jerry sizzler (skypipe) wrote in infoldednotes,
jerry sizzler

Walking Dead Heartbreaker (2/?) - David Cook/Michael [American Idol]

Title: Walking Dead Heartbreaker (2/?)
Author: skypipe
Rating: R
Pairing: Michael/David C.
Summary: He had to see him again. Even if it killed him. Total AU.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sadly.
Author's Notes: I was going to do this thing, you see, called waiting a few days before posting another chapter. Oh, well. This one is much longer than the first and they'll probably all be this long if it all goes well. here's chapter one if you missed it.

one week earlier – Monday

Michael had seen all the horror movies. He knew what happened when you got lost. Especially when you got lost alone in your car at one in the morning.

He really didn’t even know what he was thinking, leaving this late – or should he say, early in the morning – but really, taking up the offer to perhaps crash on someone closer’s couch was so tempting. Then again, the reprimanding of not coming home after a so-called work “meeting” was worth avoiding so, slightly drunk and driving carefully, Michael had begun the long trek from the neon bar to his stacked wood home, stuffed between the suburbs and the city.

Overly cautious at not making a wrong turn, he did, in fact, turn right instead of left and found himself not flipping the car into a U-turn like was necessary, but continuing on, perhaps hoping that somewhere, the road just magically put him back to where he belonged or, even better, he would wake up on the couch, finding that wrong turn and, subsequently the other bits of driving, were all some dream.

Onward, maybe for hours and not the minutes he thought it took, until it became incredibly dark and the image of a small, thin body climbing a light pole, having just beaten at the bulb until it sparked and dimmed to blackness, registered in his fuzzy eyes. That was strange, yes, yet it wasn’t until the street he had been too eagerly and hurriedly skidding along ended quite suddenly that Michael began to wonder to himself if maybe, just maybe, he was somewhere he perhaps did not want to be at that particular time.

Having no other goal to travel to, he stopped the car, reaching down and shifting into park so he would not have to remember to keep his foot on the brake. Considering his options, he realized that there was no other choice but to go back, heart pounding and humming to himself to combat the silence, but just as he went to start up the engine again and tear off as if chased by a gang with metal bats, someone rapped on his window and he couldn’t help himself and yelped. The person rapped for a second time and, heart wriggling it’s way up his throat, he made the conscious decision to flip the lights inside his car on and roll down the window just a little.

The woman that had bent down to stare at him made Michael coil away rather than lean his nose out the small hole as planned. She was emaciated and pale, the hand that had knocked was now pressed against the glass, clammy and dirty and, if he was to assume something, he would assume at least that she was highly inebriated and drugged up. He was prepared to speak or, a better alternative, maneuver away, when she said a few words, and, ever the curious type mixed with a cloudy mind, he tilted forward.

“Excuse me?”

“I said,” she sounded utterly disgusted that should even have to be conversing with him at all which, really, Michael found quite offensive because it should be the other way around in all honesty, “what can we do for you?”

Michael saw no other people around and figured this woman to be a drugged, schizophrenic, prostitute which would have been his first time ever seeing one of any of those three and he found himself vaguely interested and ultimately terrified at the same time, barely noticing behind her the outline of a building, the only lights on shimmering in rapidly changing different colors from somewhere in the basement.

“Nothing, thank you. Just took a wrong turn.” He laughed, because wasn’t that what you were supposed to do when you were scared?

“If you took a wrong turn, then why’d you come all the way to the end of the road?”

Michael had to admit, the prostitute had a decent point. “Well, uhm, I just… I’m a little drunk…” and he wasn’t sure why he was telling her this, if only providing her with more incentive to do something he would instantly regret later; not that he would do anything with her, that is. He started to roll his window up, but she said something else and it almost sounded as if she was trying to tempt him or tease, and he hated when people did that, so back down the window went. “What?”

“I said, we have a phone.”

Michael knew those bits in the horror movies too.

“Can I use it?” He didn’t even know who he would call or why. He wasn’t that lost, really, all it required was for him to leave, but he supposed that he was more nosy than he thought of himself and the lights and such happening behind the woman were too tempting for his addled head to pass up and anyway, if he knew his wife, she most likely wasn’t expecting him home until sunrise.

. . . .

Following her was very similar, Michael decided, to following a young child to some hidden fort she built in the backyard, except, perhaps, this small child was malnourished and taking you there in the dead of night without a flashlight. He tripped over something he did not want to know of, especially when it moaned as his foot collided with it. He bit down on his lip and resisted the urge to shake his head and run.

The woman spoke softly to a man at the door, painted a lurid green, and it opened into more pitch dark and Michael reached out to touch at the wall at least so maybe he wasn’t feeling completely senseless. Her footsteps were padded and as he got closer to the lights, she seemed to disappear, making room for loud music and an abrupt rush of heat, as if that room was separately lined with radiators as compared to the rest of the building which could have been built about the same time hell froze over.

And then bam! He was in a club with more people than he imagined could be pushed into such a small enclosure and he thanked quite a few people he was not claustrophobic for otherwise, he would have found himself curled up against a wall having a slight panic attack. He searched desperately for the woman, but she was long gone and he began to consider that she might not have been there at all, but his mind formulating a clever excuse for wanting to go inside.

The area was much more impressive than any other basement clubs he had been to in his lifetime, the lighting dim and mostly in blues, a bar stretching from either end, shelves startlingly void of any kind of alcohol and Michael found that worth complaining about because how did they expect to entertain guests if there was nothing to drink? He did notice where he was and that maybe this was a bad idea when a hand was on his shoulder and there was the schizo-prostitute again who was looking less schizo but even more drugged and he raised an eyebrow, finding it crucial to yell to talk to her.
“Where’s the phone?”

She smiled at him. Michael did not like that smile. “I lied. There’s no phone.”

That should have been enough of a reason for Michael to abandon, but he instead asked, “Why would you lie?”

“You smelled good. And I think there’s someone who would want to meet you.”

“I… what?” Michael was too caught up in the part of the explanation that spoke of him “smelling good” to come up with a decent protest to meeting anyone, especially a friend of hers. But she was pushing him along and oddly, the others were making way, some of them staring crudely or suspiciously or, even, jealously. A couple stretched skinny arms out to grab at him, but the woman slapped them back, saying that he didn’t “belong to them”. And, in reality, Michael belonged to no one, and, if the first thing wasn’t quite enough, this should have been more of a warning, but Michael was too weirded out to look away.

He was led to the back where it was much quieter and lonely and wasn’t as much invited as thrown down into a booth, told to sit and wait and she was gone again, whispering to a tall man a few feet away, giving Michael a few minutes to observe further his surroundings. These people were very different than what he normally saw and he speculated how long they had been here, doing this type of thing. Some were rather poorly dressed, out-dated, yet they all had one thing in common; they seemed to be around the same age. He was about to call over a girl who appeared to be some kind of waitress when he was interrupted by someone sliding next to him and when he turned, it was difficult not to gasp.

It was a man, which wasn’t the shocking part – not even the hair, streaked red, or the torn and mismatched clothes – but his eyes that were entirely white expect for the pin-pricks of pupils and that alone threw him off enough to not become aware of the hand on his arm, sliding up to his shoulder and stopping just below his neck. The man grinned and it wasn’t until just then that Michael took note of the sharpened teeth.

There was no way. At all. They did not exist. Those kinds of people.

“Hi.” The man spoke, his voice calmer and gentler than expected. Michael cringed and had trouble sorting out why he couldn’t just stand up and walk away, pretending that this never happened. For some reason his legs didn’t want to work and all he could think about was what the fuck was going on with this guy’s eyes. Michael cleared his throat.


“What’s your name?”

“Why don’t you tell me yours first?”

The man smiled again. “Handsome and brave.” He paused. “David.”

Michael ignored the first remark and swallowed, watching as David’s staring drifted to his throat at the movement, averting back up as he awaited a name. “Michael.” He didn’t know why he was giving him his real name instead of pushing him back and scrambling for the front door.

“Thirsty?” And a cup was thrust into his hands and yes, he was actually, and Michael was such a fool, because he didn’t ask any questions and just drank, mouth as dry as a wicker basket, thinking, ‘maybe I’ll just drink this and then go home’, but moments after it passed his lips he was woozy and implausibly intoxicated and only vaguely aware of David dragging a few fingers along his jugular which made him involuntarily shiver and then David was climbing on his lap, placing knees on either side of his thighs and running hands through his hair with a hiss.

“What’re you… wait… stop that.” Michael attempted to slur the words out, trying to make a sentence and ultimately failing because the fingers in his dark, curly hair felt so good and, just as his eyes began to close and he was falling asleep, he swore he felt the hands move to his chest and press down, palm to his thumping heart and a warm, wet mouth thrust against the spot right under his right ear.

But, for all he knew, he could have just imagined all of that.

Because, when Michael awoke with an excruciating headache, it was with a start that he ascertained he was in the front seat of his car, sun shining quite directly into his face.

Tags: #slash, pairing: michael johns/david cook, tv: american idol
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