wonder if Archie was the one who called, or maybe his dad. You decide you don’t care. You flip on your stomach and prank call the Home Shopping Network three more times before you even consider trying to sleep.
***
Of course, as things like this always seem to happen to you, Archie is waiting for the elevator when you drag yourself out of bed and into the hallway in the morning. He flashes you a smile that’s half-cheerful but half-anxious, and you nod to him before reaching out and pressing the elevator button. You know he already pushed it. You kind of just want to make a point.
His smile doesn’t falter. “How’d you sleep, Cook?” he asks, and for a second you think he’s being smug-maybe he did make the call-but then you realize he’s just being his usual bright-eyed and sincere self. At six in the morning. Well, whatever.
“Fine, I guess,” you say, shrugging. “No better than during Idol, but no worse, either.”
“Yeah,” he says, thoughtfully. Not making eye contact with you. “Same here. I didn’t get to sleep until at least midnight.”
You snort, and he frowns, and the two of you stop making small talk, because it’s going nowhere. Once again, you feel bad but it’s not your fault, really. It’s early and you didn’t get nearly enough sleep and you haven’t had your morning coffee and you have to spend an entire day with a seventeen-year-old that you may or may not like in an undignified manner. That’s almost too much to handle all in one day.
David lets out a quiet sigh, sort of mournful, and you burn with guilt. You tug your cell phone out of your pocket, just as the elevator doors are sliding open, and send Michael a quick text: I’m still being an asshole.
The two of you step inside, preparing yourselves for the onslaught of people that are sure to be waiting downstairs. Your phone buzzes somewhere around the third floor.
It’s Michael, and it’s a short and simple text that really doesn’t help you at all.
So stop, it says.
You wish you could.
***
“Archie? I love this kid,” you say on national television, jabbing a finger at him with a big grin. He laughs and nudges you with his elbow and everyone says that you guys obviously have such a great relationship, that they can tell you’re just like brothers, that you must be such a good role model for David, and both of you smile and nod and agree.
You feel like the biggest faker in the world, and you really, really hate it.
***
You have no control over your own life anymore. What you’re having for dinner was probably scheduled weeks in advance, and they don’t bother asking how you’d like to wear your hair today, and apparently now, even uncomfortable backseat car rides with David Archuleta are totally unavoidable.
Archie is not a straightforward kid, but you’ve got another twenty minutes until you get to the hotel, and he clears his throat and asks, timidly, “Are you mad at me?”
“No,” you say, staring out the window. There’s not much to see. “Why would I be mad at you?”
You can’t see him, but you feel him shift awkwardly in his seat next to you. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But you seem kind of…” He trails off, like he’s being extra careful because he’s afraid to offend you. “You just seem like you’re mad.”
“I’m not.” You count the street signs you pass, try to make words out of license plates, anything to avoid looking at him.
“Okay,” says Archie, apparently willing to drop the subject that easily. He clasps his hands together in his lap and lets out a quiet sigh. Something about his posture-how upset he looks, or how defeated-twists your stomach into a tight ball and you clear your throat.
“I’m not mad,” you repeat, and the two of you make eye contact for the first time in days. He smiles, tense and worried, and you unconsciously scratch at the stubble on your chin.
“Okay,” he says again, not looking away.
“Seriously,” you insist. Just because.
He unfolds his hands and sort of pats you on the shoulder, just once. Like he’s eight years older than you and full of wisdom and you’re the dumb kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing. “I believe you,” he says, and then you go back to staring out the window.
***
You’re leaning against the door (because the closet is too small, you’ve discovered, but the hotel room is too big) when you hear the argument. It takes you like five minutes to catch on because there are two voices involved, but only one is yelling. The other one just pipes up when given opportunity-which, judging by what you can hear through the crack, isn’t often.
“You need to concentrate,” says the loud, angry voice, and then you hear a whack that you’re pretty sure is a fist against a doorframe. “Did you even read the list of answers I gave you?”
“Yeah, but-” says the other, meek voice, and you know right away it’s Archie.
“No!” interrupts the first voice. Archie’s dad, of course. “When they ask you about the finale, you say-”
“I know what to say,” Archie replies, so quietly you have to press your ear hard against the door to listen.
“If you knew what to say you wouldn’t be stumbling over every other word,” Archie’s dad shoots back. “Maybe if you paid half as much attention to your own answers as you do to David Cook-”
Hearing your name involved should make you more curious, you think, but instead you just feel sort of sick. You scoot away from the door, so you can’t hear what they’re saying, and prop your feet up against the wall. It’s ten PM on a Friday night. If this were your old life, you’d be playing your guitar in a small bar to a crowd of thirty, maybe forty people. You’d offer to buy a drink for a pretty brunette and in return, she’d drop to her knees in one of the bathroom stalls. You’d zip up and she’d go home with her girlfriends and you’d never hear from her again.
Across the hall, a door slams and someone thunders away, angry footsteps against the tiled floor. You don’t have to look to know it’s Jeff Archuleta, and your heart beats a little too quickly. In your old life, there were no seventeen-year-olds you felt overly protective towards. You stand up and grab a pillow, a few cans of soda, and some of the chocolate bars they want you to eat so they can overcharge your hotel room bill. In your old life, you never would have done this.
You don’t really miss that life right now.
***
He doesn’t look as surprised to see you as you maybe would have, in his position.
“Hey,” he says, kind of sadly from his spot on the bed, with his feet all curled up underneath him, and you get that uncomfortable tugging feeling in your stomach that you’ve come to despise. Tonight, though, instead of running from it, you grit your teeth and ignore it. You have a mission, and it’s to make sure Archie never looks this miserable again.
“Hey,” you echo, with a somewhat strained smile. You hold out the junk food. “I brought this. Want to watch shitty made-for-TV movies and get fat?”
He winces at the cussword, but doesn’t say anything about it like he used to, during Idol. Probably because of how you’ve been acting towards him lately, you think. Instead, he shrugs. “Okay,” he says, reaching for the remote.
You toss him a candy bar and settle down on the end of his bed. The two of you flip through channels in silence when suddenly he glances at you, looking pained, and says, “Did you hear-?” He stops himself abruptly. “Never mind.”
You know what he’s asking, and you know what he wants to hear. “I bought this food from the lobby,” you lie, and he immediately looks relieved. “I’ve been down there pretty much all night.”
“Oh,” he says, nodding. Even his features relax. “Cool.”
He clicks it to TV Guide, suddenly, and there the two of you are-you and Archie and, oh, Kimberly Caldwell. You expect him to keep flipping, because that’s what you would have done, but he doesn’t. He sort of lowers the remote with an odd expression on his face, like he doesn’t know whether or not it’s okay to laugh. It’s not, you tell him silently. Please don’t.
“-excited because I finally get to actually talk you,” you hear yourself say to Kimberly, and oh man, this is spookily surreal, and if you didn’t know what was coming next, you maybe would be able to enjoy this. But you do know what’s coming next, and as much as you’re mentally urging yourself to shut up, the TV David Cook keeps talking, and is that a smirk? What were you thinking?
“I’ve been hearing you say these nice things to me all season,” you continue, and then, shit, the flower. You actually gave her a flower. It had seemed a good idea at the time, completely harmless, but now, watching it back, you’re not sure you’ve ever been so mortified. But, of course, you keep talking. “And so I’m actually going to ask you out to dinner right now.”
As both you and Kimberly whoop and holler on TV (holy shit, how embarrassing), you slide your gaze over to Archie. His eyes are intently glued to the screen, but he’s got this smile that looks completely out of place and the top of his nose is sort of crinkled. You glance back to the other Archie, the one standing beside you as Kimberly throws her arms around your neck. His expression is exactly the same.
You and Archie get beckoned away, and as you’re walking off screen, Kimberly Caldwell jumps up and down and shouts, “I just got asked out on a date!”
Apparently having seen enough, the David Archuleta that is sitting right next to you hits the power button and the room is silent for a good ten seconds.
“Well,” you say finally, and you can’t help it, you’re sort of maybe blushing. “That was humiliating.”
Archie gives off a little laugh. “I think it’s cute,” he replies, and of all times, he chooses now to joke around, to tease you. Seriously? “I mean, when you guys get married, you’ll have this moment documented forever. You can show it to your kids!”
“Oh, shut up.” Despite yourself, you’re laughing too. You reach over and shove him, but apparently you’ve taught him well. He’s not done yet.
“Look, kids, this is where Daddy asked Mommy out on national TV,” Archie deadpans, and the tips of his ears are turning red, because he’s new to this. Like he’s still being reserved, in case he pushes it too far and actually offends you. He glances over and says, more seriously, “Aren’t you glad she said yes? Gosh, that’d be so-”
“Yeah, well.” Propping your chin up on your fist, you shrug. “I’ve done worse.”
Archie continues to look at you, slowly, taking in your expression. “Do you miss her?” he asks.
“Who? Kimberly?” The flippant way you say her name puts a silly little smile on Archie’s face, which he quickly stifles. You lift an eyebrow at him quizzically. “We don’t really talk anymore.”
“Really?” He grabs a handful of the scratchy hotel blankets and breaks eye contact. “How come?”
Because I have inappropriate feelings for someone else? your brain says before you can stop it. “Things didn’t work out,” is what you actually do say, and oh, you feel sick again.
But Archie, sympathetic as ever, mistakes your grimace for a sign that you’re hurting over the breakup-if you could call it that, the whole relationship was mostly fabricated by the media-and he lightly places his hand over yours, fingers aligned. “I’m sorry,” he says.
You can’t help it. You jerk away, out of his grip, off the bed. When he touches you like that… “Archie,” you say, and you’re breathing harder than you expected, “you can’t… don’t do that.”
Archie curls into himself on the bed, arms wrapped around his legs, wearing a wounded expression that twists your stomach like a knife. “Tell me what I’m doing, Cook,” he says quietly. You can barely look at him. “You hardly said a word to me for the first few months, and then when we’re in the finale together you-you act like we’re friends, and then I spend the night in your room and you just stop talking to me! And then we came to New York and I tried to be nice but you were… you obviously didn’t want me around. So I tried to leave you alone, even though I asked you-I asked you-and you said you weren’t mad at me. And then you come in here with food and drinks and suddenly you’re my friend again and then you do this. So what exactly am I doing?”
You’ve never heard him say so much at one time. His face is red and his chest is heaving, and you can tell he is really upset. Which, fuck, makes you feel absolutely awful.
“I’m sorry,” is all you can tell him. You move for the door, not turning back around to face him. You’re already halfway across the hall. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
***
Usually you skip breakfast-a cup of coffee is more than enough, most mornings-but when you wake up, two hours before you have to be ready, you decide to head down and check out the continental meal in the lobby.
Archie and his dad are already sitting at a table, and they glance up when you walk in. Well. No running away now. You lift a hand to them in greeting and head over to the buffet to fill a plate. When you’re done, Archie’s dad gestures you over and very reluctantly you sit down beside Archie.
“Morning,” you tell them both.
“Good morning, David,” Archie’s dad says, very politely. You feel a flash of contempt for him, remembering last night’s argument and the way he yelled at David. Next to you, Archie is picking at his food without actually eating anything. The breakfast lingers in silence
“Well,” Jeff says finally. He scrapes his fork against his now-empty plate and stands up. “I’m going to make some calls.” He pats his son on the back, once, and walks away, leaving the two of you alone.
Even though Archie’s plate is still full, he clears his throat and picks it up. “Well, I should-”’
“Archie, wait.” You grab his arm and force him back into his seat. “We need to talk.”
He regards you solemnly, mouth drawn in a straight line. “Come on, Cook. You can’t just change your mind again.”
“I won’t,” you say, and then, “I’m not. I have a lot to explain, I know.” You’re still gripping his arm, you realize, and so you slowly peel your fingers away. “Look, just… can you come to my room tonight?” The words slipped out before you could stop them. Your heart starts to pound, but it’s not like you can take them back.
“Okay,” Archie says after a minute. He doesn’t look at you. “I’ll come.”
***
You slip into an empty bathroom first chance you get. Outside, Archie is performing in front of hundreds-thousands?-of screaming fans. He sounds amazing.
Head pounding, you duck into a stall and fumble for your cell phone, dialing Michael’s number. It shows up like forty times on your recent call list. Oops.
Michael answers on the third ring, with a sort of drawn out sigh. “What now?” he says instead of a greeting.
You close your eyes. You have to sing in, like, twenty minutes, but first. This is important. “Mike,” you say, clearing your throat. “Tell me again, that thing you told me. About how… how bad it is to, um, act on feelings. Feelings that you’re pretty sure are wrong.”
He’s quiet for a second, but when he speaks, he doesn’t sound surprised. “How pretty sure are you?” he asks, except you’re almost positive he’s just looking for confirmation.
“I don’t know,” you admit, pressing fingers against your eyelids. “Let’s just say my parents wouldn’t approve.”
“Well, that’s a part of life, mate,” he tells you sympathetically. “It doesn’t matter what your parents want. It’s what you want. What does your heart say?”
You consider that question, and then, swallowing hard, “My heart says go for it.”
“Well then.” You can practically hear Michael smile into the phone. “I think you’ve got your answer.”
***
Lunch that day is pleasant. At least, more pleasant than you were expecting. It could’ve been because as soon as the two of you climb in the limo together, you reach across, squeeze his arm, and tell him genuinely, “Archie, you kicked ass.”
He smiles, embarrassed but happy. “Don’t cuss,” he says, and you laugh and call him a prude-like old times.
Things certainly aren’t perfect yet, but it’s a start. It’s a start.
***
The phone rings a little after eleven. It surprises you, because you’re not even being loud this time, but when you answer, it’s Archie. “David Cook?” he says unsurely, and you bite back a smile.
“You know, Archie, if this had been a wrong number, you would have just alerted the entire hotel that we’re staying here.”
“Oh gosh!” he says, sounding deeply troubled. “I didn’t-I didn’t really think of that…”
Laughing, you cut him off. “I’m kidding, Archie. What’s up?”
“Do you still want me to, um, come over?”
Shit. You didn’t forget, but you had kind of convinced yourself that he had. Well. “Yeah. Is that okay with your dad?”
Archie’s quiet for a second. “He’s asleep already.”
“Okay, then.” You quickly reach for a pair of jeans, because at this point, you’re not sure welcoming him into your room in a pair of boxers is the best idea. “The door’s open. See you soon.”
***
Despite the door already being cracked, Archie knocks before pulling it open. “Hi,” he says, standing in the threshold awkwardly, like he’s afraid to actually enter all the way.
“Hey there.” You gesture to a chair, a safe distance away from your spot against the bed. “You can sit down.”
“Okay,” Archie says, except he doesn’t go for the chair you pointed to. He sits on the floor near your feet, crosses his legs, and looks at you. “I think this is the part where you start explaining,” he offers boldly, and you lift your eyebrows in surprise.
“Please,” he adds after a moment, proving once again he’s completely unable to sound demanding.
You fold your hands together, leaning back against the bed. “You’re right. But, um, I can’t really give you a decent answer. Not one that you’ll want to hear.”
Archie shrugs his shoulders up slightly. “Try me?”
Everything in your head is saying no. Bad idea. Horrible, awful, disastrous idea. But then-Archie’s wearing striped pajama pants, of course he is; Michael told you to go for it, and why not?; his hair is sticking up in funny places, and you’ve realized but not commented on the fact that lately he’s been styling it like you; his expression is so innocent but candid, and he’s not hiding anything, so why should you? You can’t. It’s as simple as that.
So you draw in a breath and say, in one rush, “Um, see, the thing is, I’m pretty sure I… you know, like you.”
He stares at you blankly, as if to say and?
“I…” Oh, shit. Now you have to explain it. “…I like you, Archie.” He still doesn’t get it, and you’ve never felt more like a thirteen-year-old girl in your life, but he’s waiting, so. “Okay, um, remember the night before the finale, when you slept in my room? Except… except you fell asleep next to me, on my bed.”
Archie nods, but slowly, looking a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles, and you quickly cut him off.
“No, no. That’s not what I mean. It was fine, it just… I realized something, that night.” You reach out and grab his foot, giving it a playful shake. Just to have something to do with your hands, because you can’t sit here and say something like this without moving. You can barely look him in the eye. “I like you,” you repeat. “A lot. More than I should.”
Archie’s still staring at you, but this time, it’s in a totally different way. He swallows hard. “Really?” he says quietly, and great, you’ve probably scarred him for life now.
You pull your hand away from his foot, standing up. “I shouldn’t have said that,” you tell him immediately, running a hand through your hair. “Fuck, Archie, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t cuss,” Archie says, and he-he’s smiling. You did not expect this. He climbs to his feet as well, and he’s two feet away from you, and you feel a little ridiculous, but in a good way.
“Sorry,” you say again, and then, “You’re not totally freaked out?”
He laughs, carefree, for the first time in days. “Come on, Cook. I’d have to be blind to not… you know, feel the same way?” He blushes a little and adds something like, “No offense to blind people…” but you’re not listening anymore.
“You, um, you feel the same?” you ask, just for confirmation, and suddenly this conversation has taken a completely new direction, one that you like. A lot.
Archie glances into your eyes for a second, down to his feet, then back up at you. “Yeah,” he says, sort of self-consciously tugging at one of his sleeves. “I always have. Since the beginning. That’s why… when I thought you were mad at me. I thought maybe you figured it out.” He opens his mouth, like he’s going to say more, but you don’t let him. You grab him by the arm and pull him closer. He bumps against your chest and laughs, quietly, nervously.
“I know what you’re doing,” he says slyly, looking right into your eyes.
“Oh yeah? What am I doing?”
He’s silent, for a moment, but he looks confident. And not embarrassed, like you sort of feel. About this whole situation. He clears his throat. “You’re going to kiss me.”
You feel your eyes widen, and okay, you’re smirking. “Oh, am I?”
“Yes.” He says it so passionately that your stomach does a little flip. His free hand reaches out and grazes yours, trailing fingers across your palm. And then his serious expression falters, a smile breaking through. He leans up on his tiptoes, inches from your face. “Please?”
“Don’t do that,” you mumble, and you should say no, you should avoid this situation completely. But you know you’re not going to, and Archie knows it, too.
“Please,” he repeats, leaning closer. His tone is light, playful. “Please, Cook. Pl-”
You kiss him. Long and hard and with both hands on either side of his face, and he’s kissing you back. It’s not a peck, like maybe you intended, and when you pull away for breath, he presses his forehead against yours.
“Is this okay?” you ask him, and though he doesn’t answer, you know it is; if it wasn’t okay, he wouldn’t be taking your hand, wouldn’t be leading you towards your bed-Archie is leading you to your bed-and he definitely wouldn’t be pulling you towards him to kiss you again.
***
When you wake up, everything feels different and you’re not sure why. You consider for a few seconds. For one, you’re still wearing your socks and shoes. The sun is just barely filtering into the room and your alarm hasn’t sounded yet, which means it’s early. Oh, and David Archuleta is curled into your side, your arm across his chest.
Right, you think. There’s that.
Last night feels surreal, like it happened to some lucky guy named David Cook that couldn’t possibly be you. But it was, and you’re glad. You learned a lot last night. You learned that Archie used tongue (and was possibly a better kisser than you, and really, you’ve kissed a lot more people, so how exactly is that fair?), you learned that you can be a complete jerk for weeks and that a guy with a golden heart could still forgive you, and you learned that you don’t have all the time in the world-in fact, you fly out in two days.
That flight will be different. You’ll share your headphones with Archie. You’ll let him grip onto you when the plane takes off and everything is shaky, at least for a second. You won’t take him into the bathroom and join the Mile High club, but you’ll take a nap and let the possibility run through your mind, unrestricted. Archie will understand.
But that’s in two days, and you plan on making what time you have left count. With that in mind, you roll over to your side and lightly shake Archie awake.
He blinks a few times and then smiles happily up at you, like he’s surprised that you’re still there. “Good morning,” he says, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Yeah,” you reply, and then you lean in and kiss him lightly, pulling away before he can even properly respond. You touch the side of his face fondly and grin. “It is.”