fic: suicide squeeze.
Title: suicide squeeze.
Author: expatiates
Pairing: david cook/david wright.
Disclaimer: they do share a first name and a birthday, and both do have beloved brothers. and they are both very, very hot. otherwise? this is all lies. the gold glove and the silver slugger belong to david wright, the song “light on” belongs to david cook, and none of it, much to my chagrin, belongs to me.
Rating: hard R, maybe? nc-17?
Summary: new york mets hotshot third baseman david wright is just a nice southern boy who wants to thank david cook for performing at his charity event.
Notes:
01. this is the book cook talks about, and the specific passage can be found here. and wright thinks of a line from this poem which i actually doubt he's read, but it was quoted in the virgin suicides and i'm going to choose to believe he saw that.
02. if you don’t know anything about david wright and you would like to, this article is excellent. also, watch this video and i dare you not to be charmed.
03. the title of this fic is the name of what my boyfriend has informed me is the most exciting play in the game of baseball. (thanks, honey! if only you knew.) from what i understand, it’s risky because it’s tricky to execute, but when it succeeds, it’s pretty fucking awesome.
04. many thanks to loveflyfree, courts and affectingly for being early readers and promising me that this (at least in its infancy) did not suck, and to misskatieleigh and novelized for being amazing cheerleaders. &allofyou;
Background: for those who don’t follow david cook gossip as obsessively as the author - over the last few weeks of the american idol season, there was a fan campaign to raise money to bring adam cook back to LA for the finale, because his health necessitated a special medical flight. fans raised a good chunk of money, and late in the game a ~mysterious donor~ came through with the rest of the costs. eventually it came out that the donor was david wright, who told the woman collecting the money that his younger brother was a student at virgina tech who was supposed to be in class in the building where the shootings took place. luckily, wright’s brother was unhurt, but david wright felt that he could understand the fear of losing one’s brother, and wanted to help the cook brothers be together for the finale. wright has a charity foundation, and cook will be performing at a fundraiser for that charity on november 12, 2008.
manhattan. the flatiron district. november 11, 2008.
The parade ended hours ago but the city is still abuzz with Veterans Day pride as David Wright sits at the bar, nursing a beer and watching people go by outside the window. The whole area - the whole city, presumably - is a mess of stars and stripes and endless little flag pins. He’s accidentally continued the patriotic theme himself, casual tonight in a red polo shirt and jeans. David likes this bar, just a few blocks from his loft and a pretty welcoming kind of place, somewhere good to kick back and drink a few beers and watch a game.
It’s still early, not even fully dark out, and there aren’t too many people here, so he’s been mostly left to himself, two autographs, but not a single marriage proposal - or at least not yet. He thinks vaguely that he could’ve just worn a baseball cap (not a Mets cap, obviously, that’d be pointless, but something non-sports, Ed Hardy maybe) and nobody’d notice him at all.
He glances at his watch. 5:58. David Cook is supposed to be meeting him. At 5:30. David Cook is late.
Not that it’s his fault, probably. He only got into LaGuardia this afternoon, and the traffic is bound to be a disaster at this time of day, and realistically, maybe David should have just let the guy go to his hotel and get some rest, because he has to play at the gala tomorrow and he doesn’t really need to be bought dinner as some kind of awkward thank you, but it seemed like the right thing to do when he’d invited him, and Cook (“just call me Cook,” he’d said when they met, “everyone else does at this point; I’m used to having too many Davids around”) had seemed happy to accept.
David shrugs to himself, picks at the label on his bottle of Bud - people say that’s a sign of sexual frustration, but really he’s just bored - and glances out the window again, and hey, there he is, stepping out of a black Towncar.
Despite what was probably a long car ride and an even longer flight from LA, Cook looks good. He looks…expensive, not in an asshole way but just in a way that kind of says hey, I’m not just some run-of-the-mill dude. Mostly, he looks like the rockstar he’s on the brink of becoming, hair artfully tousled, dressed all in black, stubble on his face, ridiculous oversized sunglasses against the last of the day’s sunlight.
Cook makes his way through the door and David stands up to greet him, reaches out to shake his hand.
“No, I can’t,” Cook says firmly as he takes his hand.
“What?”
“Seriously, I have plans,” Cook says, and he’s gesturing, pointing to his ear, and he turns and David can finally see the Bluetooth headset there. Cook rolls his eyes. “They can talk to me tomorrow, right?” - he mouths sorry, points at the beer in David’s hands, then to himself, nodding hopefully and making vague gestures toward the bartender, and David catches on, orders him a beer - “yeah, no, that’s cool. I just…right, right. Thanks, Roger. Yeah, I’ll call you later. All right. Thanks, man. Bye. Hey man, how are you?” This last is directed toward David as Cook throws himself onto the next stool, grinning. “Sorry about that. As soon as I landed, the phone started ringing.” He shakes his head, happily grabs the beer that’s just been placed in front of him.
“It’s cool, man. I’m glad you could make it. How was your flight?”
“Not bad,” Cook says, pausing for a long pull on his beer. “The traffic getting here was a bitch, though. I think everything’s still kind of a clusterfuck from the parade.”
“Yeah, uh, Happy Veterans Day, by the way,” David says, smiling at Cook, who grins back.
“And to you, too. I like to think of it as Armistice Day, though. Did you - do ever read Kurt Vonnegut?”
David shrugs. “I read Slaughterhouse-5 in high school.”
“Right, right, so did I,” Cook says, nodding. “Well, in the introduction to one of his other books…I can’t think of which one right now, but anyway, he talked about Armistice Day, which was sort of the basis for Veterans Day? The eleventh hour of the eleventh minute of the eleventh day of the eleventh month - wow, you say any word enough and it starts to lose all meaning, eleventh eleventh eleventh, what the fuck - anyway, during the First World War, that was supposedly when the fighting stopped, and that’s what Armistice Day was about? And he said that he wants to keep Armistice Day instead of Veterans Day, because it’s sacred and he doesn’t want to throw away any sacred things. And it ends with him saying that Romeo and Juliet is sacred, and all music is. And…I don’t know, I just liked it.”
David nods slowly, eyebrows raised, and Cook bursts out laughing.
“Sorry,” he chuckles, “I guess I’m a little wound up.” He drains his beer, gestures to the bartender for another.
“Damn, I didn’t know you were some big intellectual,” David teases. He likes Cook, he thinks.
Cook snorts. “I’m not. I mean, I read, but I mostly know that because my buddy Neal - he plays guitar for me, you’ll meet him tomorrow - is really into Vonnegut. Today’s his birthday, incidentally. Well, would have been. Kurt Vonnegut, I mean. Not Neal. His is in December, same as mine.”
“Your birthday’s in December? When in December?”
“The 20th,” Cook says brightly.
“No shit! So’s mine.”
“I know.”
David cocks his head, sizing the other man up. “How did…why on earth do you know that?”
“I looked you up on Wikipedia,” Cook admits, looking sheepish, and David can’t help but laugh.
They talk for a while and it’s surprisingly easy; David had thought he’d spend the evening being polite but they have a lot in common, so they talk about baseball, of course, and music obviously, “I’m mostly into hip-hop,” David admits, “but I bought ‘Light On,’ it’s awesome” and Cook thanks him with a wink - “that’s very sweet of you,” so David elbows him in the ribs and they both grin. Cook is pretty charming, David realizes, in the way people always tell David he’s charming - well-spoken, warm, funny, and if Cook is a little more flirtatious than David, well, that’s okay, too.
Four beers later David’s feeling loose enough to let Cook talk him into a tequila shot - “It’ll put hair on that pretty chest of yours,” he jokes - and then another, and Cook tells a story about doing tequila shots with his younger brother that makes David laugh so hard he starts coughing, and Cook whacks him on the back until he waves him off.
“I’m fine,” he says, still laughing. “I’m fine!” He wipes his forehead on the back of his forearm. He’s a little drunker than he thought, not bad (definitely not bad) but not quite as in control as he usually is - as he normally prides himself on being. He figures he probably should’ve eaten, since theoretically they were here for dinner, but when he brought it up, Cook shrugged off talk of food and ordered those damn tequila shots instead.
“So…when you win American Idol, do they give you, like, a trophy or something?”
Cook laughs. “What? No. A car, and, well, the record contract is the main thing, obviously. Why?”
“I don’t know,” David says, shrugs. “I mean, in sports when you win something you get a trophy or whatever, and if you win a Grammy or a Tony you get a little statue, so I didn’t know if there was some kind of special…American Idol plaque or something. I was just curious, I guess.”
“No such luck,” Cook says. “We can’t all get Gold Gloves and Silver Sluggers and, uh, assorted other metal symbols of achievement.”
“Just platinum records,” David points out.
“Good point.” Cook rubs his beard thoughtfully, and for the first time since they’ve met, David thinks he looks nervous, and he wishes he hadn’t said anything. “I can only hope.”
“Hey, do you want to go to my apartment? I’ll show you my trophies, maybe let you hold one,” David offers, sort of kidding but sort of not. “You can see what it feels like, until you get some of your own.”
Cook grins at him, cocks an eyebrow. “Are you trying to pick me up, man?”
“Depends on if it’s working,” David counters, and he laughs, and ignores the blush he feels creeping up his neck. Even after several years in New York and his teammates teasing him all the time, he’s still sort of awkward at this; men just didn’t casually joke like this in Chesapeake, Virginia. Cook doesn’t seem to notice, though; he just signals the bartender and turns back to David.
“Oh, it’s totally working.”
shea stadium. queens, new york. august 7, 2008.
When he’d invited Cook to come by the game and take batting practice, it’d been mostly out of politeness. He hadn’t expected him to be interested, really - had hardly known anything about him at the time - but Cook had accepted enthusiastically. Very enthusiastically, in fact. David had figured he was faking, either because he was just a nice guy, or because he was grateful for the thing with his brother, or probably both.
And then the day of the game had arrived and Cook had shown up, beaming, and David realized he’d been wrong.
Nobody could fake a smile like that.
manhattan. the flatiron district. november 11, 2008.
The walk to David’s apartment is only a few blocks, but there’s a chill in the air that neither of them is really dressed for, so they hurry, walking closer than they normally might, talking about some Mets game that Cook was at last year. Every time David bumps into Cook he apologizes, and every time he apologizes Cook just laughs and elbows him in the ribs.
David’s apartment is actually sort of awesome, a total bachelor pad, black leather and flatscreens everywhere, and Cook is suitably impressed, demands a full tour, so David shows him everything worth seeing, including the Gold Glove and Silver Slugger that he won last season, and he’d feel ridiculous showing them off normally but Cook is totally into it, so it seems okay.
There’s the better part of a six-pack in the fridge, he suddenly remembers, so he offers Cook a beer, and they stand in the kitchen, clink the bottles before they drink.
“Here’s to you,” David says. “Thanks for coming to play at the gala.”
Cook shakes his head, his face serious.
“No, man, to you,” he says. “What you did for me, for my brother, without even knowing either of - that’s…really…amazing.” His voice is husky, and he clears his throat. “I could never thank you enough for that.”
Cook smiles, then, and David can see that his eyes are wet. He opens his mouth to say something else - something funny, lighten the mood, he thinks - but before he can get any words out, Cook is stepping close, close, closer, and David can’t move or maybe he doesn’t want to.
And then David Cook is kissing him.
He’s drunk enough not to jump away immediately, and not too drunk to register that Cook’s beard feels soft but his lips are softer, and that his callused fingers - guitar, his brain offers up somehow - are tangling with David’s own. He grabs them hard, involuntarily, and Cook freezes.
“I’m sorry,” he says against David’s lips, and shakes his head. Steps back. “I was-”
He looks down and his voice trails off. David’s still holding his fingers.
somewhere in new york, may 2008.
It was a small piece in the New York Daily News gossip section and he wasn’t even sure why it caught his eye, but it did. He rarely had time to watch TV during the season and he wasn’t sure if he knew who David Cook even was, but he knew what it was like to be afraid of losing a brother you loved so much.
That uncertainty, the sick freefall in his stomach last year when he tried to call Stephen and he didn’t pick up, those minutes that had felt like hours when he was sure his life would never be the same - that, he knew. That, he understood completely.
He picked up the phone. Called a bank in Terra Haute, Indiana.
manhattan. the flatiron district. november 11, 2008.
There was something he read once, David thinks, and fuck if he can remember where it was, that described someone as “the still point of the turning world.” He’s not sure what made him think of that. Or at least that’s what he tries to tell himself.
David stares down at Cook’s fingers wrapped in his own, then back up at the man attached to the fingers. He’s looking at David intently, and for the first time all evening, it seems like he doesn’t know what to say. It’s not stopping him from staring, though, his eyes locked on David’s face, searching for answers there that David sure as hell doesn’t have.
Cook finally - mercifully - drops that steady hazel gaze, and David remembers to breathe, hadn’t noticed until now that he was holding his breath. He unlaces their fingers and walks away, moving to the window, his back to Cook as he looks out over the city. It looks the way it always does, which is comforting but also weird, in the way it’s weird when something terrible or wonderful happens to you and the world just keeps going about its business, doesn’t notice that it’s upside-down.
He isn’t sure yet if what’s just happened was terrible or wonderful. Or maybe both, somehow.
Cook clears his throat.
“That’s a great view you have.”
“I know.” David nods. That much, he does still know.
“It’s pretty amazing, actually. New York, I mean. I’d never even been here until after Idol was over. I came out to do a bunch of press and I couldn’t get over it.” He pauses. “Do you like living here?”
Cook is moving slowly, steadily closer as he speaks, and he rests his hand lightly on David’s shoulder as he asks the question. David draws in a quick, surprised breath, but he doesn’t flinch, and when he answers, his voice is only a little bit shaky.
“I do. It’s different, but, I mean - you have to love it. I’m living the dream, you know?” Cook opens his mouth to speak, but David rushes on. “It’s weird, though, I guess, going home? I still feel the same, but…people don’t see me the same. You…well, you must know how it is. Because when I go home now, I mean, everyone’s still nice, but people tell me that I sound like I have a New York accent sometimes, or that I talk too fast now.”
Cook’s shifted so that he’s right behind him now, and he gives David’s shoulder a quick squeeze, chuckles softly. David can just barely feel Cook’s breath against his neck as he says, “Eh, fuck ‘em. I think you talk just right.”
He isn’t sure if it’s the warm breath or the way he says “fuck ‘em”, or maybe it’s just the alcohol, or maybe it’s because for once, he doesn’t want to be the perfect golden boy and tonight he doesn’t have to be, but it’s something, because David is turning around and Cook is right there, and he’s smiling, but his eyes are dark and serious, and David is grabbing his face with both hands and pulling him in.
As far as kisses go, it isn’t perfect. Not even close, really - Cook makes a surprised sound into David’s mouth that vibrates against his teeth, and neither of them is quite sure who’s leading, both of them trying for control, to set the pace, and neither of them succeeding at first. David tightens his grip on Cook’s jaw, forces his head back the tiniest bit, and Cook makes another sound, one that’s less surprised and more a murmur of agreement.
And then it is kind of perfect, if David ignores the fact that it’s also completely insane. Which, at this point, is pretty much the plan. Because Cook’s tongue is sliding against his, hot and slick in his mouth, the taste of beer and an undercurrent of something sweeter. When David tugs Cook’s lower lip between his teeth, it feels full and swollen, almost pornographic, and he shudders.
David isn’t sure whether he moved or Cook did, but somehow they’re pressed together now, Cook’s body hot and solid against him. Contact everywhere - hips, chests, and most of all, their mouths, licking and nibbling and sucking and coaxing, just like every kiss he’s ever had and nothing remotely close to any of them, stubble scratching against his chin and strong, masculine hands everywhere, touching his waist, gripping his biceps, sliding up to his neck, almost encircling, thumbs resting lightly against the pulse point in the base of his throat where his heart is currently pounding.
David shifts slightly, experimenting, nudging his thigh between the other man’s legs. Cook growls into his mouth and nips at his lower lip, thrusting forward and David can feel how hard he is, feels the heat and length of him pressed tightly against his thigh, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of his own erection, so he pushes forward, lets it grind against the other man’s hip a little. He swallows back a moan, tries not to sound as increasingly desperate as he’s feeling. But when Cook slides a hand beneath his shirt, lets his short nails graze a nipple, trails downward until his thumb rests on David’s hipbone, he groans against Cook’s teeth despite his best efforts.
When Cook slides his hand down further and starts tugging at David’s belt buckle, though, making small needy sounds that shouldn’t be so hot coming from another guy but really, really are, David can’t help it - he starts and grabs his wrist. Cook stills his hand but keeps kissing him, rests his other hand on David’s chest, pressing him back firmly, crowding him until his back is flat against the window glass, finally breaking the kiss - I’m a professional athlete, David thinks, I shouldn’t be breathing this hard - to mouth at David’s jaw, his neck, teeth scraping at his earlobe. David’s pretty sure a line is about to be crossed and he shouldn’t, it’s too much, too big, and they’re against the window, fuck, and someone could theoretically see them and he should put a stop to this right now.
Except then Cook moves again, and he’s cupping David through his jeans, squeezing lightly, and David lets out a strangled gasp and even as he chokes out “what are you doing?” - a stupid question anyway, his brain helpfully points out - he knows it’s too late, knows he’s going to let this happen.
Knows that he wants it to.
Cook doesn’t bother to answer his stupid question, just presses the heel of his hand against David’s crotch, and for the first time since David kissed him, their eyes meet, and there’s something fierce and wanton in Cook’s that makes David fist his hands helplessly at his sides, trying to maintain some ounce of restraint, because Cook is touching his belt buckle again, and his voice is husky as he says “can I?” and he’s breathing hard, rubbing David’s cock through his jeans and biting his lip, and it’s those lips, red and spit-slick and so used-looking that break him completely, and David nods.
Before David’s even really sure what he’s agreed to - later, that thought will startle him for a second, how he just said yes and he didn’t even know, didn’t care what it was as long as it was more - Cook is on his knees in front of him, yanking at his belt buckle, tugging his jeans down around his thighs, hot breath against his cock through his boxers and David thinks he could come from just this, and shit, that would be embarrassing, and also a waste, because those lips-
And then Cook pulls his boxers down, too, and those plush lips are around his cock, encircling him, sliding down, and David lets out a guttural groan as his hips stutter forward. Cook splays his fingers over David’s thighs, thumbs inward, just beneath his balls, and holds him steady, working his tongue over him, sucking slowly, wetly, and David can’t help himself, he grabs for the other man’s head, threads his fingers through the tousled hair and Cook makes a low, rumbling sound of approval around his cock that almost makes his knees buckle.
David tugs gently at the dark strands in his fingers, not enough to hurt, just enough to notice, testing, curious - I want this, can I have this? - and Cook acquiesces, lets David guide his movement, slides his hand around to palm his balls, to brush his fingers behind them, pressing lightly, close but not too close - is there even a too close anymore? - as David pants, hips rolling now as he fucks into Cook’s mouth, any vestiges of cool now gone - was I ever cool tonight, at all? - and he tosses his head, the glass of the window slick against his sweaty cheek, making sounds he never thought he would make, broken sighs and whimpers.
Because it’s good, it’s so good, and he wants it to last for hours but it can’t, he’s getting close and he hears the sound of a zipper and his eyes fly open and Cook’s got one hand shoved down the front of his own pants, stroking his cock, and that’s more than David can take. He gasps out a “don’t, let me, I want,” because tonight, he can say that, and Cook somehow gets it, pulls his hand out of his pants to grab David’s hip hard, makes a needy sound that thrums against his dick and David tries to warn him, says “hey, I’m gonna - oh god oh fuck,” and Cook’s fingers dig into his hip, tongue swirling over him as he comes.
Cook’s barely finished swallowing before David is grabbing for his shoulders, tugging him to his feet. They stumble together towards the black leather couch, and David feels wrung out and exhausted but still, somehow, turned on, and he’s shoving Cook down onto the couch and yanking at his pants, pulling them down around his thighs while he’s whispering “tell me what you want” into Cook’s neck, and Cook groans “just touch me, anything” and so David does, he wraps his fingers around the other man’s cock and it’s thick and hot against his palm. They’re kissing again, hungrier than before, rougher, teeth and harsh ragged breathing and he can taste himself on Cook’s tongue, wonders what Cook would taste like on his, if he’ll ever find out, and he tightens his grip, swipes his thumb across the head of Cook’s dick, feels the slickness there and then Cook is bucking his hips and growling and cursing and David strokes again, twists a little, and Cook comes with his tongue in David’s mouth and his hands fisted in David’s shirt.
Once the sound of their breathing has slowed and softened, once he’s comprised less of crushing need and more of actual, like, normal human being, David realizes he has absolutely no idea what to do now. Cook lets his head fall back against the back of the couch and exhales a slow, contented fuuuuuck and David‘s fingers are still wet and sticky on the other man’s thigh, which, okay, but normally, with a girl, there would probably be cuddling or something, or maybe she’d get up, go fix her hair or whatever and he could regroup, but Cook’s eyes are closed and any minute things are going to be really, really awkward, oh god, and so he reaches out with his other hand and rubs a knuckle lightly against Cook’s cheek. Cook smiles but doesn’t open his eyes. “Hi.”
“Uh. Hi,” David says. He thinks he sounds normal, but apparently not, because Cook immediately stifles a chuckle. “What’s funny?”
Cook does open his eyes then, and David can’t quite look at him, at least not until Cook shoves his shoulder, goes “hey, look at me” and so he does, and Cook says “don’t freak out on me, man, it’s cool, okay?”
And then, inexplicably - or maybe unsurprisingly, David thinks to himself later - Cook is right. It is cool. Because he asks for a towel, so David gets him one, but it’s dry because he’s still a little flustered, and it’s also brand-new and it’s black like almost everything else in this apartment, so Cook ends up with sticky black fuzz all over his dick, and it’s all so preposterous that David can’t help but laugh. And then Cook laughs, too, and he shrugs and pulls his pants up and washes his hands in the kitchen sink. And it’s cool.
So then Cook asks if they can play video games on one of the flatscreens, so they do, and they talk while David beats him four times at Halo 3. They trash talk a little, and Cook calls David a motherfucker twice when his guy blows Cook’s guy up, but they also talk about their lives and about their brothers some more, and they trade stories about being on the road, and it’s really cool.
And then it’s actually kind of awesome, because at around the same time, they both remember how they didn’t eat dinner, and they’re both starving, and David wants to just order something but Cook insists on making them fried egg sandwiches, so he does and they’re messy and delicious, and they eat them at the kitchen counter, standing side-by-side.
Eventually Cook has to leave - “I’ve ignored, like, seven calls from my publicist,” he admits, “he probably thinks I’m dead” - and David walks him to the door.
“You gonna be okay to get back to the hotel?”
Cook nods. “I may not be an expert New Yorker, but even I can manage to get a cab, I’m pretty sure.” He winks. “No worries; I promise not to get lost or kidnapped before the gala.”
“I appreciate that,” David says. He hesitates for a moment, then holds out his hand. “Um. This was…”
Cook takes his hand and shakes it solemnly, then laughs at the look on David’s face and tugs him in for a quick, solid hug, and as he squeezes him tightly, he whispers in his ear.
“It was awesome,” he says. “The word you’re looking for, I think, is awesome.”
Author: expatiates
Pairing: david cook/david wright.
Disclaimer: they do share a first name and a birthday, and both do have beloved brothers. and they are both very, very hot. otherwise? this is all lies. the gold glove and the silver slugger belong to david wright, the song “light on” belongs to david cook, and none of it, much to my chagrin, belongs to me.
Rating: hard R, maybe? nc-17?
Summary: new york mets hotshot third baseman david wright is just a nice southern boy who wants to thank david cook for performing at his charity event.
Notes:
01. this is the book cook talks about, and the specific passage can be found here. and wright thinks of a line from this poem which i actually doubt he's read, but it was quoted in the virgin suicides and i'm going to choose to believe he saw that.
02. if you don’t know anything about david wright and you would like to, this article is excellent. also, watch this video and i dare you not to be charmed.
03. the title of this fic is the name of what my boyfriend has informed me is the most exciting play in the game of baseball. (thanks, honey! if only you knew.) from what i understand, it’s risky because it’s tricky to execute, but when it succeeds, it’s pretty fucking awesome.
04. many thanks to loveflyfree, courts and affectingly for being early readers and promising me that this (at least in its infancy) did not suck, and to misskatieleigh and novelized for being amazing cheerleaders. &allofyou;
Background: for those who don’t follow david cook gossip as obsessively as the author - over the last few weeks of the american idol season, there was a fan campaign to raise money to bring adam cook back to LA for the finale, because his health necessitated a special medical flight. fans raised a good chunk of money, and late in the game a ~mysterious donor~ came through with the rest of the costs. eventually it came out that the donor was david wright, who told the woman collecting the money that his younger brother was a student at virgina tech who was supposed to be in class in the building where the shootings took place. luckily, wright’s brother was unhurt, but david wright felt that he could understand the fear of losing one’s brother, and wanted to help the cook brothers be together for the finale. wright has a charity foundation, and cook will be performing at a fundraiser for that charity on november 12, 2008.
manhattan. the flatiron district. november 11, 2008.
The parade ended hours ago but the city is still abuzz with Veterans Day pride as David Wright sits at the bar, nursing a beer and watching people go by outside the window. The whole area - the whole city, presumably - is a mess of stars and stripes and endless little flag pins. He’s accidentally continued the patriotic theme himself, casual tonight in a red polo shirt and jeans. David likes this bar, just a few blocks from his loft and a pretty welcoming kind of place, somewhere good to kick back and drink a few beers and watch a game.
It’s still early, not even fully dark out, and there aren’t too many people here, so he’s been mostly left to himself, two autographs, but not a single marriage proposal - or at least not yet. He thinks vaguely that he could’ve just worn a baseball cap (not a Mets cap, obviously, that’d be pointless, but something non-sports, Ed Hardy maybe) and nobody’d notice him at all.
He glances at his watch. 5:58. David Cook is supposed to be meeting him. At 5:30. David Cook is late.
Not that it’s his fault, probably. He only got into LaGuardia this afternoon, and the traffic is bound to be a disaster at this time of day, and realistically, maybe David should have just let the guy go to his hotel and get some rest, because he has to play at the gala tomorrow and he doesn’t really need to be bought dinner as some kind of awkward thank you, but it seemed like the right thing to do when he’d invited him, and Cook (“just call me Cook,” he’d said when they met, “everyone else does at this point; I’m used to having too many Davids around”) had seemed happy to accept.
David shrugs to himself, picks at the label on his bottle of Bud - people say that’s a sign of sexual frustration, but really he’s just bored - and glances out the window again, and hey, there he is, stepping out of a black Towncar.
Despite what was probably a long car ride and an even longer flight from LA, Cook looks good. He looks…expensive, not in an asshole way but just in a way that kind of says hey, I’m not just some run-of-the-mill dude. Mostly, he looks like the rockstar he’s on the brink of becoming, hair artfully tousled, dressed all in black, stubble on his face, ridiculous oversized sunglasses against the last of the day’s sunlight.
Cook makes his way through the door and David stands up to greet him, reaches out to shake his hand.
“No, I can’t,” Cook says firmly as he takes his hand.
“What?”
“Seriously, I have plans,” Cook says, and he’s gesturing, pointing to his ear, and he turns and David can finally see the Bluetooth headset there. Cook rolls his eyes. “They can talk to me tomorrow, right?” - he mouths sorry, points at the beer in David’s hands, then to himself, nodding hopefully and making vague gestures toward the bartender, and David catches on, orders him a beer - “yeah, no, that’s cool. I just…right, right. Thanks, Roger. Yeah, I’ll call you later. All right. Thanks, man. Bye. Hey man, how are you?” This last is directed toward David as Cook throws himself onto the next stool, grinning. “Sorry about that. As soon as I landed, the phone started ringing.” He shakes his head, happily grabs the beer that’s just been placed in front of him.
“It’s cool, man. I’m glad you could make it. How was your flight?”
“Not bad,” Cook says, pausing for a long pull on his beer. “The traffic getting here was a bitch, though. I think everything’s still kind of a clusterfuck from the parade.”
“Yeah, uh, Happy Veterans Day, by the way,” David says, smiling at Cook, who grins back.
“And to you, too. I like to think of it as Armistice Day, though. Did you - do ever read Kurt Vonnegut?”
David shrugs. “I read Slaughterhouse-5 in high school.”
“Right, right, so did I,” Cook says, nodding. “Well, in the introduction to one of his other books…I can’t think of which one right now, but anyway, he talked about Armistice Day, which was sort of the basis for Veterans Day? The eleventh hour of the eleventh minute of the eleventh day of the eleventh month - wow, you say any word enough and it starts to lose all meaning, eleventh eleventh eleventh, what the fuck - anyway, during the First World War, that was supposedly when the fighting stopped, and that’s what Armistice Day was about? And he said that he wants to keep Armistice Day instead of Veterans Day, because it’s sacred and he doesn’t want to throw away any sacred things. And it ends with him saying that Romeo and Juliet is sacred, and all music is. And…I don’t know, I just liked it.”
David nods slowly, eyebrows raised, and Cook bursts out laughing.
“Sorry,” he chuckles, “I guess I’m a little wound up.” He drains his beer, gestures to the bartender for another.
“Damn, I didn’t know you were some big intellectual,” David teases. He likes Cook, he thinks.
Cook snorts. “I’m not. I mean, I read, but I mostly know that because my buddy Neal - he plays guitar for me, you’ll meet him tomorrow - is really into Vonnegut. Today’s his birthday, incidentally. Well, would have been. Kurt Vonnegut, I mean. Not Neal. His is in December, same as mine.”
“Your birthday’s in December? When in December?”
“The 20th,” Cook says brightly.
“No shit! So’s mine.”
“I know.”
David cocks his head, sizing the other man up. “How did…why on earth do you know that?”
“I looked you up on Wikipedia,” Cook admits, looking sheepish, and David can’t help but laugh.
They talk for a while and it’s surprisingly easy; David had thought he’d spend the evening being polite but they have a lot in common, so they talk about baseball, of course, and music obviously, “I’m mostly into hip-hop,” David admits, “but I bought ‘Light On,’ it’s awesome” and Cook thanks him with a wink - “that’s very sweet of you,” so David elbows him in the ribs and they both grin. Cook is pretty charming, David realizes, in the way people always tell David he’s charming - well-spoken, warm, funny, and if Cook is a little more flirtatious than David, well, that’s okay, too.
Four beers later David’s feeling loose enough to let Cook talk him into a tequila shot - “It’ll put hair on that pretty chest of yours,” he jokes - and then another, and Cook tells a story about doing tequila shots with his younger brother that makes David laugh so hard he starts coughing, and Cook whacks him on the back until he waves him off.
“I’m fine,” he says, still laughing. “I’m fine!” He wipes his forehead on the back of his forearm. He’s a little drunker than he thought, not bad (definitely not bad) but not quite as in control as he usually is - as he normally prides himself on being. He figures he probably should’ve eaten, since theoretically they were here for dinner, but when he brought it up, Cook shrugged off talk of food and ordered those damn tequila shots instead.
“So…when you win American Idol, do they give you, like, a trophy or something?”
Cook laughs. “What? No. A car, and, well, the record contract is the main thing, obviously. Why?”
“I don’t know,” David says, shrugs. “I mean, in sports when you win something you get a trophy or whatever, and if you win a Grammy or a Tony you get a little statue, so I didn’t know if there was some kind of special…American Idol plaque or something. I was just curious, I guess.”
“No such luck,” Cook says. “We can’t all get Gold Gloves and Silver Sluggers and, uh, assorted other metal symbols of achievement.”
“Just platinum records,” David points out.
“Good point.” Cook rubs his beard thoughtfully, and for the first time since they’ve met, David thinks he looks nervous, and he wishes he hadn’t said anything. “I can only hope.”
“Hey, do you want to go to my apartment? I’ll show you my trophies, maybe let you hold one,” David offers, sort of kidding but sort of not. “You can see what it feels like, until you get some of your own.”
Cook grins at him, cocks an eyebrow. “Are you trying to pick me up, man?”
“Depends on if it’s working,” David counters, and he laughs, and ignores the blush he feels creeping up his neck. Even after several years in New York and his teammates teasing him all the time, he’s still sort of awkward at this; men just didn’t casually joke like this in Chesapeake, Virginia. Cook doesn’t seem to notice, though; he just signals the bartender and turns back to David.
“Oh, it’s totally working.”
shea stadium. queens, new york. august 7, 2008.
When he’d invited Cook to come by the game and take batting practice, it’d been mostly out of politeness. He hadn’t expected him to be interested, really - had hardly known anything about him at the time - but Cook had accepted enthusiastically. Very enthusiastically, in fact. David had figured he was faking, either because he was just a nice guy, or because he was grateful for the thing with his brother, or probably both.
And then the day of the game had arrived and Cook had shown up, beaming, and David realized he’d been wrong.
Nobody could fake a smile like that.
manhattan. the flatiron district. november 11, 2008.
The walk to David’s apartment is only a few blocks, but there’s a chill in the air that neither of them is really dressed for, so they hurry, walking closer than they normally might, talking about some Mets game that Cook was at last year. Every time David bumps into Cook he apologizes, and every time he apologizes Cook just laughs and elbows him in the ribs.
David’s apartment is actually sort of awesome, a total bachelor pad, black leather and flatscreens everywhere, and Cook is suitably impressed, demands a full tour, so David shows him everything worth seeing, including the Gold Glove and Silver Slugger that he won last season, and he’d feel ridiculous showing them off normally but Cook is totally into it, so it seems okay.
There’s the better part of a six-pack in the fridge, he suddenly remembers, so he offers Cook a beer, and they stand in the kitchen, clink the bottles before they drink.
“Here’s to you,” David says. “Thanks for coming to play at the gala.”
Cook shakes his head, his face serious.
“No, man, to you,” he says. “What you did for me, for my brother, without even knowing either of - that’s…really…amazing.” His voice is husky, and he clears his throat. “I could never thank you enough for that.”
Cook smiles, then, and David can see that his eyes are wet. He opens his mouth to say something else - something funny, lighten the mood, he thinks - but before he can get any words out, Cook is stepping close, close, closer, and David can’t move or maybe he doesn’t want to.
And then David Cook is kissing him.
He’s drunk enough not to jump away immediately, and not too drunk to register that Cook’s beard feels soft but his lips are softer, and that his callused fingers - guitar, his brain offers up somehow - are tangling with David’s own. He grabs them hard, involuntarily, and Cook freezes.
“I’m sorry,” he says against David’s lips, and shakes his head. Steps back. “I was-”
He looks down and his voice trails off. David’s still holding his fingers.
somewhere in new york, may 2008.
It was a small piece in the New York Daily News gossip section and he wasn’t even sure why it caught his eye, but it did. He rarely had time to watch TV during the season and he wasn’t sure if he knew who David Cook even was, but he knew what it was like to be afraid of losing a brother you loved so much.
That uncertainty, the sick freefall in his stomach last year when he tried to call Stephen and he didn’t pick up, those minutes that had felt like hours when he was sure his life would never be the same - that, he knew. That, he understood completely.
He picked up the phone. Called a bank in Terra Haute, Indiana.
manhattan. the flatiron district. november 11, 2008.
There was something he read once, David thinks, and fuck if he can remember where it was, that described someone as “the still point of the turning world.” He’s not sure what made him think of that. Or at least that’s what he tries to tell himself.
David stares down at Cook’s fingers wrapped in his own, then back up at the man attached to the fingers. He’s looking at David intently, and for the first time all evening, it seems like he doesn’t know what to say. It’s not stopping him from staring, though, his eyes locked on David’s face, searching for answers there that David sure as hell doesn’t have.
Cook finally - mercifully - drops that steady hazel gaze, and David remembers to breathe, hadn’t noticed until now that he was holding his breath. He unlaces their fingers and walks away, moving to the window, his back to Cook as he looks out over the city. It looks the way it always does, which is comforting but also weird, in the way it’s weird when something terrible or wonderful happens to you and the world just keeps going about its business, doesn’t notice that it’s upside-down.
He isn’t sure yet if what’s just happened was terrible or wonderful. Or maybe both, somehow.
Cook clears his throat.
“That’s a great view you have.”
“I know.” David nods. That much, he does still know.
“It’s pretty amazing, actually. New York, I mean. I’d never even been here until after Idol was over. I came out to do a bunch of press and I couldn’t get over it.” He pauses. “Do you like living here?”
Cook is moving slowly, steadily closer as he speaks, and he rests his hand lightly on David’s shoulder as he asks the question. David draws in a quick, surprised breath, but he doesn’t flinch, and when he answers, his voice is only a little bit shaky.
“I do. It’s different, but, I mean - you have to love it. I’m living the dream, you know?” Cook opens his mouth to speak, but David rushes on. “It’s weird, though, I guess, going home? I still feel the same, but…people don’t see me the same. You…well, you must know how it is. Because when I go home now, I mean, everyone’s still nice, but people tell me that I sound like I have a New York accent sometimes, or that I talk too fast now.”
Cook’s shifted so that he’s right behind him now, and he gives David’s shoulder a quick squeeze, chuckles softly. David can just barely feel Cook’s breath against his neck as he says, “Eh, fuck ‘em. I think you talk just right.”
He isn’t sure if it’s the warm breath or the way he says “fuck ‘em”, or maybe it’s just the alcohol, or maybe it’s because for once, he doesn’t want to be the perfect golden boy and tonight he doesn’t have to be, but it’s something, because David is turning around and Cook is right there, and he’s smiling, but his eyes are dark and serious, and David is grabbing his face with both hands and pulling him in.
As far as kisses go, it isn’t perfect. Not even close, really - Cook makes a surprised sound into David’s mouth that vibrates against his teeth, and neither of them is quite sure who’s leading, both of them trying for control, to set the pace, and neither of them succeeding at first. David tightens his grip on Cook’s jaw, forces his head back the tiniest bit, and Cook makes another sound, one that’s less surprised and more a murmur of agreement.
And then it is kind of perfect, if David ignores the fact that it’s also completely insane. Which, at this point, is pretty much the plan. Because Cook’s tongue is sliding against his, hot and slick in his mouth, the taste of beer and an undercurrent of something sweeter. When David tugs Cook’s lower lip between his teeth, it feels full and swollen, almost pornographic, and he shudders.
David isn’t sure whether he moved or Cook did, but somehow they’re pressed together now, Cook’s body hot and solid against him. Contact everywhere - hips, chests, and most of all, their mouths, licking and nibbling and sucking and coaxing, just like every kiss he’s ever had and nothing remotely close to any of them, stubble scratching against his chin and strong, masculine hands everywhere, touching his waist, gripping his biceps, sliding up to his neck, almost encircling, thumbs resting lightly against the pulse point in the base of his throat where his heart is currently pounding.
David shifts slightly, experimenting, nudging his thigh between the other man’s legs. Cook growls into his mouth and nips at his lower lip, thrusting forward and David can feel how hard he is, feels the heat and length of him pressed tightly against his thigh, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of his own erection, so he pushes forward, lets it grind against the other man’s hip a little. He swallows back a moan, tries not to sound as increasingly desperate as he’s feeling. But when Cook slides a hand beneath his shirt, lets his short nails graze a nipple, trails downward until his thumb rests on David’s hipbone, he groans against Cook’s teeth despite his best efforts.
When Cook slides his hand down further and starts tugging at David’s belt buckle, though, making small needy sounds that shouldn’t be so hot coming from another guy but really, really are, David can’t help it - he starts and grabs his wrist. Cook stills his hand but keeps kissing him, rests his other hand on David’s chest, pressing him back firmly, crowding him until his back is flat against the window glass, finally breaking the kiss - I’m a professional athlete, David thinks, I shouldn’t be breathing this hard - to mouth at David’s jaw, his neck, teeth scraping at his earlobe. David’s pretty sure a line is about to be crossed and he shouldn’t, it’s too much, too big, and they’re against the window, fuck, and someone could theoretically see them and he should put a stop to this right now.
Except then Cook moves again, and he’s cupping David through his jeans, squeezing lightly, and David lets out a strangled gasp and even as he chokes out “what are you doing?” - a stupid question anyway, his brain helpfully points out - he knows it’s too late, knows he’s going to let this happen.
Knows that he wants it to.
Cook doesn’t bother to answer his stupid question, just presses the heel of his hand against David’s crotch, and for the first time since David kissed him, their eyes meet, and there’s something fierce and wanton in Cook’s that makes David fist his hands helplessly at his sides, trying to maintain some ounce of restraint, because Cook is touching his belt buckle again, and his voice is husky as he says “can I?” and he’s breathing hard, rubbing David’s cock through his jeans and biting his lip, and it’s those lips, red and spit-slick and so used-looking that break him completely, and David nods.
Before David’s even really sure what he’s agreed to - later, that thought will startle him for a second, how he just said yes and he didn’t even know, didn’t care what it was as long as it was more - Cook is on his knees in front of him, yanking at his belt buckle, tugging his jeans down around his thighs, hot breath against his cock through his boxers and David thinks he could come from just this, and shit, that would be embarrassing, and also a waste, because those lips-
And then Cook pulls his boxers down, too, and those plush lips are around his cock, encircling him, sliding down, and David lets out a guttural groan as his hips stutter forward. Cook splays his fingers over David’s thighs, thumbs inward, just beneath his balls, and holds him steady, working his tongue over him, sucking slowly, wetly, and David can’t help himself, he grabs for the other man’s head, threads his fingers through the tousled hair and Cook makes a low, rumbling sound of approval around his cock that almost makes his knees buckle.
David tugs gently at the dark strands in his fingers, not enough to hurt, just enough to notice, testing, curious - I want this, can I have this? - and Cook acquiesces, lets David guide his movement, slides his hand around to palm his balls, to brush his fingers behind them, pressing lightly, close but not too close - is there even a too close anymore? - as David pants, hips rolling now as he fucks into Cook’s mouth, any vestiges of cool now gone - was I ever cool tonight, at all? - and he tosses his head, the glass of the window slick against his sweaty cheek, making sounds he never thought he would make, broken sighs and whimpers.
Because it’s good, it’s so good, and he wants it to last for hours but it can’t, he’s getting close and he hears the sound of a zipper and his eyes fly open and Cook’s got one hand shoved down the front of his own pants, stroking his cock, and that’s more than David can take. He gasps out a “don’t, let me, I want,” because tonight, he can say that, and Cook somehow gets it, pulls his hand out of his pants to grab David’s hip hard, makes a needy sound that thrums against his dick and David tries to warn him, says “hey, I’m gonna - oh god oh fuck,” and Cook’s fingers dig into his hip, tongue swirling over him as he comes.
Cook’s barely finished swallowing before David is grabbing for his shoulders, tugging him to his feet. They stumble together towards the black leather couch, and David feels wrung out and exhausted but still, somehow, turned on, and he’s shoving Cook down onto the couch and yanking at his pants, pulling them down around his thighs while he’s whispering “tell me what you want” into Cook’s neck, and Cook groans “just touch me, anything” and so David does, he wraps his fingers around the other man’s cock and it’s thick and hot against his palm. They’re kissing again, hungrier than before, rougher, teeth and harsh ragged breathing and he can taste himself on Cook’s tongue, wonders what Cook would taste like on his, if he’ll ever find out, and he tightens his grip, swipes his thumb across the head of Cook’s dick, feels the slickness there and then Cook is bucking his hips and growling and cursing and David strokes again, twists a little, and Cook comes with his tongue in David’s mouth and his hands fisted in David’s shirt.
Once the sound of their breathing has slowed and softened, once he’s comprised less of crushing need and more of actual, like, normal human being, David realizes he has absolutely no idea what to do now. Cook lets his head fall back against the back of the couch and exhales a slow, contented fuuuuuck and David‘s fingers are still wet and sticky on the other man’s thigh, which, okay, but normally, with a girl, there would probably be cuddling or something, or maybe she’d get up, go fix her hair or whatever and he could regroup, but Cook’s eyes are closed and any minute things are going to be really, really awkward, oh god, and so he reaches out with his other hand and rubs a knuckle lightly against Cook’s cheek. Cook smiles but doesn’t open his eyes. “Hi.”
“Uh. Hi,” David says. He thinks he sounds normal, but apparently not, because Cook immediately stifles a chuckle. “What’s funny?”
Cook does open his eyes then, and David can’t quite look at him, at least not until Cook shoves his shoulder, goes “hey, look at me” and so he does, and Cook says “don’t freak out on me, man, it’s cool, okay?”
And then, inexplicably - or maybe unsurprisingly, David thinks to himself later - Cook is right. It is cool. Because he asks for a towel, so David gets him one, but it’s dry because he’s still a little flustered, and it’s also brand-new and it’s black like almost everything else in this apartment, so Cook ends up with sticky black fuzz all over his dick, and it’s all so preposterous that David can’t help but laugh. And then Cook laughs, too, and he shrugs and pulls his pants up and washes his hands in the kitchen sink. And it’s cool.
So then Cook asks if they can play video games on one of the flatscreens, so they do, and they talk while David beats him four times at Halo 3. They trash talk a little, and Cook calls David a motherfucker twice when his guy blows Cook’s guy up, but they also talk about their lives and about their brothers some more, and they trade stories about being on the road, and it’s really cool.
And then it’s actually kind of awesome, because at around the same time, they both remember how they didn’t eat dinner, and they’re both starving, and David wants to just order something but Cook insists on making them fried egg sandwiches, so he does and they’re messy and delicious, and they eat them at the kitchen counter, standing side-by-side.
Eventually Cook has to leave - “I’ve ignored, like, seven calls from my publicist,” he admits, “he probably thinks I’m dead” - and David walks him to the door.
“You gonna be okay to get back to the hotel?”
Cook nods. “I may not be an expert New Yorker, but even I can manage to get a cab, I’m pretty sure.” He winks. “No worries; I promise not to get lost or kidnapped before the gala.”
“I appreciate that,” David says. He hesitates for a moment, then holds out his hand. “Um. This was…”
Cook takes his hand and shakes it solemnly, then laughs at the look on David’s face and tugs him in for a quick, solid hug, and as he squeezes him tightly, he whispers in his ear.
“It was awesome,” he says. “The word you’re looking for, I think, is awesome.”