fic: Wake Up, Little Susie (Cook/Archuleta)
Wake Up, Little Susie
Description: David Archuleta has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. And night. Cook might be there, too. In which olives, overly helpful waiters, MWK, Sponge Bob, 19E, strange dreams, internet memes, and TMZ also make an appearance.
DC/DA
PG-13. Approx 8000 words.
Entry Level
David Archuleta was having a horrible day. He did not want to go to the party. And yet, apparently, it was his job to do so. Stupid fame.
He jittered a moment in the hallway outside the hotel ballroom, putting his hands into his jacket pocket, pulling them out, feeling for his iPhone. He seriously thought for a moment about fleeing the building, and then calling his manager's voice mail from the car and claiming to have the flu.
Shoving lameness to the floor and stepping on its face, he squared his shoulders and stepped forward into the room.
The party was all fancy, with little white lights in palms and silver streamers and candles and huge, slightly scary arrangements of orange flowers and twigs bursting out of expensive-looking shiny jars on all the tables.
It was entirely pretty, and Archie realized in about two seconds that the only people he knew in the whole room were a couple of orange-tanned 19Evil producers who were gathered in a little circle snickering like a pack of hyenas on a nature show. Some girls were also looking at him, and probably they recognized him, but they were the type who were all a foot taller than him and leggy and long-necked with huge, lashy, made-up eyes. Like a pack of graceful gazelles (sticking with the nature thing) only in tiny tight sparkly dresses holding tiny sparkly purses, which, where did they even keep anything?
And he really did not want to go over there. A DJ was spinning some Santogold and he sang along with her inside his head just as she went, "Stop trying to catch my eye!" so that was funny. Archie sort of backed under a potted palm.
"SO!" Oh, uh, some one was talking to him. That could be good or bad.
Good, most likely. It was this really hot guy, sort of all slender with blond hair that went straight up. He looked a lot more comfortable then Archie felt. He had on black jeans and a black t-shirt and a little gold name-tag over one pocket and a tray. Archie wanted to read the name tag, only it seemed like it might be kind of rude and obvious to stare at the guy's chest.
"Yeah, usually, I'm just resigned to the fact that the first six conversations I have at any party will be completely awkward. I kind of have to write those first half dozen people off. After that, I calm down and get normal. Well, approximately, anyway. And so then I enjoy the party after that!" Said Waiter, encouragingly.
"Oh me, too!" Archie confessed. "Only, it's more like, uh, the majority of the party? And the comfortable part comes along like ten minutes before I have to go. Then, I do finally think of awesome stuff to say, but I'm already riding home. Or sometimes it's after I get home. Ha." He hope that sounded all jokey and self-deprecating, not just . . . accurate.
Waiter gave him a nice look. "Would you like anything?" "No, I'm fine." Archie realized that seemed kind of lame. If you were a waiter, maybe you wanted people to order things? It might get boring otherwise. "Maybe a Sprite?"
And then, oh! There was Cook. And he was doing the thing with, like, a lovely white shirt that was open at the neck, and just the one little necklace with the star, and some jeans and boots, and like, his face. It was awesome how he did that.
Archie was pretty sure that he did not sigh out loud. But he might of. Because Waiter was looking at him out of the corner of one eye. As if he kind of got it, Archie felt. He really, really wanted to go talk to Cook. He thought maybe Cook was looking over here, and possibly trying to catch his eye, so of course he kind of turned around and stared hard at nothing in the opposite direction.
Which was absurd, because Archie was a pop star who'd performed in front of huge screaming stadiums and been on TV with something that came extremely close to, almost, confidence, and this was just his friend he hadn't seen in a while. Cook and he were, actually, former co-workers if you wanted to be all normal about it, and additionally, Cook was practically like his older brother, except for all the ways in which he was totally not.
Joining him in looking off at nowhere over the invisible horizon, Waiter mentioned, "You know, while I can't serve under age people, it would be cool to know what you liked, because sometimes drinks get, sort of left around?" Oh, temptation! Archie recognized it. Right now, it sounded really good. "Oh! Thanks? I'm, uh, not sure what I like?" he admitted. He thought and then he added, "Um, what would I drink, if I were, like all confident and mature?" Waiter sort of smirked and said, "OK, got it. Just kind of wander around, and then come back here."
And Archie did wander a bit and avoided the eyes of several people with a vague and totally not guilty smile, and then looked over where Waiter had been standing and there was like a whole tray of drinks on one of the little tables. Martinis, he guessed, because, hello, he'd been around plenty of people drinking in the last year, even if he hadn't actually tried anything beyond a little champagne.
Clever, because if you were going to deliver a drink to someone who shouldn't have one, and you like just shoved one over near them, it would look kind of obvious, but a whole tray looked like they were totally meant for someone else and oops, they just got set down here by mistake. There were also some bills on the tray like someone's forgotten tip, so Archie kind of casually put down a lot more and then absconded with his cocktail, rather smoothly, he thought.
It tasted like chemicals and cold metal and olives and ice. It was slippery and chilly on his tongue, and then in his belly, it began to light a slow, creeping warmth. He kinda hated it for a minute and then suddenly it was the most awesome thing in the world. It was a familiar feeling. I have a crush on my drink, he thought sadly.
You and Me and All of the People
But armed with the martini, he slowly he began swimming his way through the crowd towards Cook. And then Cook turned and gave this huge smile, like he was really excited to see him, which was stupid, because they'd seen each other a thousand times a week for a year, only not so much lately. And then Cook just lifted up his arm and drew Archie under it, like it was the most natural thing ever, and kept talking to some guy, only from time to time he would glance down at Archie and his mouth would curl a bit and he would nod, like they had just shared some important secret recently. Which they hadn't that Archie knew of, only now everything felt all natural and comfortable and like it was no big deal.
It was a good party after all.
After the random guy was gone, Cook wandered towards the big windows looking over the courtyard, Archie still tucked under his arm, until they drifted into a quiet side eddy of the party. He took a swig of his beer (and Archie watched his pale throat move, swallow) and then clinked the bottle gently against Archie's glass and raised an eyebrow. "Experimenting, are we?" "Oh, well, kind of," said Archie. "But I'm not going be all Lindsey Lohan, or anything." "Good to know. As the ex-bartender in the conversation, I am not the guy to give lectures. When I was your age, I thought beer was a food group. Actually, until last year I thought beer was a food group. Remember my gut in Hollywood Week? " Cook mimed an enormous exaggerated curve over his stomach, where there was now merely a pleasant little softness. "Let me be an example to you. All things in moderation. As long as this doesn't lead to you staggering out of limos with no underwear, OK?"
As a matter of fact, Archie did remember Cook in Hollywood week, and his bad emo hair and weird clothes and his tummy, and his huge voice and crooked smile, and the cool way he handled the guitar slung in front of him, and the way he fit into his jeans with his nice big self. And how he'd been sort of sweet to Archie from the first, if inattentive, and also he remembered the first time they ever had a real conversation, and how Cook had looked down at him with those kindly grey eyes and really listened to him, and the funny feeling Archie had had, just after.
But now was not the time to get into that, so he said instead, "It' s just, I get tired of there being so much stuff that people want to tell me what to think about, instead of just, you know, seeing for myself."
"Are we still talking about getting drunk, here?" Cook said, being all perceptive the way he was. Usually. "Um, no? I mean, I wasn't talking about getting drunk, anyway! But, it's all . . . everything. I mean when we finished the show, we had the tour to do, and when we finished the tour we had our albums to do, and now that that's over, I just want to, slow down and think, you know? Only everybody wants to rush me along to the next thing. They act like I've already decided stuff about stuff when I haven't even had a chance to look at the choices. It's like some whole chapter of my life got skipped or something."
Cook was nice enough not to ask him to define "stuff" and then he and Cook were having a nice quiet talk, and he told Cook about his idea for a new song, and Cook liked it, and Cook told him random things about his own tour and song-writing and his mom and some random story about baseball. It was no big deal, and it was just about perfect. It was like they weren't at a party at all.
So of course that all ended much too soon.
After they got interrupted and Cook got swept off into a crowd of other people, Archie was still riding high enough to sail along on his own for a while. He marched over to the bunch of leggy girls and demanded to know about the mystery of the tiny purses and there was a lot of giggling and displaying of bedazzled cell phones and lipsticks and comparison of fancy strategies for tucking key-rings and wallets and hairbrushes and tampons (his brain froze for a second) into improbable places. See me here! Here I am, socializing, by my own self, Archie thought somewhat smugly.
And then he got kidnapped by a 19E producer with hair like TinTin and made to talk to some pompous older grey-haired guy who kept calling him "Dave" in an over-familiar way and who Archie was pretty sure he was supposed to know. He had on a navy blazer and chinos and an open-neck shirt and loafers and gave off a showbiz air of, "See how I am casual and yet enormously, sickeningly rich," which had confused Archie so much when he first met Simon Cowell.
He was glad his dad had stayed back at the hotel, because this sort of guy always made him all nervous and eager to please and he'd start boasting on Archie till Archie felt all miserable and went scorchy-red, and now he felt bad for having that thought. Branding and demographics and rights, Loafer Guy said. Distribution and units and chart position, blah, blah. He kept calling music "product."
The 19E guy, Eric, was nodding along and hyena-laughing obsequiously. Archie smiled politely, because he'd been raised right, and thought about some chord changes he wanted to practice back in his room. Loafer Guy sort of came to the end of whatever it was he was saying and seemed to want Archie to chime in. "But I'm talking to the wrong guy, eh, Dave? It's all about singing and girls and what's your next big hit, am I right? You don't care about any of this industry nonsense!" "Not really," said Archie. There was a moment of severe silence, in which Archie realized he'd accidently been totally honest. Stupid martini.
"I mean, " he amended," I feel like...it's my job to work on my music. Not just my job, that's also who I am. Songs, and how they work, or don't, and how they make people feel, and understanding why. If I tried to think of it in term of money, and numbers, it wouldn't even work."
"Because that's our job," Eric said, interceding smoothly and getting things back on track. "That's why David's the artist , and he's got us to take care of him." Both of them picked up the thread and began patting each other on the back for how much they loved and embraced artists, and luckily, before Archie could screw up any more by saying things he actually felt, there was a fuss by the door as the Gossip Girls people arrived and they swept off in pursuit.
Exit Strategy
OK. Possibly it was time to quit while he was ahead and still feeling somewhat on top of his social skills. Although the party was at a hotel, he was staying at another hotel, because it was LA and every hotel had some arcane, slightly different purpose to it, and people spent like fifty percent of their time at hotels, even if they lived in the city. It wasn't like the Comfort Inn in Murray, where a hotel was just someplace you slept. Anyway. He looked around for Cook to see if he could get in one more teeny slice of time together before he left, and maybe even they would end up making a plan to hang out later and Archie wouldn't even feel like he was saying good-bye, again. "Now I'm standing at your front door, singing," he hummed to himself, and kind of giggled at his internal vision of Cook doing just that. Goofball.
Oh. . . . gosh darn it. There was Cook, but there, too, were his stupid friends from his new band, all around him. Which meant, he wasn't even going to get to talk to him at all anymore. I mean, he could go talk to him, of course, but not really, because Cook's band were all really old and cool and rockstarsl and they were terrible people.
Well, not really. In fact, he didn't actually know the drummer. And one guitarist was Neal, who for some reason no one could explain was also called Doctor, and he had as many tattoos as Carly, plus these piercings in his actual lip, and he'd been really nice to Archie when they met at the VMAs. Only when Cook had asked Archie afterward, he'd said, "Every time I look at his face, I can't help thinking, Ouch!" and Cook had sputtered up his drink and of course told Neal and everyone else, and he and Michael went around calling Neal "OuchMyFace!" for like weeks and weeks. So there was one person Archie could never talk to again.
But another guy in the band was Andy, who'd been in a band with Cook back in Tulsa, before The Show. So had Neal. But Archie just didn't like Andy, he couldn't say why. Cats and dogs. Anyways, Andy was all handsome in a dark, skinny, sarcastic-looking way, and he was always looking into Cook's face all intensely and standing like six inches away from him, and talking about people and places and obscure alternative bands and old jokes that he and Cook knew and Archie didn't, even when, hello, Archie was standing right there. And on somebody's web site he'd seen a picture of Cook with his arm around Andy, like really around him tight, and one where they were singing into the same microphone with their mouths like an inch apart.
It was stupid anyway. Cook had a girlfriend, so did Andy. Archie hated his stupid imagination and the way it kept imagining stuff that probably wasn't even real. He found himself by the tray of drinks from way back when, and half of them were empty now, but among the crumpled napkins and sticky empties, there were a bunch of fulls that were still sitting there all lonely. He grabbed one. Maybe if he sipped it for a while, those people would go away and he could be with Cook again for just a little bit.
A Little Jaded
Archie was lying on a pile of coats on a little bench in a corner. There was that Santogold song again: "I want to get up out of my skin," that was apt, ha ha ha. Was the DJ repeating stuff or had he just played every single song he had and come around again to this one? Either way, lame. Archie might get up and go have a talk with the DJ, except he was too sad. Extremely sad, in big soppy waves that kept sweeping through him. Somebody was asking about it, and he tried to tell them it was complicated. They asked again, and Archie realized suddenly that OuchMyFace! was looming over him, looking at him with concern. What was he doing here?
Archie tried to smile big and alleviate his concern, so he'd go away and leave him alone. He found that worked pretty well on keeping people from knowing how he really felt. But right now, he tried it and found his face felt all numb. He sat up, and he tried to stand up, and was surprised to find that he was all tripping on his own feet, and his stomach hurt. He lay back down, quickly.
A minute later, and now Cook was leaning over him instead. Cook looked extremely nice with his hair stuck up all over his head and his scruffy beard and his eyes all round and concerned and his dark eyebrows doing the worried thing. Now Archie remembered why he was sad.
"Archie! How many of those things did you have?" "Oh, only, only two. Or maybe three. I'm pretty sure I don't like them, though." "Oh, wonderful. Man, I thought you had better sense than this." "Oh, I know," said Archie, sadly. "I totally, completely agree. I am very disappointed in myself, and you should be too. This is like, totally not living by my standards." This for some reason, had about the opposite effect than he meant, since Cook looked not very mad and maybe kind of amused. Really gently, he pulled Archie into a sitting position.
"OK, Mister High Standards, we are so getting you out of here, right now, before you get yourself into any more trouble. If you're cogent enough to take the blame you so richly deserve, I'm assuming you can still walk." "I can, I think. Walk. But I can't go yet, because my dad's back at the Hilton." Cook did look grave at that. Unfortunately, he knew Archie's dad.
Archie swallowed, past the lump that was forming in his throat, and tried to explain more. "And um, I didn't even want to go to this stupid party, and he wanted me to, and I said I only would if he didn't, and we've been kind of fighting about . . . everything, almost, and I really need to stay right here till I am totally fine. Because if he finds out I got drunk, he'll think he was right about everything, and, and.... everything in my life will just suck a whole lot more then it already does."
Cook sighed, and scrubbed his hand over his face, and Archie suddenly realized he had no idea what time it was, only it was probably pretty late. Cook said, "I get it. Sort of . . . Later, you're going to explain to me what this "everything" is that is eating you, because I'm feeling like I'm not exactly getting the picture. Right now, though, you're coming with me so we can totally conceal your toasted little self till you dry out a bit. Good thing for you I've had a lot of practice hiding untoward shit from parents." That was a good thing, Archie thought.
19E had put Cook up at the Hilton, too, and suddenly he was all taking charge and he got Archie some water and then he was off arranging the car service, and then he came back for Archie. "Look," Cook said, and now he was using his serious but encouraging face, "not to spook you, but I'm pretty sure there were some paparazzi out front when we arrived at the party, and there may be some there still. There's nothing they'd love better then a little drunken Mormon pop star tumbling all over the place. There's no sense trying to hide you from Jeff if it's going to be all over TMZ tomorrow. So, I need you to put on your game face and make it out to the car as steady as you can. You up to it?"
Ok, that was kinda scary. But Archie nodded and sucked down the rest of the bottle of cold water and he got up, and he could totally walk fine, except everything seemed like a vast, vast distance. He felt like he was walking down the hotel lobby forever and the funky pattern in the carpet was hurting his eyes and he was finding it hard to go straight and he kind of wanted to sit down again. Cook just gently touched him on the elbow to steer him, and even in his messed-up state it kind of dawned on him that if he didn't get it together, and fell down or threw up or something, people wouldn't just be like "oh look, David Archuleta's drunk," they'd be like "oh look, David Archuleta got underage drunk with David Cook, American Idol," which wasn't even true, but it would look true, and that would be all that mattered.
He suddenly got a little more sober.
After Midnight
They made it to the car. In the dark, driving, he leaned against Cook's big shoulder. It felt solid and warm. "Let me know if you're gonna puke," Cook said conversationally, and Archie lifted his head and stuck his tongue out at him, and Cook laughed and poked him in the belly. "Aggh, don't," Archie said. "Or I really will, and I won't even pay for your dry cleaning." "All washable," said Cook, smugly. "Do your worst, Archuleta."
And then they were at the hotel, and Archie was walking carefully but pretty normally to the elevators, and then they were in Cook's hotel room. Cook was continuing to be all in charge, which was just as well since Archie wasn't exactly sure how they were going to go about undoing whatever the martinis had done. First Cook made him drink two more whole bottles of water. Then he lent him a toothbrush and also told him to take a shower, because he apparently stunk, which sucked. It was good advice, though, because the warm water made him feel not only cleaner but just safer and better and his stomach hurt less. Until he thought about the fact that he was naked in Cook's shower, and Cook was right outside, and then he felt really funny again.
But when he got out, Cook had had room service come and there was a pot of coffee and a big pile of crackers and some tomato soup. He hated coffee but Cook put some milk and sugar in it and made him drink some and also have a little of the soup and all the crackers. After all these things, Archie was feeling pretty close to normal, and he told Cook, and they decided they would just wait like half an hour till Archie's hair dried and to make sure the vomitous feeling didn't come back, and then he could head to his room and try to sneak in without waking his dad.
It was around 2 AM now. Cook went in the bathroom and showered too, and Archie totally did not look or think about it, for the most part, and he came out again in an old Smiths t-shirt and boxers with little guitars on them. Hee. He put on the TV and found an episode of "Sponge Bob" and he scooted over on the big king bed and Archie got in next to him, and kind of leaned his head on his shoulder again like in the car, and somehow given the whole evening, this didn't seem too weird.
When Archie turned his head, Cook was gazing at the TV with big, glazed-over eyes, and he was breathing slow and steady, like he was almost asleep already. With his piratey beard and big wide mouth and the swirly tattoo on the tender underside of his arm, there was something strange and vulnerable about seeing him all drowsy. He smelled nice. The sound on the television was turned down so far you could barely make it out, but Archie didn't care. For a few minutes, he just took in the events at the bottom of the sea, and felt Cook's breathing rise and fall beside him.
At last he spoke, really softly. "Hey." "Hey.'" "This evening was so . . . Just. Thank you." "De nada." "Can I tell you something?" Cook turned his head slowly and gave him that deep gaze of full attention and taking him seriously that always kind of smushed his heart. "Shoot." "I, uh, what's up with me, is, I was kind of . . . seeing someone. And we broke up." "Hey man, I'm sorry," said Cook. "Breakups bite. Hurt bad, huh?"
"Oh, no. Gosh, not really, we were going out for, like, a minute, and, it was actually kind of an experiment, and it went all kind of dumb, then we broke up and I was kind of relieved. But my dad found out after, and now he's freaking out about it, and he thinks it's all LA's fault and show business and he wants me to move back to Utah...and just..." Archie tried to show with his waving hand how messed up everything was.
"OK, so that's kinda of an overreaction . . . I mean, I know you're Mormon and all, but your dad found out about you and this girl after the fact and then..."
"Boy. As in, uh, it's a him. He is. Was. A him."
"Oh." Cook blinked. His brow furrowed a bit, but he didn't look shocked. At all.
"So what are you going to do?"
"About being gay? I don't think there's anything that I can do about it.'"
"About your dad, dummy."
" I don't know. I don't know yet. That's why tonight was . . . I just didn't need one more thing to make him think I'm totally corrupt or anything."
"Archie, for fuck's sake. Tell me you realize that whatever your church says, or Jeff says, there is nothing wrong with you. You're not corrupt, you're not made wrong, you're just a person, with his head screwed on better then ninety percent of the world, who's figuring out how you want to do your own life. Jesus, look at this whole past year, and everything we've done and tell me you don't believe you're as ready to live your own life as the rest of us."
Cook was getting agitated. "David," Archie said. "It's OK. My dad's not, um, being horrible. Really. I mean, he doesn't like the gay, but he loves me. He's just mostly scared. He thinks people will find out, and if they do, the press will be really mean and all those girls and moms maybe won't buy my record, and I'll like, lose my chance to have a good life after everything. And I don't even know if he's right or not. So, but. So you're okay . . . that I am?"
Cook just looked at him a moment, and then he rolled his eyes, and then he leaned over and kissed him, gently, on his temple. "Okay, then." "Okay."
"I need to go," Archie said, through a stifled yawn. "Mmmmm. Right. Gotta get you back to your dad tonight. Least you're sober. Thanks to me. The world will never know how I totally saved your reputation." Cook was snickering at him, now, but it was alright. He should find his shoes.
Our Goose Is Cooked
The next thing Archie knew, he was waking up from a deep sleep. Golden light was seeping through a crack in the thick curtains. Right next to him, David Cook lay flat on his back, slumbering happily, his arms flung wide. And he himself was pretty much, well, snuggled up against him. He turned his head and saw that the evil, evil red numbers on the alarm clock read "5:00."
OH! For goodness sake . . . after everything . . . and now he was . . . "Damn it!!" said David Archuleta. "Sorry," he mumbled a second later, to no one in particular. He raced around the room, trying to get himself back together, and attempting to do so silently. Phone, wallet, jacket, shoes. He sped into the bathroom and tried to brush his teeth soundlessly but the faucet refused to be quiet and he managed to drop all his stuff on the floor and when he came out Cook was awake and sitting on the edge of his bed. They looked at each other wordlessly.
"Wait just a sec. I'll brush my teeth and see what a comb can do, and then I'll be with you." "Cook, it's better if you stay here," Archie began, and Cook cut him off sort of brusquely: "Sure, I'm letting you go down there and face the music by yourself. Not."
Cook was all bossy again and made David stop and locate his hotel room key pass and comb his hair, and then walked out with him and he was kind of grim and stiff-looking but still with a little smile, like he sometimes had been after things went badly on The Show and Archie got it that he was kind of role-modeling "head held high," so he tried his best to deliver it too. They were quiet in the elevator, and then Archie said, "I'm sorry. This is all just so stupid." And Cook gave him his huge grin and said, "stupid happens."
They reached the Archuletas' floor and Archie found his room. Everything was dead silent in the dawn. Was it too much to hope that his dad had somehow magically slept through everything?
He turned and looked up at David Cook to say goodbye and he found himself slowly, as if in a dream, putting both hands on Cook's shoulders, and standing on tiptoe and pressing his lips against Cook's. And then Cook was putting one hand on the back of Archie's head, and just pressing so hard on his mouth, really kissing back, until Archie finally broke it off, gasping.
And then suddenly Cook was backing up against the wall of the hallway, and pulling David up against him tight. They kept kissing and starting another kiss, hot and good. And Cook's tongue at some point was there and just slipping a little between David's lips and he might have made a noise like mmmmph! And he knew he did press right up against Cook then, his arms around his neck and he was sliding his hands under Cook's t-shirt, so smooth and nice! And . . . and . . . Cook was only wearing the guitar-print boxers and he was all moving under Archie's hand, and then Archie realized suddenly he did not want to be out in a hallway.
No!!! Cook was stopping. He had stopped. He was giving Archie a little shove out to arms length. "Okay! Okay now. Dave, I . . . we need to, um, we need to just. Slow down. Slow waaaaaay down." Archie agreed. He nodded. He was slowing down. It sucked, though. He noticed that Cook was all red, and sort of breathing heavy, though, which made him feel a little better. A little smug, even. But then Cook said, "We so cannot be doing this right now," and it sounded like he was talking about more then right now, ten past five on a Sunday morning in a chilly Hilton corridor. Archie's heart contracted.
Maybe it showed in his face, because Cook said "Dave, Dave. It's gonna be alright, I promise you," and he reached out and gave Archie a big hug, a friendly, mostly chaste, David Cook hug like he'd done a hundred times.
And that's when all hell broke loose.
Stupid Happens
Relatively speaking, all hell broke loose. What actually happened was that right at that moment, some women rounded the corner. There was an all-too familiar squeal of recognition, and at almost the same moment, the whirrrr!-click! of a digital camera. Sleepy and heart-ache addled, the two Davids failed to swiftly break hug. In retrospect, they froze.
A moment later, they were a foot apart. Archie gave Cook a look of horror, then looked pleadingly at the pair. On the bosom of one he was dismayed to see the all-too-familiar blue and white script spelling out "American Idol"; on the other, still worse, an enlarged image of his own grinning face, surrounded by home-made appliqued hearts. Fans! Not just a run-of-the-mill celebrity encounter, then, but one with with dyed-in-the-wool, blog-reading, Idol-stalking fans. Here, possibly, because of he and David's presence in town for last night's celebrity-studded party? Of all the horrible luck. They were giggling like mad now.
At almost the exact same moment, the door to the hotel room flow open. "David! Where on earth have you been? Do you know how worried I was? What on earth is going on here?" And seeing Cook, taking in his bare feet and re-purposed bed wear, "What are you doing here? Davie, I need some answers RIGHT NOW." "Uh, Jeff, listen, I'm partially responsible here," Cook was saying, when Archie cut him off.
"No, you're not. He's not, Dad. I have to tell you, that I, um." He took a deep breath. "Last night at the party, I drank. I knew it was wrong, and I still did it. When he noticed I was drunk, Cook got me out of there, he took care of me, and made sure I got back here and let me hang out in his room till I felt better, and then I fell asleep. We both did. So it's all, this is . . . this is on me."
"I see. Thank you for telling me the truth, David. And you," looking at Cook, "thank you for trying to help David stay safe. But if I'm hearing right, then you were present when my teenage son was illegally drinking, and didn't stop him, and were, in fact, going to try to help him conceal this from me, only it didn't quite work out. Correct me if I'm wrong here. This is not all what I'd consider the behavior of a good friend, especially a much older one."
Of all the times Archie had felt horrible about his Dad chewing someone out, this was infinitely the worst, because this time he himself was pretty much to blame, and his Dad partly had a point, even if he was wrong in ways Archie couldn't begin to explain.
He glanced sideways at Cook and saw that he had one hand on the back of his neck, his brows furrowed, his upper lip clamped down firmly on his lower, jaw tight, the familiar "I am trying with all my might not to talk back" struggle Archie knew so well. By now the fan girls had vanished, so there wasn't even a chance to go after them and beg them to erase the photo. There was too much happening and it all sucked. This was like the worst 24 hours of his life. He tried to get it together. "Man up, David," he told himself.
"Dad, you and I need to talk, um, in private. Cook, I . . . thank you so much. You totally did your best to help me and everything else was pretty much the result of my own choices. I have to go now. I . . . I'll see you soon." He wasn't so sure about the last part and his voice broke a little, but he held up his head and went into the room behind his dad and shut the door. A little while later, too late, he remembered that Cook had been all into making sure Archie had his stuff with him but he hadn't seen Cook pick up his own room key or his wallet on the way down. He pushed his face further into the pillow and groaned.
It's All Wrong But Its All Right
In the next twenty-four hours, many of which were spent in hellish if ultimately fruitful discussion with his dad, Archie broke away several times and shut himself in the bedroom of the suite with the door closed, frantically Googling on his laptop.
Uggh, there it was. Badly lit, but all too clear. Did he really look at Cook like that? And oh, Cook's boxers were riding waaay low, and his own t-shirt was kind of half-up and gosh, even to him it looked like they really, really should not have been in public. The fact that the moment was actually innocent, was just like, ironic.
But so far, the picture was only on one of the crazy boards, the web site gathering of the truly obsessed Idol stalkers, the ones who uploaded pictures of their favorite singers drinking water or going through airport security or waiting for coffee. Maybe no one else would care? He and Cook both had bigger audiences since their singles had come out, but it wasn't like they were that famous, not A-list celebrities like Angelina Jolie or John Mayer whose every single public step was devoured by the tabloids.
By five o'clock, it was on TMZ, and bad as the picture was, the text was worse: "David on David? Idol Rivals Raunchy Reacharound!" "Idol Hitmakers Stumble Out of Closet?" And the jerks said they'd tried to talk to Cook's girlfriend and she'd sworn at them.
Oh, God. What had he done? He'd probably ruined everything between him and Cook, whatever tiny chance he hadn't realized he'd actually been shelteringa hope of, and they hadn't even done anything , he wouldn't ever get to do the . . . stuff he was only now admitting he really, really wanted to do with his best, dearest friend.
But that wasn't the worst. He'd actually hurt Cook. Probably wrecked his relationship and maybe screwed up his career. Archie felt a horrible pang, a sort of sharp crunch in his chest. After all those stupid love songs. He never realized that it was an actual physical pain like this.
He shut the laptop and went out to the main room. His dad was calling airlines on one phone, and on the other, yelling at what sounded like Archie's manager. He and Archie were supposed to fly to New York tonight. Archie was due to be on the morning shows in two days to talk about his album and they were going to use tomorrow to meet with songwriters about the next one, and he'd actually been looking forward to it all as of yesterday, on what now seemed to be another planet.
"Dad. Dad." He got Jeff's attention, and made his point clear. At six that evening, they were dragging their bags into LAX. He was going to do the shows; no, they weren't going to cancel, and he wasn't going to hide out.
He'd got on the phone and told 19E to send over a body guard but if they had, the guy hadn't caught up with them yet. Archie had stopped using one after the tour, but right now it would have come in handy. Someone spotted him and called someone else, and then he was being swarmed by a bunch of photogs, loserish guys decked in cheap leather jackets and tacky chains and huge telephoto lenses. He winced to have his dad hear some of the things they were shouting.
"David, is it true you're gay? Hey Archie, are you out of the closet? David, are you doing David Cook? Were you blowing him back on the show?"
Someplace back in his head, he discovered, he'd already made up his mind what he was about to do. He stopped and tipped back his fedora to give the shooters his widest-eyed, most innocent look. He made sure at least one guy was rolling video. "Wow, you guys are crazy. " He made sure to sound not so much offended as amused, like ha ha ha, this is some huge joke and we're all in on it.
"I just had, like a really bad day, and Cook gave me a big hug." One horrible creep said something like, "Yeah, that was some fucking hug! You had your hand on his nice big dick." Which wasn't true (about his hand) and also, hopefully, that guy would get edited out because of the swear. He tried his best to channel the dopey, naive fourteen-year old self that had been his last, best line of defense on Idol. "Last time I looked, you can't get GAY from a hug. Duh."
They were wavering now, he could feel it. "So, you're saying you don't have anything going on with him?" Archie rolled his eyes and gave them an extra dose of adolescent disbelief and scorn: "Besides, it's Cook. I mean, everyone likes him, and he kinda likes everyone. I mean, people are always, like all over him all the time. It's kinda awkward." They were buying it, he thought, half of them lowering their cameras and starting to wander off. No story here, not if he didn't cry or flee or crumple in shame like they'd been hoping. One guy was still trying for something to use: "So what are you saying, Cook's just a huge slut with everyone?" OK, distraction was good. "Oh," said David innocently, "I don't like the word slut. That's such a mean word. He's just, like . . . popular."
He booked it out of there with his Dad to the first class lounge, and they made their flight, and his dad didn't even say anything about what he'd said to the paparazzi, just sat there doing paperwork about Archie's contracts really quietly, which made him feel guilty, until eventually his dad fell asleep, and Archie was able to sneak out his iPhone and thumb up TMZ.
There it was, about half way down the page. There was a split picture of him and Cook, both unflattering shots, one of him all goofy and goggle-eyed at the airport, the other of Cook looking sweaty and wearing too tight jeans and laughing with his huge ruddy mouth open at some random party. Then there were a bunch of pictures of all sorts of friends and strangers with Cook hanging off them and their hands on Cook, and "David Cook: Slut Is the New Popular" ran the headline.
Despair in the Departure Lounge
It totally worked. Sort of.
The very next day, when Archie opened his browser, he found the fans spazzing out all over MJ's and Rickey's and LiveJournal. Cook had had a concert last night and showed up proudly wearing a t-shirt with the word "SLUT" in big red letters. And the audience had totally screamed and loved it, so apparently his fear of single-handedly (or with both hands) destroying Cook's career was unfounded.
And then two days later, "Best Week Ever" had made a joke about it, and then t-shirts with "Slut Is the New Popular" coming out of Archie's mouth in a word balloon were selling all over CafePress and then Perez Hilton totally stole the line and used it for a different celebrity scandal and in another couple of weeks it was just some random meme. Pictures of his surprised little mug got photoshopped and farked every which way to kingdom come with different obscene variations on "Slut is the new X" and "Y is the new popular," and he tried not to look, but friends still kept sending him ones they though were funny and sometimes people came up and said the line to him in the street, and he totally stopped trying to explain that he hadn't even said it. Stupid fame.
Anyway, everyone seemed to forget the whole connection to him and Cook supposedly being gay and in love. Which was great, except for how in his case it was totally true.
For six long weeks, he didn't hear anything from Cook. Cook's voice come out of the radio, as his new single got more and more huge, and Archie read some small, snarky stories about how Cook and his girlfriend weren't together, apparently, but both of them refused to comment so there were only like three sentences. Of course they all said how gee, SINP, uggh, original. Archie felt bad about it, at least, he felt guilty about maybe feeling a little bit good about it.
But Cook didn't call or write, and Archie had to wonder. Maybe he hated Archie for breaking him up with his girlfriend? Except for where Archie hadn't really done anything, in public anyway, that was so breakup worthy. Maybe Cook had told her about Archie and him in private--but what was that exactly? He was kind of certain, now, that the stuff he'd imagined about Cook and boys as well as girls wasn't just imaginary. So maybe Cook had just changed his mind about Archie.
He tried to carry on like he'd told Loafer Guy at the stupid, stupid party and treat music like his real work and think and feel his way to better songs. He tried to be grateful that things turned out OK for both of them. He even worked on putting some of the feelings of the last month into songs, and they were possibly the most honest songs he'd ever written, and he went into the studio in the evening with just one producer who was sworn to secrecy and laid down some tracks, and one of these he burned to disk and mailed it to Cook's house.
One night, he had this dream. In it, he and David Cook were walking down a long, darkened hall, and Cook was wearing this dark jacket embroidered in sorcerous-looking swirls of red, and the low light glinted on his hair and beard and cast deep shadows on his serious face. He looked grim and beautiful, like he was off on some secret mission only he knew about. Cook was carrying his white guitar, so maybe they were on their way to sing?
Except Archie couldn't remember what they were going to perform, and this terrified him. He tugged on the other man's arm, said his name urgently, and Cook bent down and whispered in his ear, so close he could feel the warm breath stir his skin: "I have five cards. But I've only shown you three." And then he and Cook were someplace else and they were totally naked and everything was so hot and Archie felt like he was rising and rising and it was so, so good, so of course he woke up, sticky and chilled and alone.
For three days he compulsively checked his voicemail and his email and his condo mailbox. On the fourth day, when he woke up and reached under his pillow and checked his iPhone for the messages that were not there, he might have cried, just a little. Then he went for a long run, and on the run he made promises to himself.
When he got, back, Cook was standing on his front step. Not actually singing, but he did have his guitar on his back. He came down the steps and stopped about a foot away, with his hands jammed in his jean pockets. "OK, here's the thing. After coming within an inch of monumentally fucking up your life, I swore up and down that I was going to leave you be. Until you had time to grow up and do your own thing, and be on your own, and then if you wanted to track me down, you would do so, and if that were years from now, so be it."
"And?" said Archie. "I suck at waiting," Cook said. And then Archie went to him and smashed his face against his chest and squeezed him incredibly hard, and when he felt Cook rumbling with laughter squeezed him even harder.
Much later, when they'd got themselves some privacy, and they'd fucked, and they were kind of working themselves up to another round, Cook said that in the future every time the word "cocktail," or "martini," or even "olive" came up, he was going to have dirty, dirty thoughts and tell them to Archie, no matter where they were. And this proved to be true.
Soundtrack:
"Wake Up, Little Susie," Everly Brothers
"L.E.S. Artistes," Santogold
"Fall Back Into Me," David Cook
"You and Me," Lifehouse
"After Midnight," Eric Clapton
"It's All Wrong, But It's All Right"' Dolly Parton
"Despair in the Departure Lounge," Arctic Monkeys
Description: David Archuleta has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. And night. Cook might be there, too. In which olives, overly helpful waiters, MWK, Sponge Bob, 19E, strange dreams, internet memes, and TMZ also make an appearance.
DC/DA
PG-13. Approx 8000 words.
Entry Level
David Archuleta was having a horrible day. He did not want to go to the party. And yet, apparently, it was his job to do so. Stupid fame.
He jittered a moment in the hallway outside the hotel ballroom, putting his hands into his jacket pocket, pulling them out, feeling for his iPhone. He seriously thought for a moment about fleeing the building, and then calling his manager's voice mail from the car and claiming to have the flu.
Shoving lameness to the floor and stepping on its face, he squared his shoulders and stepped forward into the room.
The party was all fancy, with little white lights in palms and silver streamers and candles and huge, slightly scary arrangements of orange flowers and twigs bursting out of expensive-looking shiny jars on all the tables.
It was entirely pretty, and Archie realized in about two seconds that the only people he knew in the whole room were a couple of orange-tanned 19Evil producers who were gathered in a little circle snickering like a pack of hyenas on a nature show. Some girls were also looking at him, and probably they recognized him, but they were the type who were all a foot taller than him and leggy and long-necked with huge, lashy, made-up eyes. Like a pack of graceful gazelles (sticking with the nature thing) only in tiny tight sparkly dresses holding tiny sparkly purses, which, where did they even keep anything?
And he really did not want to go over there. A DJ was spinning some Santogold and he sang along with her inside his head just as she went, "Stop trying to catch my eye!" so that was funny. Archie sort of backed under a potted palm.
"SO!" Oh, uh, some one was talking to him. That could be good or bad.
Good, most likely. It was this really hot guy, sort of all slender with blond hair that went straight up. He looked a lot more comfortable then Archie felt. He had on black jeans and a black t-shirt and a little gold name-tag over one pocket and a tray. Archie wanted to read the name tag, only it seemed like it might be kind of rude and obvious to stare at the guy's chest.
"Yeah, usually, I'm just resigned to the fact that the first six conversations I have at any party will be completely awkward. I kind of have to write those first half dozen people off. After that, I calm down and get normal. Well, approximately, anyway. And so then I enjoy the party after that!" Said Waiter, encouragingly.
"Oh me, too!" Archie confessed. "Only, it's more like, uh, the majority of the party? And the comfortable part comes along like ten minutes before I have to go. Then, I do finally think of awesome stuff to say, but I'm already riding home. Or sometimes it's after I get home. Ha." He hope that sounded all jokey and self-deprecating, not just . . . accurate.
Waiter gave him a nice look. "Would you like anything?" "No, I'm fine." Archie realized that seemed kind of lame. If you were a waiter, maybe you wanted people to order things? It might get boring otherwise. "Maybe a Sprite?"
And then, oh! There was Cook. And he was doing the thing with, like, a lovely white shirt that was open at the neck, and just the one little necklace with the star, and some jeans and boots, and like, his face. It was awesome how he did that.
Archie was pretty sure that he did not sigh out loud. But he might of. Because Waiter was looking at him out of the corner of one eye. As if he kind of got it, Archie felt. He really, really wanted to go talk to Cook. He thought maybe Cook was looking over here, and possibly trying to catch his eye, so of course he kind of turned around and stared hard at nothing in the opposite direction.
Which was absurd, because Archie was a pop star who'd performed in front of huge screaming stadiums and been on TV with something that came extremely close to, almost, confidence, and this was just his friend he hadn't seen in a while. Cook and he were, actually, former co-workers if you wanted to be all normal about it, and additionally, Cook was practically like his older brother, except for all the ways in which he was totally not.
Joining him in looking off at nowhere over the invisible horizon, Waiter mentioned, "You know, while I can't serve under age people, it would be cool to know what you liked, because sometimes drinks get, sort of left around?" Oh, temptation! Archie recognized it. Right now, it sounded really good. "Oh! Thanks? I'm, uh, not sure what I like?" he admitted. He thought and then he added, "Um, what would I drink, if I were, like all confident and mature?" Waiter sort of smirked and said, "OK, got it. Just kind of wander around, and then come back here."
And Archie did wander a bit and avoided the eyes of several people with a vague and totally not guilty smile, and then looked over where Waiter had been standing and there was like a whole tray of drinks on one of the little tables. Martinis, he guessed, because, hello, he'd been around plenty of people drinking in the last year, even if he hadn't actually tried anything beyond a little champagne.
Clever, because if you were going to deliver a drink to someone who shouldn't have one, and you like just shoved one over near them, it would look kind of obvious, but a whole tray looked like they were totally meant for someone else and oops, they just got set down here by mistake. There were also some bills on the tray like someone's forgotten tip, so Archie kind of casually put down a lot more and then absconded with his cocktail, rather smoothly, he thought.
It tasted like chemicals and cold metal and olives and ice. It was slippery and chilly on his tongue, and then in his belly, it began to light a slow, creeping warmth. He kinda hated it for a minute and then suddenly it was the most awesome thing in the world. It was a familiar feeling. I have a crush on my drink, he thought sadly.
You and Me and All of the People
But armed with the martini, he slowly he began swimming his way through the crowd towards Cook. And then Cook turned and gave this huge smile, like he was really excited to see him, which was stupid, because they'd seen each other a thousand times a week for a year, only not so much lately. And then Cook just lifted up his arm and drew Archie under it, like it was the most natural thing ever, and kept talking to some guy, only from time to time he would glance down at Archie and his mouth would curl a bit and he would nod, like they had just shared some important secret recently. Which they hadn't that Archie knew of, only now everything felt all natural and comfortable and like it was no big deal.
It was a good party after all.
After the random guy was gone, Cook wandered towards the big windows looking over the courtyard, Archie still tucked under his arm, until they drifted into a quiet side eddy of the party. He took a swig of his beer (and Archie watched his pale throat move, swallow) and then clinked the bottle gently against Archie's glass and raised an eyebrow. "Experimenting, are we?" "Oh, well, kind of," said Archie. "But I'm not going be all Lindsey Lohan, or anything." "Good to know. As the ex-bartender in the conversation, I am not the guy to give lectures. When I was your age, I thought beer was a food group. Actually, until last year I thought beer was a food group. Remember my gut in Hollywood Week? " Cook mimed an enormous exaggerated curve over his stomach, where there was now merely a pleasant little softness. "Let me be an example to you. All things in moderation. As long as this doesn't lead to you staggering out of limos with no underwear, OK?"
As a matter of fact, Archie did remember Cook in Hollywood week, and his bad emo hair and weird clothes and his tummy, and his huge voice and crooked smile, and the cool way he handled the guitar slung in front of him, and the way he fit into his jeans with his nice big self. And how he'd been sort of sweet to Archie from the first, if inattentive, and also he remembered the first time they ever had a real conversation, and how Cook had looked down at him with those kindly grey eyes and really listened to him, and the funny feeling Archie had had, just after.
But now was not the time to get into that, so he said instead, "It' s just, I get tired of there being so much stuff that people want to tell me what to think about, instead of just, you know, seeing for myself."
"Are we still talking about getting drunk, here?" Cook said, being all perceptive the way he was. Usually. "Um, no? I mean, I wasn't talking about getting drunk, anyway! But, it's all . . . everything. I mean when we finished the show, we had the tour to do, and when we finished the tour we had our albums to do, and now that that's over, I just want to, slow down and think, you know? Only everybody wants to rush me along to the next thing. They act like I've already decided stuff about stuff when I haven't even had a chance to look at the choices. It's like some whole chapter of my life got skipped or something."
Cook was nice enough not to ask him to define "stuff" and then he and Cook were having a nice quiet talk, and he told Cook about his idea for a new song, and Cook liked it, and Cook told him random things about his own tour and song-writing and his mom and some random story about baseball. It was no big deal, and it was just about perfect. It was like they weren't at a party at all.
So of course that all ended much too soon.
After they got interrupted and Cook got swept off into a crowd of other people, Archie was still riding high enough to sail along on his own for a while. He marched over to the bunch of leggy girls and demanded to know about the mystery of the tiny purses and there was a lot of giggling and displaying of bedazzled cell phones and lipsticks and comparison of fancy strategies for tucking key-rings and wallets and hairbrushes and tampons (his brain froze for a second) into improbable places. See me here! Here I am, socializing, by my own self, Archie thought somewhat smugly.
And then he got kidnapped by a 19E producer with hair like TinTin and made to talk to some pompous older grey-haired guy who kept calling him "Dave" in an over-familiar way and who Archie was pretty sure he was supposed to know. He had on a navy blazer and chinos and an open-neck shirt and loafers and gave off a showbiz air of, "See how I am casual and yet enormously, sickeningly rich," which had confused Archie so much when he first met Simon Cowell.
He was glad his dad had stayed back at the hotel, because this sort of guy always made him all nervous and eager to please and he'd start boasting on Archie till Archie felt all miserable and went scorchy-red, and now he felt bad for having that thought. Branding and demographics and rights, Loafer Guy said. Distribution and units and chart position, blah, blah. He kept calling music "product."
The 19E guy, Eric, was nodding along and hyena-laughing obsequiously. Archie smiled politely, because he'd been raised right, and thought about some chord changes he wanted to practice back in his room. Loafer Guy sort of came to the end of whatever it was he was saying and seemed to want Archie to chime in. "But I'm talking to the wrong guy, eh, Dave? It's all about singing and girls and what's your next big hit, am I right? You don't care about any of this industry nonsense!" "Not really," said Archie. There was a moment of severe silence, in which Archie realized he'd accidently been totally honest. Stupid martini.
"I mean, " he amended," I feel like...it's my job to work on my music. Not just my job, that's also who I am. Songs, and how they work, or don't, and how they make people feel, and understanding why. If I tried to think of it in term of money, and numbers, it wouldn't even work."
"Because that's our job," Eric said, interceding smoothly and getting things back on track. "That's why David's the artist , and he's got us to take care of him." Both of them picked up the thread and began patting each other on the back for how much they loved and embraced artists, and luckily, before Archie could screw up any more by saying things he actually felt, there was a fuss by the door as the Gossip Girls people arrived and they swept off in pursuit.
Exit Strategy
OK. Possibly it was time to quit while he was ahead and still feeling somewhat on top of his social skills. Although the party was at a hotel, he was staying at another hotel, because it was LA and every hotel had some arcane, slightly different purpose to it, and people spent like fifty percent of their time at hotels, even if they lived in the city. It wasn't like the Comfort Inn in Murray, where a hotel was just someplace you slept. Anyway. He looked around for Cook to see if he could get in one more teeny slice of time together before he left, and maybe even they would end up making a plan to hang out later and Archie wouldn't even feel like he was saying good-bye, again. "Now I'm standing at your front door, singing," he hummed to himself, and kind of giggled at his internal vision of Cook doing just that. Goofball.
Oh. . . . gosh darn it. There was Cook, but there, too, were his stupid friends from his new band, all around him. Which meant, he wasn't even going to get to talk to him at all anymore. I mean, he could go talk to him, of course, but not really, because Cook's band were all really old and cool and rockstarsl and they were terrible people.
Well, not really. In fact, he didn't actually know the drummer. And one guitarist was Neal, who for some reason no one could explain was also called Doctor, and he had as many tattoos as Carly, plus these piercings in his actual lip, and he'd been really nice to Archie when they met at the VMAs. Only when Cook had asked Archie afterward, he'd said, "Every time I look at his face, I can't help thinking, Ouch!" and Cook had sputtered up his drink and of course told Neal and everyone else, and he and Michael went around calling Neal "OuchMyFace!" for like weeks and weeks. So there was one person Archie could never talk to again.
But another guy in the band was Andy, who'd been in a band with Cook back in Tulsa, before The Show. So had Neal. But Archie just didn't like Andy, he couldn't say why. Cats and dogs. Anyways, Andy was all handsome in a dark, skinny, sarcastic-looking way, and he was always looking into Cook's face all intensely and standing like six inches away from him, and talking about people and places and obscure alternative bands and old jokes that he and Cook knew and Archie didn't, even when, hello, Archie was standing right there. And on somebody's web site he'd seen a picture of Cook with his arm around Andy, like really around him tight, and one where they were singing into the same microphone with their mouths like an inch apart.
It was stupid anyway. Cook had a girlfriend, so did Andy. Archie hated his stupid imagination and the way it kept imagining stuff that probably wasn't even real. He found himself by the tray of drinks from way back when, and half of them were empty now, but among the crumpled napkins and sticky empties, there were a bunch of fulls that were still sitting there all lonely. He grabbed one. Maybe if he sipped it for a while, those people would go away and he could be with Cook again for just a little bit.
A Little Jaded
Archie was lying on a pile of coats on a little bench in a corner. There was that Santogold song again: "I want to get up out of my skin," that was apt, ha ha ha. Was the DJ repeating stuff or had he just played every single song he had and come around again to this one? Either way, lame. Archie might get up and go have a talk with the DJ, except he was too sad. Extremely sad, in big soppy waves that kept sweeping through him. Somebody was asking about it, and he tried to tell them it was complicated. They asked again, and Archie realized suddenly that OuchMyFace! was looming over him, looking at him with concern. What was he doing here?
Archie tried to smile big and alleviate his concern, so he'd go away and leave him alone. He found that worked pretty well on keeping people from knowing how he really felt. But right now, he tried it and found his face felt all numb. He sat up, and he tried to stand up, and was surprised to find that he was all tripping on his own feet, and his stomach hurt. He lay back down, quickly.
A minute later, and now Cook was leaning over him instead. Cook looked extremely nice with his hair stuck up all over his head and his scruffy beard and his eyes all round and concerned and his dark eyebrows doing the worried thing. Now Archie remembered why he was sad.
"Archie! How many of those things did you have?" "Oh, only, only two. Or maybe three. I'm pretty sure I don't like them, though." "Oh, wonderful. Man, I thought you had better sense than this." "Oh, I know," said Archie, sadly. "I totally, completely agree. I am very disappointed in myself, and you should be too. This is like, totally not living by my standards." This for some reason, had about the opposite effect than he meant, since Cook looked not very mad and maybe kind of amused. Really gently, he pulled Archie into a sitting position.
"OK, Mister High Standards, we are so getting you out of here, right now, before you get yourself into any more trouble. If you're cogent enough to take the blame you so richly deserve, I'm assuming you can still walk." "I can, I think. Walk. But I can't go yet, because my dad's back at the Hilton." Cook did look grave at that. Unfortunately, he knew Archie's dad.
Archie swallowed, past the lump that was forming in his throat, and tried to explain more. "And um, I didn't even want to go to this stupid party, and he wanted me to, and I said I only would if he didn't, and we've been kind of fighting about . . . everything, almost, and I really need to stay right here till I am totally fine. Because if he finds out I got drunk, he'll think he was right about everything, and, and.... everything in my life will just suck a whole lot more then it already does."
Cook sighed, and scrubbed his hand over his face, and Archie suddenly realized he had no idea what time it was, only it was probably pretty late. Cook said, "I get it. Sort of . . . Later, you're going to explain to me what this "everything" is that is eating you, because I'm feeling like I'm not exactly getting the picture. Right now, though, you're coming with me so we can totally conceal your toasted little self till you dry out a bit. Good thing for you I've had a lot of practice hiding untoward shit from parents." That was a good thing, Archie thought.
19E had put Cook up at the Hilton, too, and suddenly he was all taking charge and he got Archie some water and then he was off arranging the car service, and then he came back for Archie. "Look," Cook said, and now he was using his serious but encouraging face, "not to spook you, but I'm pretty sure there were some paparazzi out front when we arrived at the party, and there may be some there still. There's nothing they'd love better then a little drunken Mormon pop star tumbling all over the place. There's no sense trying to hide you from Jeff if it's going to be all over TMZ tomorrow. So, I need you to put on your game face and make it out to the car as steady as you can. You up to it?"
Ok, that was kinda scary. But Archie nodded and sucked down the rest of the bottle of cold water and he got up, and he could totally walk fine, except everything seemed like a vast, vast distance. He felt like he was walking down the hotel lobby forever and the funky pattern in the carpet was hurting his eyes and he was finding it hard to go straight and he kind of wanted to sit down again. Cook just gently touched him on the elbow to steer him, and even in his messed-up state it kind of dawned on him that if he didn't get it together, and fell down or threw up or something, people wouldn't just be like "oh look, David Archuleta's drunk," they'd be like "oh look, David Archuleta got underage drunk with David Cook, American Idol," which wasn't even true, but it would look true, and that would be all that mattered.
He suddenly got a little more sober.
After Midnight
They made it to the car. In the dark, driving, he leaned against Cook's big shoulder. It felt solid and warm. "Let me know if you're gonna puke," Cook said conversationally, and Archie lifted his head and stuck his tongue out at him, and Cook laughed and poked him in the belly. "Aggh, don't," Archie said. "Or I really will, and I won't even pay for your dry cleaning." "All washable," said Cook, smugly. "Do your worst, Archuleta."
And then they were at the hotel, and Archie was walking carefully but pretty normally to the elevators, and then they were in Cook's hotel room. Cook was continuing to be all in charge, which was just as well since Archie wasn't exactly sure how they were going to go about undoing whatever the martinis had done. First Cook made him drink two more whole bottles of water. Then he lent him a toothbrush and also told him to take a shower, because he apparently stunk, which sucked. It was good advice, though, because the warm water made him feel not only cleaner but just safer and better and his stomach hurt less. Until he thought about the fact that he was naked in Cook's shower, and Cook was right outside, and then he felt really funny again.
But when he got out, Cook had had room service come and there was a pot of coffee and a big pile of crackers and some tomato soup. He hated coffee but Cook put some milk and sugar in it and made him drink some and also have a little of the soup and all the crackers. After all these things, Archie was feeling pretty close to normal, and he told Cook, and they decided they would just wait like half an hour till Archie's hair dried and to make sure the vomitous feeling didn't come back, and then he could head to his room and try to sneak in without waking his dad.
It was around 2 AM now. Cook went in the bathroom and showered too, and Archie totally did not look or think about it, for the most part, and he came out again in an old Smiths t-shirt and boxers with little guitars on them. Hee. He put on the TV and found an episode of "Sponge Bob" and he scooted over on the big king bed and Archie got in next to him, and kind of leaned his head on his shoulder again like in the car, and somehow given the whole evening, this didn't seem too weird.
When Archie turned his head, Cook was gazing at the TV with big, glazed-over eyes, and he was breathing slow and steady, like he was almost asleep already. With his piratey beard and big wide mouth and the swirly tattoo on the tender underside of his arm, there was something strange and vulnerable about seeing him all drowsy. He smelled nice. The sound on the television was turned down so far you could barely make it out, but Archie didn't care. For a few minutes, he just took in the events at the bottom of the sea, and felt Cook's breathing rise and fall beside him.
At last he spoke, really softly. "Hey." "Hey.'" "This evening was so . . . Just. Thank you." "De nada." "Can I tell you something?" Cook turned his head slowly and gave him that deep gaze of full attention and taking him seriously that always kind of smushed his heart. "Shoot." "I, uh, what's up with me, is, I was kind of . . . seeing someone. And we broke up." "Hey man, I'm sorry," said Cook. "Breakups bite. Hurt bad, huh?"
"Oh, no. Gosh, not really, we were going out for, like, a minute, and, it was actually kind of an experiment, and it went all kind of dumb, then we broke up and I was kind of relieved. But my dad found out after, and now he's freaking out about it, and he thinks it's all LA's fault and show business and he wants me to move back to Utah...and just..." Archie tried to show with his waving hand how messed up everything was.
"OK, so that's kinda of an overreaction . . . I mean, I know you're Mormon and all, but your dad found out about you and this girl after the fact and then..."
"Boy. As in, uh, it's a him. He is. Was. A him."
"Oh." Cook blinked. His brow furrowed a bit, but he didn't look shocked. At all.
"So what are you going to do?"
"About being gay? I don't think there's anything that I can do about it.'"
"About your dad, dummy."
" I don't know. I don't know yet. That's why tonight was . . . I just didn't need one more thing to make him think I'm totally corrupt or anything."
"Archie, for fuck's sake. Tell me you realize that whatever your church says, or Jeff says, there is nothing wrong with you. You're not corrupt, you're not made wrong, you're just a person, with his head screwed on better then ninety percent of the world, who's figuring out how you want to do your own life. Jesus, look at this whole past year, and everything we've done and tell me you don't believe you're as ready to live your own life as the rest of us."
Cook was getting agitated. "David," Archie said. "It's OK. My dad's not, um, being horrible. Really. I mean, he doesn't like the gay, but he loves me. He's just mostly scared. He thinks people will find out, and if they do, the press will be really mean and all those girls and moms maybe won't buy my record, and I'll like, lose my chance to have a good life after everything. And I don't even know if he's right or not. So, but. So you're okay . . . that I am?"
Cook just looked at him a moment, and then he rolled his eyes, and then he leaned over and kissed him, gently, on his temple. "Okay, then." "Okay."
"I need to go," Archie said, through a stifled yawn. "Mmmmm. Right. Gotta get you back to your dad tonight. Least you're sober. Thanks to me. The world will never know how I totally saved your reputation." Cook was snickering at him, now, but it was alright. He should find his shoes.
Our Goose Is Cooked
The next thing Archie knew, he was waking up from a deep sleep. Golden light was seeping through a crack in the thick curtains. Right next to him, David Cook lay flat on his back, slumbering happily, his arms flung wide. And he himself was pretty much, well, snuggled up against him. He turned his head and saw that the evil, evil red numbers on the alarm clock read "5:00."
OH! For goodness sake . . . after everything . . . and now he was . . . "Damn it!!" said David Archuleta. "Sorry," he mumbled a second later, to no one in particular. He raced around the room, trying to get himself back together, and attempting to do so silently. Phone, wallet, jacket, shoes. He sped into the bathroom and tried to brush his teeth soundlessly but the faucet refused to be quiet and he managed to drop all his stuff on the floor and when he came out Cook was awake and sitting on the edge of his bed. They looked at each other wordlessly.
"Wait just a sec. I'll brush my teeth and see what a comb can do, and then I'll be with you." "Cook, it's better if you stay here," Archie began, and Cook cut him off sort of brusquely: "Sure, I'm letting you go down there and face the music by yourself. Not."
Cook was all bossy again and made David stop and locate his hotel room key pass and comb his hair, and then walked out with him and he was kind of grim and stiff-looking but still with a little smile, like he sometimes had been after things went badly on The Show and Archie got it that he was kind of role-modeling "head held high," so he tried his best to deliver it too. They were quiet in the elevator, and then Archie said, "I'm sorry. This is all just so stupid." And Cook gave him his huge grin and said, "stupid happens."
They reached the Archuletas' floor and Archie found his room. Everything was dead silent in the dawn. Was it too much to hope that his dad had somehow magically slept through everything?
He turned and looked up at David Cook to say goodbye and he found himself slowly, as if in a dream, putting both hands on Cook's shoulders, and standing on tiptoe and pressing his lips against Cook's. And then Cook was putting one hand on the back of Archie's head, and just pressing so hard on his mouth, really kissing back, until Archie finally broke it off, gasping.
And then suddenly Cook was backing up against the wall of the hallway, and pulling David up against him tight. They kept kissing and starting another kiss, hot and good. And Cook's tongue at some point was there and just slipping a little between David's lips and he might have made a noise like mmmmph! And he knew he did press right up against Cook then, his arms around his neck and he was sliding his hands under Cook's t-shirt, so smooth and nice! And . . . and . . . Cook was only wearing the guitar-print boxers and he was all moving under Archie's hand, and then Archie realized suddenly he did not want to be out in a hallway.
No!!! Cook was stopping. He had stopped. He was giving Archie a little shove out to arms length. "Okay! Okay now. Dave, I . . . we need to, um, we need to just. Slow down. Slow waaaaaay down." Archie agreed. He nodded. He was slowing down. It sucked, though. He noticed that Cook was all red, and sort of breathing heavy, though, which made him feel a little better. A little smug, even. But then Cook said, "We so cannot be doing this right now," and it sounded like he was talking about more then right now, ten past five on a Sunday morning in a chilly Hilton corridor. Archie's heart contracted.
Maybe it showed in his face, because Cook said "Dave, Dave. It's gonna be alright, I promise you," and he reached out and gave Archie a big hug, a friendly, mostly chaste, David Cook hug like he'd done a hundred times.
And that's when all hell broke loose.
Stupid Happens
Relatively speaking, all hell broke loose. What actually happened was that right at that moment, some women rounded the corner. There was an all-too familiar squeal of recognition, and at almost the same moment, the whirrrr!-click! of a digital camera. Sleepy and heart-ache addled, the two Davids failed to swiftly break hug. In retrospect, they froze.
A moment later, they were a foot apart. Archie gave Cook a look of horror, then looked pleadingly at the pair. On the bosom of one he was dismayed to see the all-too-familiar blue and white script spelling out "American Idol"; on the other, still worse, an enlarged image of his own grinning face, surrounded by home-made appliqued hearts. Fans! Not just a run-of-the-mill celebrity encounter, then, but one with with dyed-in-the-wool, blog-reading, Idol-stalking fans. Here, possibly, because of he and David's presence in town for last night's celebrity-studded party? Of all the horrible luck. They were giggling like mad now.
At almost the exact same moment, the door to the hotel room flow open. "David! Where on earth have you been? Do you know how worried I was? What on earth is going on here?" And seeing Cook, taking in his bare feet and re-purposed bed wear, "What are you doing here? Davie, I need some answers RIGHT NOW." "Uh, Jeff, listen, I'm partially responsible here," Cook was saying, when Archie cut him off.
"No, you're not. He's not, Dad. I have to tell you, that I, um." He took a deep breath. "Last night at the party, I drank. I knew it was wrong, and I still did it. When he noticed I was drunk, Cook got me out of there, he took care of me, and made sure I got back here and let me hang out in his room till I felt better, and then I fell asleep. We both did. So it's all, this is . . . this is on me."
"I see. Thank you for telling me the truth, David. And you," looking at Cook, "thank you for trying to help David stay safe. But if I'm hearing right, then you were present when my teenage son was illegally drinking, and didn't stop him, and were, in fact, going to try to help him conceal this from me, only it didn't quite work out. Correct me if I'm wrong here. This is not all what I'd consider the behavior of a good friend, especially a much older one."
Of all the times Archie had felt horrible about his Dad chewing someone out, this was infinitely the worst, because this time he himself was pretty much to blame, and his Dad partly had a point, even if he was wrong in ways Archie couldn't begin to explain.
He glanced sideways at Cook and saw that he had one hand on the back of his neck, his brows furrowed, his upper lip clamped down firmly on his lower, jaw tight, the familiar "I am trying with all my might not to talk back" struggle Archie knew so well. By now the fan girls had vanished, so there wasn't even a chance to go after them and beg them to erase the photo. There was too much happening and it all sucked. This was like the worst 24 hours of his life. He tried to get it together. "Man up, David," he told himself.
"Dad, you and I need to talk, um, in private. Cook, I . . . thank you so much. You totally did your best to help me and everything else was pretty much the result of my own choices. I have to go now. I . . . I'll see you soon." He wasn't so sure about the last part and his voice broke a little, but he held up his head and went into the room behind his dad and shut the door. A little while later, too late, he remembered that Cook had been all into making sure Archie had his stuff with him but he hadn't seen Cook pick up his own room key or his wallet on the way down. He pushed his face further into the pillow and groaned.
It's All Wrong But Its All Right
In the next twenty-four hours, many of which were spent in hellish if ultimately fruitful discussion with his dad, Archie broke away several times and shut himself in the bedroom of the suite with the door closed, frantically Googling on his laptop.
Uggh, there it was. Badly lit, but all too clear. Did he really look at Cook like that? And oh, Cook's boxers were riding waaay low, and his own t-shirt was kind of half-up and gosh, even to him it looked like they really, really should not have been in public. The fact that the moment was actually innocent, was just like, ironic.
But so far, the picture was only on one of the crazy boards, the web site gathering of the truly obsessed Idol stalkers, the ones who uploaded pictures of their favorite singers drinking water or going through airport security or waiting for coffee. Maybe no one else would care? He and Cook both had bigger audiences since their singles had come out, but it wasn't like they were that famous, not A-list celebrities like Angelina Jolie or John Mayer whose every single public step was devoured by the tabloids.
By five o'clock, it was on TMZ, and bad as the picture was, the text was worse: "David on David? Idol Rivals Raunchy Reacharound!" "Idol Hitmakers Stumble Out of Closet?" And the jerks said they'd tried to talk to Cook's girlfriend and she'd sworn at them.
Oh, God. What had he done? He'd probably ruined everything between him and Cook, whatever tiny chance he hadn't realized he'd actually been shelteringa hope of, and they hadn't even done anything , he wouldn't ever get to do the . . . stuff he was only now admitting he really, really wanted to do with his best, dearest friend.
But that wasn't the worst. He'd actually hurt Cook. Probably wrecked his relationship and maybe screwed up his career. Archie felt a horrible pang, a sort of sharp crunch in his chest. After all those stupid love songs. He never realized that it was an actual physical pain like this.
He shut the laptop and went out to the main room. His dad was calling airlines on one phone, and on the other, yelling at what sounded like Archie's manager. He and Archie were supposed to fly to New York tonight. Archie was due to be on the morning shows in two days to talk about his album and they were going to use tomorrow to meet with songwriters about the next one, and he'd actually been looking forward to it all as of yesterday, on what now seemed to be another planet.
"Dad. Dad." He got Jeff's attention, and made his point clear. At six that evening, they were dragging their bags into LAX. He was going to do the shows; no, they weren't going to cancel, and he wasn't going to hide out.
He'd got on the phone and told 19E to send over a body guard but if they had, the guy hadn't caught up with them yet. Archie had stopped using one after the tour, but right now it would have come in handy. Someone spotted him and called someone else, and then he was being swarmed by a bunch of photogs, loserish guys decked in cheap leather jackets and tacky chains and huge telephoto lenses. He winced to have his dad hear some of the things they were shouting.
"David, is it true you're gay? Hey Archie, are you out of the closet? David, are you doing David Cook? Were you blowing him back on the show?"
Someplace back in his head, he discovered, he'd already made up his mind what he was about to do. He stopped and tipped back his fedora to give the shooters his widest-eyed, most innocent look. He made sure at least one guy was rolling video. "Wow, you guys are crazy. " He made sure to sound not so much offended as amused, like ha ha ha, this is some huge joke and we're all in on it.
"I just had, like a really bad day, and Cook gave me a big hug." One horrible creep said something like, "Yeah, that was some fucking hug! You had your hand on his nice big dick." Which wasn't true (about his hand) and also, hopefully, that guy would get edited out because of the swear. He tried his best to channel the dopey, naive fourteen-year old self that had been his last, best line of defense on Idol. "Last time I looked, you can't get GAY from a hug. Duh."
They were wavering now, he could feel it. "So, you're saying you don't have anything going on with him?" Archie rolled his eyes and gave them an extra dose of adolescent disbelief and scorn: "Besides, it's Cook. I mean, everyone likes him, and he kinda likes everyone. I mean, people are always, like all over him all the time. It's kinda awkward." They were buying it, he thought, half of them lowering their cameras and starting to wander off. No story here, not if he didn't cry or flee or crumple in shame like they'd been hoping. One guy was still trying for something to use: "So what are you saying, Cook's just a huge slut with everyone?" OK, distraction was good. "Oh," said David innocently, "I don't like the word slut. That's such a mean word. He's just, like . . . popular."
He booked it out of there with his Dad to the first class lounge, and they made their flight, and his dad didn't even say anything about what he'd said to the paparazzi, just sat there doing paperwork about Archie's contracts really quietly, which made him feel guilty, until eventually his dad fell asleep, and Archie was able to sneak out his iPhone and thumb up TMZ.
There it was, about half way down the page. There was a split picture of him and Cook, both unflattering shots, one of him all goofy and goggle-eyed at the airport, the other of Cook looking sweaty and wearing too tight jeans and laughing with his huge ruddy mouth open at some random party. Then there were a bunch of pictures of all sorts of friends and strangers with Cook hanging off them and their hands on Cook, and "David Cook: Slut Is the New Popular" ran the headline.
Despair in the Departure Lounge
It totally worked. Sort of.
The very next day, when Archie opened his browser, he found the fans spazzing out all over MJ's and Rickey's and LiveJournal. Cook had had a concert last night and showed up proudly wearing a t-shirt with the word "SLUT" in big red letters. And the audience had totally screamed and loved it, so apparently his fear of single-handedly (or with both hands) destroying Cook's career was unfounded.
And then two days later, "Best Week Ever" had made a joke about it, and then t-shirts with "Slut Is the New Popular" coming out of Archie's mouth in a word balloon were selling all over CafePress and then Perez Hilton totally stole the line and used it for a different celebrity scandal and in another couple of weeks it was just some random meme. Pictures of his surprised little mug got photoshopped and farked every which way to kingdom come with different obscene variations on "Slut is the new X" and "Y is the new popular," and he tried not to look, but friends still kept sending him ones they though were funny and sometimes people came up and said the line to him in the street, and he totally stopped trying to explain that he hadn't even said it. Stupid fame.
Anyway, everyone seemed to forget the whole connection to him and Cook supposedly being gay and in love. Which was great, except for how in his case it was totally true.
For six long weeks, he didn't hear anything from Cook. Cook's voice come out of the radio, as his new single got more and more huge, and Archie read some small, snarky stories about how Cook and his girlfriend weren't together, apparently, but both of them refused to comment so there were only like three sentences. Of course they all said how gee, SINP, uggh, original. Archie felt bad about it, at least, he felt guilty about maybe feeling a little bit good about it.
But Cook didn't call or write, and Archie had to wonder. Maybe he hated Archie for breaking him up with his girlfriend? Except for where Archie hadn't really done anything, in public anyway, that was so breakup worthy. Maybe Cook had told her about Archie and him in private--but what was that exactly? He was kind of certain, now, that the stuff he'd imagined about Cook and boys as well as girls wasn't just imaginary. So maybe Cook had just changed his mind about Archie.
He tried to carry on like he'd told Loafer Guy at the stupid, stupid party and treat music like his real work and think and feel his way to better songs. He tried to be grateful that things turned out OK for both of them. He even worked on putting some of the feelings of the last month into songs, and they were possibly the most honest songs he'd ever written, and he went into the studio in the evening with just one producer who was sworn to secrecy and laid down some tracks, and one of these he burned to disk and mailed it to Cook's house.
One night, he had this dream. In it, he and David Cook were walking down a long, darkened hall, and Cook was wearing this dark jacket embroidered in sorcerous-looking swirls of red, and the low light glinted on his hair and beard and cast deep shadows on his serious face. He looked grim and beautiful, like he was off on some secret mission only he knew about. Cook was carrying his white guitar, so maybe they were on their way to sing?
Except Archie couldn't remember what they were going to perform, and this terrified him. He tugged on the other man's arm, said his name urgently, and Cook bent down and whispered in his ear, so close he could feel the warm breath stir his skin: "I have five cards. But I've only shown you three." And then he and Cook were someplace else and they were totally naked and everything was so hot and Archie felt like he was rising and rising and it was so, so good, so of course he woke up, sticky and chilled and alone.
For three days he compulsively checked his voicemail and his email and his condo mailbox. On the fourth day, when he woke up and reached under his pillow and checked his iPhone for the messages that were not there, he might have cried, just a little. Then he went for a long run, and on the run he made promises to himself.
When he got, back, Cook was standing on his front step. Not actually singing, but he did have his guitar on his back. He came down the steps and stopped about a foot away, with his hands jammed in his jean pockets. "OK, here's the thing. After coming within an inch of monumentally fucking up your life, I swore up and down that I was going to leave you be. Until you had time to grow up and do your own thing, and be on your own, and then if you wanted to track me down, you would do so, and if that were years from now, so be it."
"And?" said Archie. "I suck at waiting," Cook said. And then Archie went to him and smashed his face against his chest and squeezed him incredibly hard, and when he felt Cook rumbling with laughter squeezed him even harder.
Much later, when they'd got themselves some privacy, and they'd fucked, and they were kind of working themselves up to another round, Cook said that in the future every time the word "cocktail," or "martini," or even "olive" came up, he was going to have dirty, dirty thoughts and tell them to Archie, no matter where they were. And this proved to be true.
Soundtrack:
"Wake Up, Little Susie," Everly Brothers
"L.E.S. Artistes," Santogold
"Fall Back Into Me," David Cook
"You and Me," Lifehouse
"After Midnight," Eric Clapton
"It's All Wrong, But It's All Right"' Dolly Parton
"Despair in the Departure Lounge," Arctic Monkeys