jerry sizzler (skypipe) wrote in infoldednotes,
jerry sizzler
skypipe
infoldednotes

Walking Dead Heartbreaker (4/?) - David Cook/Michael [American Idol]

Title: Walking Dead Heartbreaker (4/?)
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'm not incredibly happy with this chapter, but here it is anyway. I'll have you know, I deliberated for quite awhile about what was to happen at the end of the chapter, and my decision was purely selfish. XD



Thursday

Michael had lied to her about where he went, but for some reason, the guilt of doing so lacked in his voice and he found himself feeling particularly good about what he said and able to make it convincing enough that she believed him, shoulders dropping and frown turning into that of something similar to sympathy. She had attempted to serve him dinner, but he wasn’t hungry for food and instead went directly to bed and laid awake most of the night and when he finally slept for a couple hours, his dream disturbed him enough that he made his body feel as if sleep had never happened.

He mentioned that morning how disturbing his dreams were, but his wife scoffed as she pushed his untouched eggs down the garbage disposal.

“They didn’t sound disturbing.”

“What do you mean?” Even though he knew exactly what she meant, because he could distinctly recall his dream that left him still quite terrified and a touch of something else building up in his mouth, tasting bitter on his tongue and making him feel as if he was being forced to take part in a movie where he didn’t know any of the lines and the only person who fed him the script was somewhere in a dark and humid basement down a dead end street and not the woman cast as the part playing his suspicious wife.

“I mean, you didn’t sound disturbed.” And she had an amazing talent on saying words that sounded italicized, putting just the right amount of prominence on them that you could tell she absolutely meant what she said and that what it was was so much more important than whatever you had uttered seconds before. Before Michael had a chance to prod her further, she turned from the sink and placed her hands on her hips, the water still gushing in the sink, disposal gurgling. “You are going to work today, aren’t you?” She phrased it as a question, but Michael knew it was a demand.

“I suppose so.”

“Good. Are you going to make lunch?”

“Probably not.”

His wife flicked the switch and the gurgling quit, dying down until only the liquid running down the drain was enough cause for distraction.
“Of course. You know, if you don’t like my cooking anymore, you could just tell me.” She walked out, flipping her hair and Michael sent a cursory glance towards the sink, a though scuttling through his head and then drifting off to wait patiently for later, when he might need it more.

Work was emotionally grueling and Michael found himself constantly letting his mind wander back to images of David and then to his wife. How all Michael needed was to show up in front of David and he knew exactly what he wanted, how he needed it. How it took hours of poking and skirting around the subject for his wife to catch on. It troubled him and he left early, going home and peering in the fridge, stomach growling but nothing in there what he wanted. The closest he came was to half a steak left from Tuesday, dripping with blood from when he had requested it cooked rare, straying from his usual medium. It had bothered his wife, but she did so anyway, jaw hanging loose when he had devoured three quarters of it, leaving his vegetable behind, and then gone directly to bed.

This half he took cold to the livingroom with knife and fork, flopping down and attempting to be civil about it, but minutes later, the utensils had clattered to the floor and the meat was taken up in his hands and he unaware of what he was doing until he had finished and then, ignoring the voice in his head, whispering about how this wasn’t like him at all, he sucked the juices off his fingers, pausing at the second hand, wondering if it would dry before he got to David, if he would lick it off for him without asking. Cheeks burning, he wiped his hand off on his jeans and then fell over, curling up into a tight ball and humming a song softly until he fell asleep.

. . . .


Friday

The entire day, he felt as if he was dying inside.

That evening, his wife had answered the phone and began a long, jittery conversation with her mother, explaining tragically how she had been and the “strange” way her husband was behaving and how she just, “oh, didn’t know what to do” and he could tell it was mostly a façade of the mother’s little girl in despair, but even he was falling for it a little, as he sat on the couch and drummed his fingers.

She only paid attention when he stood up, dragging a coat, fabric pulling across his back and sliding over his arms. He kept his eyes away from her, but Michael knew she had a hand over the receiver, plucked eyebrows raised.

“Mike? Where’re you going?” She had a lilting chuckle in her voice.

“Out.”

And he left.

. . . .


He grasped the wheel until his knuckles turned white and he bit down on his lip, sailing through a red light and barely caressing the pavement with the tires, barreling through neon and real people. He knew exactly where he had to go, how to get there.

Once inside, he nearly fainted with the sudden onslaught of emotions and changes in temperature, but Michael knew what he wanted and curious but not unwelcome looks were thrown his direction, looks he processed but meant nothing to him. The tiled floor was sticky under his shoes, hands grabbed loosely at his arms, his waist but he let them go, fluttered eyelashes and shoved them away.

Right to the back and the trembling in his hands grew worse and more difficult to handle. He had to be here, he had to. Michael began to panic, lose his breath and no, no this couldn’t be happening, he saw him. Sitting in a booth, one leg up on the bench, finger rubbing up and down a glass dripping of condensation. He was staring at Michael, with white eyes and Michael smiled.

David. The man grinned, the sharpened teeth that Michael had chosen not to notice before flashing in the glowing white light.

“Well. Look who’s come back.” He waved a hand and Michael was about to question him on what it meant, but then the others surrounding him had tentatively stepped away, leaving David sitting there alone, finger still running the length of the glass holding the dark liquid. “Sit?” And the word offered a choice, but Michael still felt as if he didn’t have one – didn’t want one – and slid over, climbing behind the table and averting his eyes towards his lap, feeling more and more guilty for being where he was and what he was about to do, about to ask for. Fingers dipped under his chin, pulled his head up and at once the two men were staring at one another the noises of everyone else drowning away when Michael heard a scream explode out from behind a closed door. He went to turn his attention towards it, eyes squinting, but David moved his head back to look at him. “Shh. Ignore that.” He motioned for one of the others to go back there and take care of whatever – or whoever – that had been.

“David, I…”

“Yes?”

“You… I mean, I need to…” Michael stumbled over his words, but swallowed heavily and took in a deep breath. He had come here with a purpose and he would be damned if anything would set him off his course. “What are you doing to me?” The tears he had tried to force away, tried to convince himself not to let out, were rumbling in his throat, piling up in his eyes and a hand fell to his cheek, touching it softly.

“Michael.” David spoke gently and sounded worried and caring and Michael was more confused by that than anything else and nearly missed the answer directed towards the top of his head as David busied himself with playing with Michael’s hair. “I think that’s rather obvious.”

“What?”

David scooted closer so their bodies were pressed together and he laid a hand on Michael’s back, cocking his head to one side and smirking tenderly as if trying to enlighten a young boy as to why something terrible was happening without making him too upset. “Michael. You’re not going to leave me again tonight, are you?” The subject had deftly been changed, and Michael was too engaged in the world around him, the way David had to incessantly be touching him, that he couldn’t care enough to be angry about it.

“I don’t…”

“Because you don’t know what it’s been like. Waiting. Writhing under the covers, so warm, calling out for you. And you not being there.” He said all of this while stroking Michael’s neck, twisting fingers through his hair, pulling subtly on his clothes and Michael felt a groan, trapped, pushing itself out and David laughed. Michael couldn’t take it anymore and, not waiting for permission, he grabbed David’s collar and smashed their lips together, kissing him hard and not letting go until neither of them could breathe. “Hm. Come with me.” And suddenly, they was standing up, David taking Michael by the hand and leading him through one of the previously closed doors, ignoring the jealous looks from nearly everyone else in the room.
. . . .


The halls, just like the one used to enter the building first, were dark and Michael relied on David, their fingers interlocked, to lead him where ever they were going. From behind what Michael assumed to be closed doors, he heard various different noises, some pleasure but many of pain and he cringed when someone else screamed and their was an uproar of laughter.

David’s room wasn’t anything extraordinary, nothing like he had seen from the movies that made them out to be something lavish and expensive with dark colors and expensive fabrics. The bed was big, there was no question about that, but otherwise, the walls and floor were exceedingly bare and he would have liked to investigate more thoroughly, but he was thrown down on the mattress and all memory of why he was exactly there came flooding back and he struggled to sit up. David didn’t give him a chance and pounced onto the man, wrapping legs around his waist and kissing him again, and Michael was gone.

Fingers pulled at the buttons on his shirt and the chill of the air stung his bare skin as it fluttered to the ground and he moaned as David touched him, pushing to his back, the springs creaking and a mouth pressed against his chest, his stomach and Michael tensed and let David’s name and “oh my god” fall past his lips so many times they all melted into one peculiar, long word. Crawling back up, David grasped Michael’s hips and rocked forward, pulling his own shirt off and continuing the movement, faster, increasing the friction and wallowing in the moans the man underneath him were spilling, begging for more contact.

David pushed lips on his vibrating throat and just as Michael arched up, yelling David’s name, David bared his teeth and sunk them into his flesh.
Tags: #slash, pairing: michael johns/david cook, tv: american idol
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