HOW THE COOKIE CRUMBLES -- NR
[title] How the Cookie Crumbles
[author] kissontheneck [a.k.a. fieryrogue]
[beta] clionona, who is also holding my hand so I don’t run away.
[pairing] Cookleta
[rating] I’m at a total loss. There’s no sex, drugs or rock and roll, just crushing sadness. NR, I guess?
[word count] 922
[summary] I asked myself, "What would make Cookie crumble?" You got it.
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] SERIOUS ANGST. I can't even joke about it. *Character death.*
[author's notes] Written for david_squared's Challenge #23, Prompt #5.
HOW THE COOKIE CRUMBLES
Two shot glasses, down on the table, one for him and one for you. Freshly cracked Jack Daniels. Pour two shots, immediately down one. Pour another. Down again. Pause. You can see him, in his entire form, there with you at the table. Solemn, but there. The words echo in your brain.
"David, David --" A voice, familiar and erratic.
"What's wrong?"
"Oh, David --" There's rustling, static. A cry.
"David." Another voice, also familiar, also undone. "David, you need to come home as soon as possible."
Frantic calls to the airport, flight out in the morning, haphazard packing. Calling Neal, cancelling shows. Time. Time lulls on and on and on. An eternity.
The photograph you hold is of the two of you, your favorite. A memory etched so deeply that you swear you remember every single second of it, though in reality it is only because you have looked at this picture so many times. You kept it with you, in your wallet. Its edges are rough with frequent handling, due to your daily routine. The first chance you have to yourself in each new town, you sit on the bed, take out the photo, long for the company of the person smiling back at you, bright white teeth, sparkling eyes.
You pour another shot. The second glass stands where you left it, as if mocking you that it's still full. You plead with God to bring him to you to share his drink. He remains a vision in your mind.
Wandering. Wandering this place that's suddenly so foreign. Kitchen, bath, bedroom, what's the difference? You trip, bump the walls, blinded. Sitting still is impossible. Anxiety overcomes. He's reflected in the mirror, the tabletop, the glass-fronted cupboards. He's everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
Heart on fire, stomach sunken, mind reeling. You strain to remember what was said, but you can hardly recall most of it. What's wrong? What's going on? Damn you always being away. You're always away.
You haven't cried properly yet. You're too angry, too empty, too lost. Your entire body is numb. The liquor helps that. It keeps you in this hard-backed chair at this glass-topped table instead of staggering about, throwing books, punching walls.
There's laughter. A memory of laughter. It's like a cruel joke. Your heart sears at the sound in your head. The bottle shakes in your hand as you sloppily pour another shot. You can't feel your hands, but they manage to grip the glass, draw it to your lips. You can't feel your lips, mouth, tongue, but you feel the heat of the liquid slide into your turning stomach. The laughter is still there though, and it's going to kill you, by madness or alcohol poisoning, one way or the other.
"David, it's three in the morning, you need to get some sleep."
"No." Voice weak, unstable, quivering.
"Please David, you have a flight to catch in a couple of hours."
"No." Hardly a whisper. Cracking. Lips trembling.
"David, please come back to bed..."
Boiling blood, wretching stomach. Eyes on fire, bleeding tears. Wails tripping up the throat, heart disintegrating into ether.
"David --" Soft words in ears, strangely familiar. Soft hands on shoulder, arms, waist. Surge in chest, love.
Love.
"Cookie, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
His tears fall hotly on your shoulder, and yours on his. You do your best to crawl into his lap, you feel so small. For the first time, smaller than him. You hold one another tighter than you've ever held one another before. As if holding on for dear life. Dear life.
The pain can not end, it can not be expelled. It is unquenchable, permanent.
Permanent.
You press yourself into his chest, as if trying to salvage what you still have. You won’t let go of him, not ever. You'd check out right now if you didn’t have him too.
Your phone is ringing. It's the familiar number that you see come up every single day. You answer.
"Hey, hey."
"David, David --" Your mother's voice is wavering.
Your heart stops. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, David --" There's rustling, static. A cry.
"David." Another voice. Andrew. "David, you need to come home as soon as possible. Things aren’t improving...we don’t know if it’s… you should come home."
Phone dropping out of your hands in a rush. Did you even hang up? Anxiety. Worry. Haphazard packing. Cancelling shows. Anguishing hours. Your flight isn't until the morning. Centuries and minutes later you get another call.
"David." Andrew again. Broken voice, full of sorrow, reluctant. "David, it's over. He's... gone."
You feel it too as his heart falls to pieces, both of you gag, sputter, vomit. Together you fall to your knees, together you feel the breaking, the breaking of the holy trinity. He feels it too as a third of your spirit evaporates, leaving a dark, unendingly vast, unendingly heavy, crushing hollow in its place. You’re suffocating.
Your shaking hand sweeps the table, glass crashes, breaking. Archie flinches and yelps in surprise. The photo drifts off the edge of the table, lands in a pool of whiskey and shards. He stares up at you, that fifteen year old him, acid wash jeans, handmade sign between him and five year old you, "AC/DC ROCKS". Both of you, scrunched faces, hands up, hands up in formation of what you think are hard rock devil horns. Your beautifully pregnant mother snaps the picture without telling you it's really "I love you."
[author] kissontheneck [a.k.a. fieryrogue]
[beta] clionona, who is also holding my hand so I don’t run away.
[pairing] Cookleta
[rating] I’m at a total loss. There’s no sex, drugs or rock and roll, just crushing sadness. NR, I guess?
[word count] 922
[summary] I asked myself, "What would make Cookie crumble?" You got it.
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] SERIOUS ANGST. I can't even joke about it. *Character death.*
[author's notes] Written for david_squared's Challenge #23, Prompt #5.
HOW THE COOKIE CRUMBLES
Two shot glasses, down on the table, one for him and one for you. Freshly cracked Jack Daniels. Pour two shots, immediately down one. Pour another. Down again. Pause. You can see him, in his entire form, there with you at the table. Solemn, but there. The words echo in your brain.
"David, David --" A voice, familiar and erratic.
"What's wrong?"
"Oh, David --" There's rustling, static. A cry.
"David." Another voice, also familiar, also undone. "David, you need to come home as soon as possible."
Frantic calls to the airport, flight out in the morning, haphazard packing. Calling Neal, cancelling shows. Time. Time lulls on and on and on. An eternity.
The photograph you hold is of the two of you, your favorite. A memory etched so deeply that you swear you remember every single second of it, though in reality it is only because you have looked at this picture so many times. You kept it with you, in your wallet. Its edges are rough with frequent handling, due to your daily routine. The first chance you have to yourself in each new town, you sit on the bed, take out the photo, long for the company of the person smiling back at you, bright white teeth, sparkling eyes.
You pour another shot. The second glass stands where you left it, as if mocking you that it's still full. You plead with God to bring him to you to share his drink. He remains a vision in your mind.
Wandering. Wandering this place that's suddenly so foreign. Kitchen, bath, bedroom, what's the difference? You trip, bump the walls, blinded. Sitting still is impossible. Anxiety overcomes. He's reflected in the mirror, the tabletop, the glass-fronted cupboards. He's everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
Heart on fire, stomach sunken, mind reeling. You strain to remember what was said, but you can hardly recall most of it. What's wrong? What's going on? Damn you always being away. You're always away.
You haven't cried properly yet. You're too angry, too empty, too lost. Your entire body is numb. The liquor helps that. It keeps you in this hard-backed chair at this glass-topped table instead of staggering about, throwing books, punching walls.
There's laughter. A memory of laughter. It's like a cruel joke. Your heart sears at the sound in your head. The bottle shakes in your hand as you sloppily pour another shot. You can't feel your hands, but they manage to grip the glass, draw it to your lips. You can't feel your lips, mouth, tongue, but you feel the heat of the liquid slide into your turning stomach. The laughter is still there though, and it's going to kill you, by madness or alcohol poisoning, one way or the other.
"David, it's three in the morning, you need to get some sleep."
"No." Voice weak, unstable, quivering.
"Please David, you have a flight to catch in a couple of hours."
"No." Hardly a whisper. Cracking. Lips trembling.
"David, please come back to bed..."
Boiling blood, wretching stomach. Eyes on fire, bleeding tears. Wails tripping up the throat, heart disintegrating into ether.
"David --" Soft words in ears, strangely familiar. Soft hands on shoulder, arms, waist. Surge in chest, love.
Love.
"Cookie, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
His tears fall hotly on your shoulder, and yours on his. You do your best to crawl into his lap, you feel so small. For the first time, smaller than him. You hold one another tighter than you've ever held one another before. As if holding on for dear life. Dear life.
The pain can not end, it can not be expelled. It is unquenchable, permanent.
Permanent.
You press yourself into his chest, as if trying to salvage what you still have. You won’t let go of him, not ever. You'd check out right now if you didn’t have him too.
Your phone is ringing. It's the familiar number that you see come up every single day. You answer.
"Hey, hey."
"David, David --" Your mother's voice is wavering.
Your heart stops. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, David --" There's rustling, static. A cry.
"David." Another voice. Andrew. "David, you need to come home as soon as possible. Things aren’t improving...we don’t know if it’s… you should come home."
Phone dropping out of your hands in a rush. Did you even hang up? Anxiety. Worry. Haphazard packing. Cancelling shows. Anguishing hours. Your flight isn't until the morning. Centuries and minutes later you get another call.
"David." Andrew again. Broken voice, full of sorrow, reluctant. "David, it's over. He's... gone."
You feel it too as his heart falls to pieces, both of you gag, sputter, vomit. Together you fall to your knees, together you feel the breaking, the breaking of the holy trinity. He feels it too as a third of your spirit evaporates, leaving a dark, unendingly vast, unendingly heavy, crushing hollow in its place. You’re suffocating.
Your shaking hand sweeps the table, glass crashes, breaking. Archie flinches and yelps in surprise. The photo drifts off the edge of the table, lands in a pool of whiskey and shards. He stares up at you, that fifteen year old him, acid wash jeans, handmade sign between him and five year old you, "AC/DC ROCKS". Both of you, scrunched faces, hands up, hands up in formation of what you think are hard rock devil horns. Your beautifully pregnant mother snaps the picture without telling you it's really "I love you."