the in-between places
Written for the skins_bigbang
Characters/Pairings: Cook-centric, slightly Cook/Effy and Cook/OC. Lots of Cook/Freddie as well as Cook/Naomi friendship.
Rating: M
Spoilers: Season four
Disclaimer: Skins does not belong to me.
Summary: "CookandFreddie. Nothing like each other but forever linked together. Always. Best mates for life.
But ‘always’ crumbled like a burning photograph and life stopped and everything changed."
Notes: I can’t believe I’m finally posting my baby. Working on this fic has been such a long, exhausting, amazingly fun journey.
A huge thank you to em_sh for looking this over/brit-picking and leaving me such lovely comments along the way. And to shan_3414 for being the best beta I could’ve ever asked for, and making procrastinating my writing so much fun (too much fun?) I’m not sure I could have done this without you guys, thank you!
I’d also like to thank ilikesponges3 for making a great vid for this fic (and letting me have a say in the choice of song!) make sure you check it out! (contains spoilers!)
***
In Celtic mythology, the in-between places were places of transition,
neither one thing nor the other.
***
It was always the two of them. Ever since the first day of primary school when Cook’s “Oi, Mowgli” to the scrawny kid next to him earned him a black eye and a best friend in less than ten minutes.
CookandFreddie. Best mates for life.
Cook was never the silent type; all nervous energy and incessant talking. Always moving; running, dancing, fucking. Flying fists and kicking legs. Quick comebacks, seedy comments or too-loud laugh - always delivered with the attitude of not giving a fuck, and living up to it most of the time. Everything he did was an armor of mirrors and smoke screens to keep people out, keep anyone from seeing anything but what he wanted them to. Freddie was always so much more than that.
Freddie was his constant; the anchor that kept him from drifting off too far into the night, get lost, fuck up.
Then came Effy Stonem.
Mysterious, beautiful, broken Effy with her game and secretive smile and eyes that saw through all of Cook’s crap.
Cook fell hard. Fell in love and fell to pieces.
He got his heart broken and broke a few himself in the process. Watched in silence as Effy chose Freddie over him - simply because he’d never refuse either of them anything, not really, he loved them too fucking much - even though he knew deep down that she’d tear his best friend to pieces.
He kept it all locked up - the love, the hurt, the anger - played the part of ‘Cook’ (I’m Cook) and beat himself to a pulp trying so fucking hard to go back to the past that he’d been running from all his life. Back to not giving a fuck and fucking without handing his heart over on a platter every single fucking time.
But then he snapped and Effy broke and Freddie was pulled right down with them.
Watching Freddie break, give up, hit Cook the hardest. That had always been the biggest difference between the two of them; Freddie always fought teeth and nail (and spliff) to get back up, while Cook had long ago built a life for himself at the bottom.
Freddie went to the end of the fucking Earth but he was going further, he’d have to. Freddie was going places and Cook would cheer him on silently from the sidelines because he was - and still is - nothing, but his best friend will always be more than that.
CookandFreddie. Nothing like each other but forever linked together. Always. Best mates for life.
But ‘always’ crumbled like a burning photograph and life stopped and everything changed.
***
His fist is flying through the air, knuckles torn and bloody, when the echo of a “Cook, don’t” hits him like the crack of a whip; Freddie’s voice from somewhere at the back of his head. Then he can’t remember anything but the sound of his own labored breathing and the deafening echo of rushing blood in his ears.
The next flicker of a memory is of blaring sirens, people moving around him, yelling.
He’s moving under water, drowning. Can’t speak, can’t move. Nothing but gone and empty and nonono. Blood everywhere, so much of it. Bloody clothes and blood trickling down his hands and blood all over the floor. He’s riveted by it: the slow and steady dribble of crimson down the back of his right hand, coming from a big gash on his knuckle. He sits on the floor, staring at it unblinkingly, until someone drags him to his feet and covers his hand with clean, white cotton.
They ask him a million and one different questions but he has nothing to say, can’t find the words. It feels like something has been ripped from his insides. Like the string holding a necklace together has been untied; sending the pearls scattering all over the floor. He’s in a million pieces of nothing and he’s never been good at solving puzzles - always too busy flipping them upside down and stomping on the pieces.
***
They eventually give up; clean him up and lock him away. The sound of his own heartbeat is like a mocking elegy inside his chest, bouncing off the white walls.
Gone. Empty. No way out.
Freddie is dead. Is dead. Dead.
Dead.
***
The thought is paralyzing. Days pass and he still can’t shake off the leaded blanket he seems to be covered with. It’s not until they start talking about loony bins and hospitals that he manages to resurface long enough to speak up. “It was self-defense,” is the first thing he says, jaw locked tight and voice hoarse from lack of use.
To his surprise they actually believe him.
***
The funeral is held on a Tuesday. He gets a leave somehow, later finds out it was his mum’s doing. She probably did it out of guilt from having blown the dead kid and all - but Cook feels vaguely grateful somewhere underneath the nausea that still hits at the idea of his mum and his best friend.
***
It’s not much; a brief glimpse of dark hair out of the corner of his eye as he walks up the stairs of the church, wanting nothing more than to run screaming in the opposite direction. But it doesn’t matter. His heart, the bloody, beaten thing inside his ribcage, stutters painfully. Hopefully.
It feels all kinds of wrong so he turns his head away, forces himself not to look.
***
All of them sit in the same pew, silent and feeling out-of place. Everyone but Effy. Cook sits between JJ and Naomi. He spends the whole service staring at a tiny rip in his trousers, not blinking, until his eyes hurt from it all; there are too many things he can’t fucking stand to look at and she won’t look at him. He’d feel it if she did. She’s sitting between her mum and some tall, dark-haired bloke that he assumes is her brother. Her face is hidden behind a curtain of dark curls and he’s screaming soundlessly for her to look up. Fucking. Look. At. Me.
Next to a pale and absent-looking Mr Mclair, Karen’s crying, muting the sounds with a hand pressed tightly against her lips. The sound of her quiet sobbing drowns out every other sound in the church, reverberating in his chest until he has to fight the urge to cover his ears. (You find him, you find my brother! He’s all I’ve got)
Focusing on his foot bouncing restlessly against the marble floor Cook loses track of time, feels like he’s sinking, and nearly jumps out of his own skin when Naomi suddenly reaches out and clasps his hand, hard. Blinking he looks down at their entwined hands. She’s got black nail polish on; it’s chipped and worn. He doesn’t notice that she’s crying silently, until a tear falls from her face and lands on his hand, wetting the tattoo there. Cook.
(I’m a fucking waste of space, I’m just a stupid kid, I’ve got no sense, criminal, I’m no fucking use, I’m nothing. I’m Cook)
***
He’s buzzing with a current of a kind he can’t identify when they lock him back up and it soon has him pacing the small room. Back and forth, back and forth.
He’s alive (a fucking waste of space) and his best friend isn’t (an aching hole of empty space and nothingness and gone)
He’s nothing and nothing good ever stays with him and now Freddie’s gone too.
The feeling grows, washes over him like liquid heat and threatens to drown him from the inside. Eventually he snaps, punches his fist into the too white wall. He doesn’t feel the pain, goes on beating his knuckles against the cool, unyielding surface. It’s not until a white hot spear of pain shoots through his hand and up his shoulder that he stops - nearly gagging - and stumbles to the floor.
It’s the first time he’s cried and it’s ugly; loud and messy and painful and too fucking much.
***
There’s a broken bone in his hand, the doctor tells him, and in spite of all his fuck-ups it is the first time he has ever broken something that seems easily mended.
***
The next day they announce that they’re expecting him to meet with a fucking counselor.
That’s when he knows the world is taking the piss, because they cannot be “bloody fuckin’ serious!?” But apparently they are because Duncan’s there, saying something about good behavior and anger management and not throwing chairs around, before more or less manhandling him down the corridor to the counselor’s office.
Dick.
***
The counselor’s name is Rebecca Watts. She’s curvy, blonde and looks nothing like a counselor. A psychotic monster in Playboy wrapping.
He pulls a Good Will Hunting on her perfect ass; doesn’t speak a word. Spends thirty minutes during their first meeting staring at her rack, only leering even more obviously when she shifts in her seat, having noticed what he’s doing. Silently daring her to object; come on bitch, show me what you’ve got.
She doesn’t comment, only raises a pale eyebrow and then begins to talk. She talks about fucking everything, like she’s imitating JJ when he’s locked on something.
Her current fixation; Cook.
***
‘You should’ve fucking saved me, you bastard.’
He wakes up with a jolt, drenched in sweat and swallowing back bile. A murmur of voices can be heard through the locked door and the strained sound of his own labored breathing echoes in the dark space.
They can’t expect him to do this. To keep breathing, to live through this. People keep talking to him, looking at him like he’s actually there when he knows with absolute certainty that there’s nothing, absolutely fucking nothing left. Freddie’s dead but somehow Cook’s the ghost and he can’t even imagine a day when it won’t feel this way.
***
Two weeks later he’s still not saying a word to psycho bunny, even though her never-ending rant of questions and unwelcome musings are pulling shit up to the surface that he’d really prefer not to look at.
She’s walking him out of her stupid bloody office when he makes his move. He pushes her around and up against the door and kisses her because he’s still Cook - he has to be, it’s the only option left - and he needs to prove a point.
She can’t be trusted; she’s nothing but a fraud.
But his lips have barely grazed hers before he’s slammed face first into the closed door; good arm locked behind his back. He struggles, reacting instinctively to being restrained, but she’s surprisingly strong for a freaking pint-sized girl and he’s not really looking to break another bone. Surrender leaves a bitter taste at the back of his mouth, and she’s barely loosened her grip before he sends the first thing - an expensive looking lamp - flying, shattering against the wall.
“I never liked that ghastly thing anyway,” Dr Watts shrugs after a moment’s silence, not really looking at him. “See you tomorrow, James.”
Cook swallows, confused, suddenly feeling completely drained. He’s halfway out the door when he stops, turns around, “Name’s Cook.”
***
“Have you ever loved someone?” He’s back in her office a couple days later, elbows on his knees and foot tapping restlessly against the carpet, and saying the first thing that comes to mind. She opens her mouth but he cuts her off, “Like, really fucking loved someone? Heart ripped out your throat-love?”
“Have you?”
Blue eyes. Dark curls. A slow smile and the smell of the sea. Fucks and fuck-ups.
“Yeah.”
***
Days pass; blurring together in a never-ending current of sleepeatboredeatboredwankboredeatsleep. There are a few tiny maroon blotches on the wall of his cell from where his knuckles hit the concrete hard enough for the skin to tear. He has lost count on how many times a day his gaze flits to the tiny marks. His blood is on the wall the way Freddie’s must have been and it feels good somehow, like atonement.
***
Cursing under his breath Cook walks down the hallway and pushes some coins into the pay-phone with well-practiced moves. He is halfway through dialing the number when reality hits him and stops him mid-move, the room swaying around him.
Freddie won’t pick up.
***
“There was this one time,” he begins, the silence in the room is too much, grating at his insides and he needs to fucking say something. “Freddie and me, man, we were kids. Second, third grade or somethin’… I decided to climb the roof of this old shed. Right outside the women’s locker room down at the health centre it was, perfect view.”
Dr Watts snorts in barely concealed amusement and for once it’s all the encouragement he needs to go on. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he clears his throat, picking at a piece of string circling his wrist. He can’t remember when he tied it there.
“Freds wasn’t feeling it. Funsponge even then. But I went anyway.” He loses himself in the memory, skidding down the roof, splinters everywhere. “…he never said told you so, yeah? Just dragged my arse back to his place and had his mum get the splinters out,” He laughs at the memory and nearly jumps at the sound, stops.
Dr. Watts looks at him solemnly, brushing a tendril of hair from her face. “It’s okay to laugh, James, it’s a funny story.”
Cook looks away, doesn’t reply. He doesn’t feel like talking anymore.
***
“Then what did you do?”
“I fucked her best friend.”
“Did you have feelings for that girl?”
He gives a jerky shake of his head and rubs a hand over the back of his neck, guilt scraping at his insides.
“Then how come you slept with her?”
He shrugs, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I’m Cook.”
***
“Shut up!”
He has put as much space between himself and Dr Watts as possible, pacing like a tiger in a cage at the far corner of the room. He can’t breathe, the neckline of the grey sweatshirt is too tight and there’s not enough air in the room to provide his struggling lungs with oxygen. Not enough. Nothing. Freddie’s gone and he’s nothing and he can’t breathe.
There are spots dancing in his vision, blurry streaks of gray racing back and forth, and the taste of copper in his mouth. He can still smell the blood; feel the nauseating wave of realization crash over him. The room sways, and he stumbles into the wall, knees giving out.
I’m no fucking use. Freddie is dead. I’m nothing. Is dead. I’m Cook . Dead.
***
“…I was pissed, yeah? Still am. He fucked her up…we fucked everything up and he decides to skip out? Just take off into the sunset, leave Effy. Me.” He says it quietly, scrubs at the drying tear tracks with the heel of his hand, embarrassed now. The words are barely audible and brittle like singed paper because it feels like the worst kind of betrayal. To still remember the fiery ball of anger at the pit of his stomach when what he did next was so much worse. “I told him ‘grow up’ that I wasn’t putting up with any of it anymore. Said I was done.” He can feel the doctor’s eyes on him but he can’t look at her, wouldn’t still be in the room if his bones didn’t feel like they’d disintegrate if he tried to move. “I told him I was done and he died.”
***
When they tell him he has got a visitor one day, Cook’s barely able to hide his surprise. The memory of a guarded smile flickers at the back of his head for a second; knocking the breath out of his lungs even though he knows it’s not her. It can’t be. Please don’t let it be her.
The sound of rushing blood is loud in his ears as he walks through the door of the visitation room, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight that awaits him.
It’s JJ. Looking uncomfortable and nervous and just the same, and when they hug Cook has to squeeze his eyes shut against the sudden sting. “Looking good, J.” He points out, collapsing into the uncomfortable plastic chair, aiming for his usual casualness but not quite getting it right. JJ does look good. Uncomfortable and nervous but good. Coping. Alive. “How’s the lady?”
(Don’t mention him. Don’t ask about me. Don’tdon’tdon’t.)
“Oh, Lara. Right. She’s fine.” JJ stutters, hands fluttering like butterfly wings - brushing through his hair and tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. Something’s wrong and Cook can feel his throat tightening in response.
“J-“ He somehow manages to keep his voice steady, but subconsciously folds his arms across his chest, “Talk to Cook, man.”
JJ finally looks back up at him, his voice quiet and unsure. “It’s Effy.”
***
The rains falls in heavy drops, leaving everything soaked and smoothing the edges of the world to a blur of grey tones. The gravel crunches wetly under his feet as he trudges up the driveway, head bowed against the wind sending shivers down his spine.
The building ahead looks like a cheap Buckingham Palace-wannabe in the gloomy November weather. The windows are tiny squares of soft orange, barely visible through the rain, and promising a safe haven from nature’s ill-tempered behavior.
He stops in the middle of the driveway and for the millionth time tries to understand what the fuck he’s doing there - he can easily think of a dozen ways to better spend his half-day of closely monitored freedom. The device around his ankle itches, and he uses his other foot to rub at it through the fabric of his trousers, briefly wondering if the bloody thing is water proof or if he might be able to cut it off. Not that it’d make a difference anyway. He’s too tired to run this time; a weary kind of ache constantly pushing him down.
He shivers as he walks down the hallway in the direction given by a strict-looking male nurse, soaked trainers squeaking against the linoleum floor. His feet become heavier with each passing step until he’s standing still; staring blankly at an atrocious looking painting on the wall. He knows he’s stalling, but can’t quite bring himself to move. She once told him he was brave, but he’s really not, least of all when it comes to her. When it comes to Effy he’s chicken shit.
There’s a sign on the wall a few steps away telling him he’s actually reached the room he’s been looking for and suddenly he’s on the move again. Throwing himself into the deep end before he runs screaming in the other direction.
She’s lying in bed with her back to him as if she’s looking out the window where the rain is still pouring down. The cardigan she’s wearing is too big, reaches halfway down her thighs and he’d recognize it anywhere. He moves carefully, quietly, as he walks up to the window and looks out, the rain reducing the world to nothing but a blurry haze. A quick glance over his shoulder sends a wave of tiny sparks through his system. Effy’s asleep, dark eyelashes casting spidery shadows against her pale cheeks. She looks just the same, no new scars this time around. At least not on the outside. Suddenly nauseous, Cook has to divert his gaze. Deep breaths fogging up the glass.
“What, no umbrella?”
He starts, turns around and meets her eyes. Blue. So fucking blue, seeing right through him. For a second everything stops - frozen somewhere two years ago when everything was simple and exciting and ‘sweet’ - but then she blinks, lets her gaze wander over his dripping form and her lips quirk into a tiny smile that doesn’t reach nowhere near her eyes.
“I…” He falters, fighting the growing sense of being caught in a strange, outlandish dream. “Did you-” He moves closer, staring at her disbelief. “…What?”
“It’s raining,” she shrugs, staring at something behind him.
Her lack of emotion hits him somewhere raw inside his chest and no. It’s not fair. He saved her, kept her from ending up like road kill and it’s just not fucking fair that it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. That perhaps it never did.
He doesn’t realize he’s pacing until he nearly walks right into an armchair, muscles tense from the need to do something, anything. He wants to turn the world upside down, clear it of razors and speeding cars and poisonous pills. Hide her away in a cave or get in a car and drive, drive, drive ‘til the end of the Earth. Hunt Dr Foster down and kill him. Kill all the bad men and the monsters in her head.
Keep her safe, because even if she won’t stay with him he still needs her to stay.
“Fucking Hell, Eff.” It comes out choked and Cook swallows, all his fired up energy dying as quickly as it flared up.
“Why-“ he doesn’t finish the sentence, afraid she’ll give him an honest answer. Footsteps echo out in the hallway as he sits down with his back against the wall underneath the window, resting his arms on drawn up knees.
“Freds… Freddie fucking loved you.” There’s no reaction from the pale imitation of Effy on the bed. “He loved you,” He says again, more force behind his words, this time feeling her eyes on him and keeping his firmly on the floor.
It has become a mantra; tattooed on his mind. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. (I love her, I love her, I love her. I love you)
“I love him.” Her voice is barely audible, frail, and he can tell she’s close to tears. “And he’s dead. Freddie died, and I -”
Realizing his cheeks are wet; rain from his hair mingling with tears he hadn’t noticed crying, Cook scrubs a hand roughly over his face. His head hurts, a dull kind of ache behind his eyes, and he’s still so fucking tired. “I know.”
She sniffles, and he can hear the rustle of blankets as she moves. She’s crying. Effy is crying and there’s nothing he can do about it this time, no remote town to run to, no drinks to down. It’s enough to make his skin crawl.
”What are you doing here, Cook?”
Fresh tears burn behind his eyes and he forces them back, swallowing hard against the truth that’s clawing its way up his throat.
“He loved you.”
It’s all he’s got to offer, all he can afford to say and the lie slips past his lips effortlessly. Let her believe he’s there out of a messed up sense of obligation and nothing but.
There’s no reply this time and the silence stretches out. The rain pelts against the windows, mixing with the sound of their breathing. Cook shivers, his head is fucking throbbing and he’s cold - chilled to the bone - and everything still hurts too much but he hasn’t felt this…safe, in months. His head comes to rest against his arms, eyes falling shut as the final tension seep from his shoulders.
The world is calm behind his closed eyelids.
***
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news…but blue is not your color.”
Cook frowns, and then promptly flinches as it causes the bruised and swollen skin around his right eye to stretch uncomfortably. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“James-“
“What?” Cook snaps, “Fucking walked away, I did! That prick was riling me up, man, and I fucking walked away like some scared lil pussy.”
He had, and the mere thought of it still burns acidly in the pit of his stomach. He’s Cook, he doesn’t back down. Except he did, and look how that turned out; being pushed face first into a fucking concrete wall. All he wants to do now is to be left alone to lick his wounds in peace, but no, he has to sit in Dr Watts’ stupid office and talk. He’s so sick of talking.
“He went at me from behind. Got me good and proper, didn’t he?” He spits, humiliation burning its way into his voice. “And I’m all for trying your Gandhi shit and all, if it gets me the fuck out of here sooner than later. But you don’t go around jumping at people from behind, not even that toga-wearing pacifist would have put up with that shit.”
Dr. Watts is silent for a moment, eyeing him carefully. The look in her eyes unreadable, then; “From what I’ve been told, David Nicholls looks even worse than you do.”
“Fuckin’ pussy fights like a girl.”
She tries to hide the tug of her lip, but it’s enough to let him know she doesn’t necessarily disagree.
***
There’s a collection of postcards in the drawer next to his bed. Ridiculous, kitschy ones of donkeys wearing sombreros and girls in string bikinis. Neon letters screaming out names of places he’s never fucking heard of, all of them from Naomi.
So he has a drawer full of postcards, but only one picture on the wall.
(‘best bros for life’)
***
Time is ticking away, the sound of it like a ticking bomb at the back of his head. His time is almost up. Freedom. Reality. An explosion of possibilities.
It scares the hell out of him.
The four white walls that used to feel like they were closing in on him no longer give the same suffocating feeling. He’s gotten used to the lack of space. To the blissful lack of choice and the ability to pretend nothing has changed on the outside; that everything is still the same as the first time he got locked up. Freddie alive and still with Effy and both of them doing just peachy without Cook there to mess up their lives.
The last meeting with Dr Watts is different. Like before he gave up the pretense. He’s back to quiet, deflecting her questions on pure instinct.
“You freaking out on me, James?”
The light-hearted question and the teasing smile in her voice have him looking up, ignoring the sting of nervous fluttering in his chest, forehead dipping into a frown. “What?”
“It’s okay you know, it’s a scary world out there.”
As usual she’s right on spot with her stupid comments, stirring up a nauseating whirlwind of butterflies in his stomach. “Nothing I can’t handle, Becks.” he replies, forcing a grin. Attempting a subject change by using the nickname that she’s deemed inappropriate at least a dozen times, ”I’m Cook.” Even his go-to-explanation feels worn out and bleak.
She nods with an exasperated roll of her eyes, not approving of the nickname, but then turns serious, “You’re more than that.”
Cook starts, blinks, forced smile faltering.
He’s still not convinced she’s right about that one.
***
The world has grown. Without the heavy November clouds making the sky appear less infinite the vast stretch of blue feels overwhelming. Cook squints against the bright sunlight, drawing a blurry line in the gravel with the toe of his sneaker, swallows. His foot catches in the handle on his bag and he kicks it absentmindedly, swallows again, hands tightly locked in fists inside his pockets.
“Cook?”
His head snaps up at the sound of JJ’s voice, eyes flitting over his friend. Same hair, same ridiculously colorful clothes but a different JJ. “Yeah man?”
“Ready to go?”
No. Cook holds back on the instinctive reply, and silently berates himself for the near slip. He sucks in a breath, throws a final look over his shoulder before picking the bag off the ground. When he stands back up straight again his shoulders are squared; ready for battle. “You know me J, I was born ready.”
***
Staying with his mum feels more than a little weird. Off. But it’s not like he has anywhere else to go, really. She’s surprisingly sober when he shows up, but her obvious unease around him is a sure sign it won’t take her long to reach for the bottle she’s got stacked in one of the kitchen cupboards.
His ‘first night of freedom’ as JJ calls it feels like anything but exactly that. He alternates between feeling like a trapped animal or throwing glances over his shoulder, waiting for someone to walk up to him and handcuff him at any second.
They head down to the pub and Cook gets absolutely trashed. Shitfaced. JJ ends up having to practically carry him home and in the morning he wakes up on the couch to some kid’s show playing too fucking loudly on the television and Albert smearing his cheek with jam.
***
It’s been almost a year.
When the maelstrom in his chest grows too big he walks; desperately trying to find his way without knowing which one is the right one or where it leads. Slowly, hands in his pockets and eyes firmly fixed on the ground, nothing like the carefree way of walking he lost the instance he chose to follow after psycho-doctor-fucking-Foster.
There are places he doesn’t go. A lot of them. Places and streets which are too familiar, too heavily laden with memories.
***
Suddenly a smaller hand slips into his, a cheek resting against his lower arm. “I’ve missed you.”
It’s spoken quietly, but still hits him hard; sending crashing waves of aching warmth and worry and love through his system. He swallows, wrapping an arm around still scrawny shoulders and fuck, he’s missed this too. Sometimes it feels like missing things is the only thing he does.
“Missed ya too, Pads.”
***
It’s been a year.
It’s still too much. It will always be too much and him not enough. He’s tried to block it out but to no avail. One whole fucking year and still all he has to do is close his eyes and he’s back. Back in that room with the smell of blood fresh in the air, so thick he’s choking on it.
He walks down the familiar street, around the house and into the back garden without really thinking; drawn like a moth to a flame and itching to burn. The bottle is warm from where his hand has been closed around the neck of it and he’s not sure how long he’s been carrying it around when he reaches out for the door handle and pushes the door open.
The tide of memories is so strong it nearly knocks him off his feet.
Cook stops, squishing his eyes shut hard to regain some level of control, before looking up and nearly jumping out of his own skin as he realizes he’s not alone in the shed.
Blue. So fucking blue, seeing right through him.
Effy doesn’t say anything, silently watching him from her position on the couch. She’s been crying, he can tell, but her eyes are dry now. Moving further into the too familiar room, he leans back against the mirrored wall and slides down until he’s sitting on the floor. The smell of Effy’s glowing spliff sweetens the air, and he can almost hear the echo of Kylie Minogue playing at the back of his mind.
He twists the cap off the bottle, throws back a mouthful of vodka and pretends it’s the burn of the alcohol that makes his eyes sting.
***
It’s hard to say how long they’ve been sitting there when Cook gives in; when the reality of it all becomes too much and he has to get out. Away.
Fuck it.
He gets to his feet, slowly and sluggishly. Stumbles and stops as the room tilts. The night air is cool around him as he staggers through the door, his eyes inevitably drawn to the dark window on the second floor of the house (no light, no Freds, no nothing)
Closing his eyes he leans back against the wall and exhales slowly. The breath that leaves his lungs is shaky and long; a purging of emotion he’s struggling to hold back as the darkness sways around him. His stomach churns, protesting the amount of alcohol he’s swallowed as well as a lack of food, and Cook focuses on breathing, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Then suddenly there’s a shift in the air, a thickening of the darkness that has the hairs at the back of his neck standing and sure, as he turns his head to the left Effy’s standing a few feet away. She looks almost translucent in the dark, like she’s barely there at all. Cook opens his mouth to speak, to say what he doesn’t know, but something stops him and when Effy turns around he follows her without a word.
She walks hastily through the garden, head bowed and arms wrapped around herself, not once stopping to look back and see if he’s followed. Well out on the street she turns left with Cook still a few steps behind, trudging on in a drunken haze. He should probably say something, anything, but he remains silent. He has been lost for so long and the familiarity of following her wherever she goes - running away, hiding out, the two of them together - is a welcome comfort.
It could be minutes or hours later when they walk through the door of Effy’s house. Cook has long ago lost all sense of time, feels like he’s caught in a dream. Sleepwalking. The house is empty, no lights left on to guide their way up the stairs. The scent of her hits him like a blow when they reach her room and stops him in his steps. He hovers on the other side of the threshold, swallowing down the tightness in his throat, suddenly wide awake. He shouldn’t be there; a voice at the back of his mind reminds him, but then Effy turns around and looks at him.
She doesn’t seem surprised to find him hovering in the doorway; only walks up close enough for their breaths to mingle. Her eyes are glassy, impossibly dark as they meet his, and Cook falters. “Eff, wha-“
“Don’t,” she cuts him off quietly, putting a finger against his lips and making them tingle from the light touch. He obeys in spite of the questions burning in his throat, fingers curling against the palm of his hand to keep from reaching out for her.
He tries to speak up again, can’t stop himself, but she shakes her head; finger pressing harder against his cupid’s bow. There’s a million emotions playing in her eyes and it’s not the first time he contemplates the fact that she can see right through him, fucking knows him, and still there are times when he barely recognizes the mysterious creature in front of him.
Effy kisses him first. Just like the last time but now there’s no sound of roaring engines to drown out the sound of his heart pounding inside his chest. His response is instant, fucking Pavlovian at this point, and he doesn’t waste any time deepening the kiss.
Her skin feels familiar underneath his fingertips as his hand slips under her shirt, pulling it over her head, moving for his own next. Effy is already working on his zipper as they stumble further inside the room, lips never once losing contact.
This has always been the easy part. The giving in to the undeniable tension, the want, that simmers between them and damn the consequences. Fucking her has never meant nothing to him, never been mindless no matter what he’s said in the past, how could it be? But it’s always been easy, felt right. It’s only afterwards that things have gone to shit before.
Her hand slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers jolts him back to reality. Groaning into the kiss his hands find her tits, making her squirm against him. He is hard, warmth pooling at the pit of his stomach, pushing away the lingering doubt and leaving no room for anything but Effy. The taste and feel and sound she makes as he pushes into her.
For just a second time slows down and everything’s easy. Nothing but them, this, now, and he wants to hold on to it. But then Effy moves, urging him on with hips and hands and lips, breaking the spell.
The first time the name that’s not his, but equally familiar to his own, falls from her lips he swallows it in a kiss and fucks her harder. As if he could erase the name from her mind using sheer force. Squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in the sweat-damp crock of her neck, Cook forces any coherent thought out of his mind. He can’t think of that now. Ever. Pushing his hand down between them he finds her clit, rubbing it hard, just right. He knows her body, better than anyone, better than him. He forces the climax out of her and lets her flexing muscles push him over the edge; pretending he doesn’t hear his best friend’s name echo in the silent room as she comes.
***
He reaches for her before he’s even fully awake. Finding nothing but cool cotton sheets next to him he forces his eyes open, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight streaming through the curtains and sending shockwaves through his pounding skull. There’s a foul taste at the back of his mouth and he feels like he’s been mauled by a small truck but there’s no time to think about that now because Effy’s gone.
Sitting up much too fast he swallows back bile, only relaxing when his searching gaze lands on a familiar form. She’s in the corner, knees drawn up and arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her hands are hidden in the too-long sleeves of a familiar looking cardigan and now Cook feels sick for a whole other reason. The ghost in the room is back. He picks his shirt off the floor and puts it on, reaching for the trousers next.
His skin feels too tight, like there’s too much underneath the surface that needs to come bustling out and he simply can’t allow it. He’d be all over the walls if it did. It’s like she has scattered all the pieces of himself that he has managed to put back together, and in that second he hates her. Wants nothing more than to rip his heart out of his chest and force it down her throat until she gags on the shredded mess it has become. Because maybe that would make her see. Perhaps then she would understand that he would do anything for her - he would be anything or anyone as long as she’d have him. Anyone but Freddie.
He can feel her eyes on him as he slips his shoes on, and he wants to ask her if it worked. If fucking him and pretending he was someone else - his best mate - did the trick for her, or if the whole point of it was for it not to feel at all? To be mindless and empty and everything he’s never believed the two of them were before this minute.
He sees things differently now and it hurts, and the guilt is tearing at his insides. Turning around despite his better judgment he finds her in the same position, eyes downcast, lost somewhere inside her own mind.
He barely makes it out the front door before throwing up.
***
The streets pass in a blur as he walks; wandering aimlessly but unable to stop. There’s a deafening noise building in his head, a cacophony of screaming voices and crackling fires and broken moans and Cook wants out. He can’t take it anymore, it hurts too much or not enough and he’s so bloody tired.
At some point his never-stopping feet find a direction, and it’s not too long before he finds himself on the front-step of a familiar building, ringing the doorbell before he can second-guess his decision. Moments pass, and suddenly there’s a movement behind the glass, and Cook’s not sure coming here was such a brilliant idea. He wouldn’t have, if not the mere thought of downing another bottle of vodka or swallowing another bunch of pills to try and forget made him gag, and being alone is simply not an option. He doesn’t trust himself enough to be without company.
Either way he doesn’t have time to react - leave - before the door’s pulled open. He visibly deflates, the bone-crushing sense of fatigue winning the battle.
“Cook, you alright?”
He shrugs, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on a spot somewhere above her head. Lips pressed together so hard it hurts before opening his mouth to offer some offhanded reply but no words come out, only a half-laugh that sounds like he’s choking on it.
There are arms encircling his neck before he knows it, and he finds himself with his face buried somewhere in a mass of blonde hair as he returns the hug. Holds on for his fucking life and draws in a shaky breath.
(I’m sorry, I just really fucking love her. Love you. Sorry. Miss you. Sosorrysosorrysosorry)
“Naomi? Who-“
Emily’s voice filters through the air, and he can feel Naomi give a quick shake of her head but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak; does nothing. Is nothing.
***
The smell of too-strong tea wakes him from his restless slumber and Cook buries his face deeper in the frilly cushion, bites back the sickening roll of his stomach. He doesn’t want to wake up, he’s too tired. Even breathing feels like too much of an effort.
The fingers brushing lightly over his temple startles him a little, but he finds himself leaning into the touch without thinking.
“I’m sorry.” The hand comes to rest on his wrist briefly, warm and steadying.
“Hm?” His reply is muffled by the fabric of the cushion, confusion working its way through the thick, angry wall of guilt and self-loathing.
“I’m sorry I left,” Naomi’s voice is soft, quiet. “With Ems, after…we should’ve stayed…been here.”
“’s alright,” he croaks, face still buried, clears his throat. “Sorted.”
“It’s not.”
At a loss for words, his hand finds her shoulder after a second’s blind fumbling, squeezing it briefly. A hand covers his, warm from holding her mug of tea, their fingers intertwining. Naomi doesn’t say anything and he’s slowly drifting off to sleep again, safely anchored by her hand in his.
“Cook, are you okay?”
The question is barely a whisper this time, as if she already knows the answer and is terrified he’ll prove her right.
No, he’s not alright. Not even close. Too exhausted to lie, he swallows against the ever-present lump in his throat, grateful she can’t see his face from where she’s sitting with her back against the couch. “No.”
Naomi squeezes his hand a little harder and he can hear her draw in an unsteady breath, getting her own emotions under control. “Okay.”
Part two