Fic: 'You Move Me, You Groove Me, You Love Me, You Tease Me' (American Idol, RPF, gen, PG, 1/1) Title: You Move Me, You Groove Me, You Love Me, You Tease Me Fandom: American Idol Characters: Taylor, implied Taylor/Katharine Word Count: 1011 Rating: PG Spoilers: I guess through the final two. Warnings: RPF. Disclaimer: No one mentioned belongs to me. Taylor Hicks is in fact a real person, who I am portraying in a fictitious manner. Summary:She is, in a word, sultry. And he is, in a word, infatuated.
You Move Me, You Groove Me, You Love Me, You Tease Me
She is, in a word, sultry.
And he is, in a word, infatuated.
He tries his damnedest not to be, because after all, she is also nearly a decade younger than him, and more importantly, the competition.
But she wears those flowy shirt things, and she flashes too much leg on live freaking television, and she bats those velvety eyes, and those enormous lips only know two positions, glimmering smile or seductive pout.
And after all of that, Taylor is no longer a singer, or a performer, or a competitor, or an American Idol. He is a guy, and like all the other guys in America, he has it bad for Katharine McPhee.
He sits in the audience during rehearsals, one head in a sea of empty seats. He has his earbuds in, and for anyone who dares to peek over his shoulder, his iPod is displaying his Ray Charles playlist in action. Outward appearances suggest that he is entering a zen state, but his volume is jerked low, and he's bopping his head to a nonexistent beat. The concentration required for this action aside, he is transfixed. Katharine is strutting across the stage, absolutely owning it, and he can't take his eyes off of her. When she glances his way (and she must, because she's trying to pretend like she's working the audience, and he is, after all, the only one in it), he adopts a complacent stare, looking not at her, but through her, beyond her. He is, for all appearances, completely unconcerned with what Katharine is doing.
But he's sure that when she moves away, she can still feel his eyes on her. Because frankly, it's not like he ever stops watching.
He knows that he should be thinking seriously about this. Katharine will get a record deal, regardless of whether she wins or not. Lots of them will: Chris, Mandisa, Paris, Elliott, Ace. Taylor, though, is what he's been from the beginning. The wild card. Some people out there adore him, but for every Soul Patroller, there is another guy who would just as soon vote for a houseplant if it meant keeping Taylor from the title. Nothing is guaranteed in this competition, and he knows it. He wonders if the fact that he even made it this far is the result of the affection of the American public, or because some producer was amused by the old guy prancing around the stage like a loony.
Doesn't he already have enough angst about this without having to factor her in? She's a gorgeous brunette who says ridiculous things on stage and dares to challenge the judges at every step for no other reason that she thinks she can. (She's right, of course; she can.) Meanwhile, Taylor has to sit back and take Simon's weekly abuse with a smile and a nod and pretend like it doesn't affect him.
He also has to pretend the photo shoots, each week, as they become the Top Eight, the Top Seven, the Top Six, as Kat bounces around and beams for the camera and falls all over them like she's just one of the guys, none of that is supposed to affect him, either. Kat clutches at Taylor and giggles like they're actually friends. But they're not.
They ham it up for the camera, and she hugs him and squeals and bounces around (goddamn), and he laughs because he doesn't know what else to do, short of grabbing her and taking her into a closet, which he's pretty sure will get him kicked out of the competition if anyone finds out. Stupid family show.
She smiles. Constantly. Doesn't matter if the song is sad, if that camera comes in her line of sight, she smiles. Taylor wishes he was the cameraman, the audience at home, the camera itself, circling around her, embracing every angle, catching each and every last smile as if it were meant for him.
He is fascinated. She cuddles up to him, and he wraps his arms around her and kisses her cheek obligingly, then the cameras go off, and she twirls away as if she was never there. They do not 'hang'. They barely even know each other. He thinks she has a boyfriend, but he's not sure. When people are watching, they are the best of friends, the one big happy family for the family show that everyone expects them to be. But at the end of the day, it's a photo op. It's publicity. It's how you get through the day.
He is losing his mind.
It's not even like he likes the photo shoots; they're time-consuming and he feels awkward. However, he looks forward to them if only for the opportunity that they get to play nice. Katharine isn't a cold girl, far from it, she just has little regard for the guy who might snatch her gilded throne out from under her. He doesn't blame her for that.
But still, he has to learn to concentrate, and soon, because though it pains him to admit it, Katharine is the frontrunner of this competition. According to the internet, he has sex appeal (too bad that only works on the viewers at home, because Kat never seems amused by his onstage antics), but he doesn't exactly have the T+A to carry him through to the final. So he has to be his very best, which is impossible if he keeps flashing back to the last time she was pressed against him.
He literally oozes into bed, his limbs barely cooperating. When he finally stills, it's a slapdash affair: head in the general vicinity of the pillow, blanket not so much spread over him as lumped. He's putty, waiting to be manipulated. By the contest, by the nation, by Simon (how come he gets to leer openly?), by Katharine herself. He lies in bed, closing his eyes and seeing Katharine. Worse yet, seeing Katharine winning the competition, and it's eerie how these two fantasies coincide to form one singular nightmare.