jerry sizzler (skypipe) wrote in infoldednotes,
jerry sizzler

Walking Dead Heartbreaker (3/?) - David Cook/Michael [American Idol]

Title: Walking Dead Heartbreaker (3/?)
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: Now that I'm back in school, I can't guarantee that all the chapters will be posted this close together, but I'll definitely try.


He stared down at his cereal, stomach gurgling at the sight of the bits of corn flakes turning into mush at the bottom of his bowl. His wife came up behind him and laid a hand on his back.

“You’re not feeling better?” She sounded concerned, although he figured she should be, since, after eventually strolling home Monday morning, he fell through the front doorway and collapsed on the couch, verbalizing nothing and sleeping for hours. He had woken to his wife sitting beside him, stroking his hair, and a glass of ice water by his head. He had wanted to not be able to remember the night before – or, at least, what his brain decided to make up, for waking in his car threw him off more than he could imagine – in case she asked, but she never did and said that if he needed to stay home the next day, he could because, really, he looked awful.

So, here he was, still home, being forced to eat something even though he wasn’t hungry. Or, maybe, he was, just not for cereal. He pushed the bowl further away and lowered his head, hiding his face in his bare arms. His head still was throbbing with a consistent ache and every time he peered out the kitchen window, his eyes burned. He didn’t understand.

“Do you want anything?” The anxiety that spouted from his wife’s lips, from her touch, had turned more into annoyance. She had to leave, there was work to do and someone had to bring a check in since, obviously, it wasn’t going to be him. Michael had overheard all of this when he was supposed to be asleep and she was ranting on the phone to an invisible shoulder she had access to lean on. For all Michael knew, it was another man. Certainly, he wouldn’t be all that astonished. He didn’t realize that the question had remained unanswered until she sighed overdramatically. “Fine. Well,” she bent down to kiss his cheek, but truthfully, it meant nothing and was just something she had grown accustomed to, “I’ve got to go to, you know, work.” She put emphasis on the expression as if she thought Michael had no idea what it meant.

“Alright.” He was in no mood to argue.

Once she was gone – like she had never been there at all – Michael glanced out the window and then, without turning away, raised his hand and flipped the bowl off the table, sending it shattering to the wooden floor, milk staining the rug under the sink.

He had to go back.

. . . .

Driving made him itchy, and the first time he missed the turn, cursing to himself as he pulled into an empty parking lot to turn around and try again to hit his target and not shoot completely blind at the bullseye, as it seemed he had been doing for the past couple of days. As he rolled down the lit and unfamiliar stretch of road, he feared that perhaps the idea that that had been some elaborate hallucination, his mind tricking him into imagining that, although he could not pinpoint as to why his subconscious would assume that was anything he actually wanted.

Because of the sunlight – it made his skin tingle, his eyes, hidden by sunglasses, still burned if he stared in one place for too long – he had a better chance at observing his surroundings, climbing out of the car and studying the building, the wall made out of bricks and barbed wires, possibly to serve no other purpose than to make it utterly impossible for anyone to leave the area quickly. Or, it was an unfortunately placed art exhibit. Either way, Michael found no comfort in it and, as he stepped over a bag that was full of something solid – something solid that too much resembled the size and shape of a body – he began to reconsider. Another bag, and another. Over and over he lifted a leg, nonchalantly, too fixated on getting inside, being inside that he didn’t care. But then, he paused, foot in the air.

He should care. He had too.

So he crouched down, pulled at the zipper of one of the bags, tugging on the metal, hearing it slide against each other, falling further down and as soon as the widening opened further, a hand, pale and dirtied, manicured and nails painted pink, fell out, smacked and thudded, the movement causing accidental scrape marks through the dirt. He risked looking deeper, pulling the plastic back farther and he tumbled backwards, kicking and walking with his hands, clouds of dust painting the air as he moved. The girl inside – she was a girl, only a girl – was pale, her neck was smooth and silken except for two large punctures that were oozing thick blood. Her face was a distinct mixture of pleasure and at the last minute, contorted into agony. The combination was startling and Michael barely managed to pivot back to his feet before he broke down, letting out a scream he didn’t know he had in him, hands falling to his face to hide it, bury it away into more darkness.

It couldn’t be. Vampires didn’t exist. Only in monster movies. The ones that made his wife cringe, the ones that made him laugh. Maybe a couple times he had heard rumors, but all of them had been drunk, wasted and falling apart people at bars and wandering down the sidewalks in ragged clothes that smelled of cocaine and booze.

He knew he should have left, he should have pretended none of it happened, that he hadn’t found the girl, the others.

That he didn’t want even more than he did that morning.

One, two, three. Pause. One, two, three, four. Pause. Run, run, run. Knock knock.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

. . . .

“Wait here.” The man at the door, tall and fragile, had led Michael through the hallway by his shoulders, yanking him along as if he was a prisoner who had escaped the night before and was found sucking his thumb in a corner somewhere, and left him in outside the basement that was now considerably empty, a few of them lounging around, hanging off furniture and paying no attention to the present company, mouths dangling open and bodies limp and if Michael didn’t know any better, he would think that they were nothing but corpses that someone accidentally left behind. Which, in itself, was a rather disturbing idea and he was so lost in how that would work exactly that he missed when the same man beckoned him to shuffle over, only acknowledging him when the man yelled out to him. “Hey! Asshole.” Michael thought it really wasn’t necessary to call him that and was prepared to wholly protest when he heard a familiar voice float from the shadows.

“Aw, he’s not an asshole.”

Michael might have been a little more assertive with his wording and tone, but once he saw David, any thoughts of grammar and proper human-like courtesy disappeared and he felt like an ant who walked into the honey, knowing it was a trap, but finding his death worth it just to get a taste of that sweet sugar.

“Hi.” He finally conjured up the vocal chords to say, noticing at last that the room had no windows and apparently had been thoroughly inspected for any crack or hole, for the severe lack of any kind of sunlight was too planned out to be that perfectly avoided.

“You came back.” And what David meant by that was hard to interpret, whether he was expecting Michael to return or if he was somewhat stunned that there he was, the naïve human, standing awkward and impatient. Reaching out, he touched lightly at the collar of Michael’s shirt, sliding up to feel his neck, the shiver and to reach at his face, fingers slithering along his jaw, grimacing when Michael seemed to gather some senses and jerked away. “Then why’d you come?” he simply asked.

“I don’t know.” Which was only a half-truth, because, on the surface, Michael really didn’t know why he felt the pull to go back to where the monsters lived, but deep down, struggling in his belly to rocket out into the real world and be known, Michael had wanted David again. Wanted so badly it was the real cause of his headache, not the hangover. The reason he felt ill every second he tried to breathe. He knew he had an addictive personality, but he hadn’t known it was this bad.

“Hm. Well,” a hand stretched up, barely ghosting past Michael’s lips, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ear, “would you like to sit down?”

“I… I…” He did. He didn’t. He couldn’t. “Sure.” But maybe for a few minutes.

David only smirked and led him over to the same booth from before, gesturing for Michael to sit first, which he did rather robotically as if checking for a hidden bomb somewhere planted in the leather of the bench. Crawling in next to him, David secured the space between them, remaining on hands and knees and leaning in, pushing his mouth close to Michael’s neck and whispering:

“I was waiting.” And it was only three words, but the way he said them made Michael flush and when he swiveled his head, the proximity of their faces had him tensing, shoulders rising and hands clenching into tight fists that dug nails into his palms. David studied him and then, without uttering anything but a soft and unwarranted moan, he pulled off Michael’s sunglasses, tossing them to the floor and bent forward, connecting their mouths, kissing Michael hard, a hand slipping around his thigh and clamping down, making him gasp and let out an involuntary groan. David bit down on Michael’s bottom lip, firmly enough to make him wince and enough to make it bleed, which David hungry sucked up, licking at the wound with his tongue and Michael found himself with a sensation not too different from drowning, releasing control to outside forces and he sank back against the booth, head falling, feeling nothing but David touching and kissing him.

He was about to pass out when there was an image in his mind that sent a jolt to the rest of his body and sparked in free will and suddenly he was pushing David away, watching him fall and catch himself before he hit the cement floor, and running, treading on his sunglasses along the way, tripping over his own feet to find the green door, the door to his car and his completely normal life where he didn’t enjoy being molested by a vampire.

When he finally got home, the front door was unlocked and, assuming he had just forgotten to lock it when he exited hours before, he wasn’t troubled over being discovered.

As he calmly shut the door, and kicked off his shoes, he heard a female clear her throat behind him and, spinning around, he saw his wife standing in the livingroom, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed, lips pursed and the faintest stream of smoke fluttering from her ears.
Tags: #slash, pairing: michael johns/david cook, tv: american idol
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