NO AIR -- PG-13
[title] No Air
[author] kissontheneck [a.k.a. fieryrogue]
[pairing] Cookleta
[beta] I think I leave this category here just so I can ignore it. *sigh* I'm too impatient, you must realize.
[rating] PG-13, adult situations (I guess?)
[word count] 2435
[summary] David's losing his breath.
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] Welcome to Angstville, Population: YOU. *Major character death.*
[author's notes] Just in case you live under a rock.
NO AIR
~~♥~~
Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air
Can't live, can't breathe with no air
It's how I feel whenever you ain't there
It's no air, no air
~~♥~~
The world is a blur. Everywhere David looks is foreign to him and the panic of being lost in a dangerous place shakes him so hard that his sister has to grip his arm to keep him from falling sideways. At least, he thinks it's his sister. He's not really certain since she's a foggy image in front of him. But the same figure has led him from one place to another today; her voice is the one that keeps coming back to him, soft in his ear, there from the moment his world shattered into a billion pieces.
He remembers fumbling with the phone. Though his vision wasn't clear, he knew how to get Claudia on the line. Sounds came out of his mouth, but he can't remember what they were now. Just sounds, and he's not even certain what language they were in. All he knew was that something was wrong. Very, very wrong. And in all of his life he's always known to call on his big sister because she always knew how to fix things. Always.
Except this time.
This time there was noise and rushing and bright lights. Very bright lights. Heavy feet up and down the stairs and someone called Andrew -- shoot, it might have been David himself, he can't quite remember -- and all this activity is suddenly filling his house.
His house. Where he's always felt safe. Where he's always been protected from the horrors of the outside world. Always cared for, always happy. Never a dull moment, but always time for quiet ones and the years that had whizzed by seemed to suddenly flash in instant replay on the backs of his eyelids. He doesn't quite understand why, it's not nearly enough time for that to be happening. No, there's plenty of time left, plenty of dreams still to realize. That trip to Spain, for one thing. Hawaiian cruise, road trip across middle America. Lots of plans. Lots and lots of plans.
Energy is pulsing through the house, but not the same energy he's used to. Cook always had some scatter-brained idea going and his excitement for it never came half-heartedly. But this energy is different; uneasy and tense. David stands still in his living room as more people come in and out. Heck, days might pass, he has no idea anymore. He just knows blurs -- people -- are moving back and forth, and sometimes noise comes from them. Sometimes one of them -- Claudia -- leads him from one room to another. Nothing is real, only surreal and even then he doesn't get it. His throat is tightened, his heart feels like it's taken a permanent vacation. There is heat behind his eyes and a heaviness on his stomach.
To counter all the confusion and commotion, David is quiet; quiet like he's forgotten how to speak. He keeps within himself and in the corners and with his mouth closed. He watches the figures pass from his left to his right and grow in number before fading away. Now and again Claudia's gentle voice touches his ear lobe and he can focus on her for a second and nod and do as she instructs him to do, most often that being a reminder to breathe. When she walks away it all disconnects again, and he's left isolated and vulnerable and holding his breath.
Andrew is standing next to him with his fingers gripping his shoulder tightly when someone says to them both, "I'm so sorry."
~~♥~~
Got me out here in the water so deep
Tell me how you gonna be without me
If you ain't here I just can't breathe
~~♥~~
Andrew's wife helps him carry groceries into his brother's house, which he finds eerily quiet. They walk carefully through the foyer and along the hall to the dining room. For a moment Andrew thinks David has left, which worries him a little. David's been in such a fragile state in the last couple days that Andrew's almost afraid to leave him alone, lest he have a break down or worse. He's already spent more than one night staying up with David, comforting him and getting him to bed and making sure he's taking care of himself during the day.
The couple are just rounding the corner into the kitchen when Andrew is relieved to see David sitting at the kitchen table, paperwork spread out all in front of him. His wife, Anna, carries the bag she has to the counter and gives David a friendly hello, which he hardly acknowledges. Andrew is watching David's face as he slowly sets the bag and gallon of milk he's carrying down on the far end of the table.
In front of David are stacks of ripped open envelopes; invoices for water, garbage, and electricity are piled haphazardly. His laptop is glowing in front of him and legal documents poke out from under file folders and more envelopes and other miscellaneous papers. David is gripping a pen in his hand and pressing it against a scratch paper but not writing anything. There are dark circles under his eyes and Andrew knows he hasn't slept in days, at least not well. He also knows David hasn't slept in his bed at all, but rather on the living room couch.
"David, have you eaten yet today?" Anna asks as she's already pulling out bread and reaching for the door handle of the fridge. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear as she waits for an answer that David's not going to give. Andrew nods at her, waving his hand a little to indicate that she should go ahead.
"Archie," Andrew says quietly. "What are you doing?"
"These bills," David says, his voice cracked and small. "And these papers. I'm just--" He stops short, staring down in front of him still, not looking at his brother-in-law. He sighs heavily and leans the palm of his hand against his face, covering his eyes. Andrew can't help but gaze at him, note how there are flecks of gray peppering his jet-black hair. Hair that has changed more in the last three or four days than it has the whole entire time he's known him.
"I thought I told you to let me do that for you," Andrew offers, leaning on the back of the dining room chair in front of him. "I know it's difficult to sort through when you're--" He stops short of saying something that will cause him to choke on his own words. He can't believe what has happened either, and if he's not careful, he's going to make himself cry, which is the last thing he wants. Right now he's so concerned about David that he wants to focus on him first.
David chokes on the words before they make it out of his mouth. He looks blearily up at Andrew, his eyes dark and swollen. "I'm an adult, Andrew, I can take care of myself."
Andrew remains quiet a moment. The ups and downs of this week have been about a million fold what other people must experience, he's relatively certain. There's no way anyone on earth has been struck this way before, suddenly bombarded with unexpected change like this. Whether a brother or a lover, no one has ever felt the excruciating pain that has attacked both he and David this week.
Andrew pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses with his shirt, his eyes flicking towards David occasionally. He feels so badly for him, the kid (Andrew just can't help still referring to him as "the kid" even after all this time) has shown immense strength, but Andrew knows down deep he's floundering and flailing about with no clue of how he's supposed to function anymore.
David goes back to sifting some papers, organizing things in carefully labeled folders. Anna brings a sandwich to the table and hovers until David begrudgingly takes one small bite. Her soft, aged hands rest gently on David's shoulder as he picks up a familiar looking paper, clearly something official. David's fingers falter on the edges decorated in scroll work and he pauses, staring at the writing on it for longer than he has given notice to any of the other documents.
Andrew pushes his glasses back onto his face and from where he's standing he can see the words that are seeping into David's eyes even now. He himself holds his breath and his brain is telling him to grab the paper from David before the kid regrets spending so much time looking at it. He's about to reach his hand out, but he's too late -- David makes a hiccuping gasp, squeezes his eyes tightly closed and covers his mouth with his hand as the paper flutters slowly across the table, stopping short of the edge. Andrew pushes back his own sob as the words come into sparkling clear focus:
STATE OF CALIFORNIA -- CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
DAVID ROLAND COOK
Born 20 December, 1982, Houston, Texas
Died 5 February 2054, Newport Beach, California
~~♥~~
So how do you expect me
To live alone with just me
'Cause my world revolves around you
It's so hard for me to breathe
~~♥~~
The wake is a few days later and David is almost overcome by all the people who have crowded into his house. Some he hasn't seen in quite some time, and being presented with how different they look reminds him of his age. He feels like he has to smile for them though it's impossible, and they all commend him for his strength and express their condolences. Each word, each syllable has dual effect -- both comforting and biting at the same time and it takes the little life he has in him still to keep from screaming.
After an hour, he's resorted to mostly nodding and polite distraction as he grips the glass of water that keeps getting refilled for him even though he's not sure by whom. The people are blurring in front of him and it feels like the air is thinning with so many sets of lungs pulling at the same atmosphere. It makes his head pulse with dizziness and he feels tired, so very tired. He excuses himself and walks straight down the hall and makes the sharp turn up the staircase, his palm lingering on the worn banister. It doesn't escape his notice that Andrew's gaze has trailed his entire path.
David's knees creak as he climbs the stairs and he bites back the verbal protest out of habit. He can almost hear Cook's voice calling after him -- "I heard that groan, old man! I'm seriously going to have a lift installed for you, I swear!" For as realistic as David had always been, he hated admitting that he couldn't run up and down those stairs anymore. As much as he protested in his younger days, he really enjoyed all those times Cook had chased him down this same passageway, always closing the gap between them by taking the stairs two at a time before caging him between his arms and squeezing the breath right out of him, then administering the reviving press of lips against his.
David slows at the top, his fingers unconsciously dragging along the wall as if reading the memories its seen. It's amazing to him that this newly-built house they'd bought in 2009 wasn't new at all anymore. He realizes he's never really noticed it get older and more worn as time passed by. He's not noticed it happening to him either so much, which adds to the surrealness of these last few days. He pauses at their bedroom door before walking in reverently and standing just in the middle of the room and closing his eyes.
It's quiet in there, and it's cooler despite being upstairs. The window is open slightly and a gentle wave of air pours in and tickles David's face as he closes his eyes. This is what he needs, this calm. The bustle downstairs is too much and he needs a break. He fills his nostrils with fresh air, holds it in his lungs a moment and then lets it out slowly. Nice even breaths. Yes.
After a moment, his eyes seem to open on their own, and it takes a moment for him to adjust to his surroundings again. The room was so strangely familiar and foreign at the same time. Forty-seven years in that room together, how long ago had he stopped noticing the details of it? How the in-wall bookcase had never been perfectly level (Cook had had a period of home improvement fever in his thirties) and the now decades old rub on the wall where Cook had leaned back in his chair from the desk that used to sit in there. So many things. So many nicks and scrapes and changing of paint and window treatments. Every bit of it them. Every bit of it him.
He moves closer to the bed and sits carefully at the edge of it. The silver frame at their bedside somehow shines even in the half-light and David reaches out carefully, almost at his hand's will instead of his own. His fingers brush along the scalloped side before they hook around its edge and he grips the picture in his palm and draws it closer to him. There are two figures who have been housed inside that rectangle, there since David was seventeen and Cook was twenty-five. Their arms are hooked around one another and they're laughing and it's the first day of the rest of their lives, as it were. David traces his thumb along Cook's taught cheek and has to close his eyes as a hot tear streaks across his face. He breathes in deeply.
There is a beat, a pulse, a stop in time. David leans to his side, dragging his Converse-clad feet onto the bed as he slowly lays himself out in a more restful position. He draws the photograph to his chest, pressing it so tightly to himself one would think he were trying to merge himself with it. He lets out a rough breath, emptying his lungs, and doesn't get up again.
~~♥~~
If I should die before I wake
It's 'cause you took my breath away
Losing you is like living in a world with no air
~~♥~~
[author] kissontheneck [a.k.a. fieryrogue]
[pairing] Cookleta
[beta] I think I leave this category here just so I can ignore it. *sigh* I'm too impatient, you must realize.
[rating] PG-13, adult situations (I guess?)
[word count] 2435
[summary] David's losing his breath.
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] Welcome to Angstville, Population: YOU. *Major character death.*
[author's notes] Just in case you live under a rock.
NO AIR
~~♥~~
Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air
Can't live, can't breathe with no air
It's how I feel whenever you ain't there
It's no air, no air
~~♥~~
The world is a blur. Everywhere David looks is foreign to him and the panic of being lost in a dangerous place shakes him so hard that his sister has to grip his arm to keep him from falling sideways. At least, he thinks it's his sister. He's not really certain since she's a foggy image in front of him. But the same figure has led him from one place to another today; her voice is the one that keeps coming back to him, soft in his ear, there from the moment his world shattered into a billion pieces.
He remembers fumbling with the phone. Though his vision wasn't clear, he knew how to get Claudia on the line. Sounds came out of his mouth, but he can't remember what they were now. Just sounds, and he's not even certain what language they were in. All he knew was that something was wrong. Very, very wrong. And in all of his life he's always known to call on his big sister because she always knew how to fix things. Always.
Except this time.
This time there was noise and rushing and bright lights. Very bright lights. Heavy feet up and down the stairs and someone called Andrew -- shoot, it might have been David himself, he can't quite remember -- and all this activity is suddenly filling his house.
His house. Where he's always felt safe. Where he's always been protected from the horrors of the outside world. Always cared for, always happy. Never a dull moment, but always time for quiet ones and the years that had whizzed by seemed to suddenly flash in instant replay on the backs of his eyelids. He doesn't quite understand why, it's not nearly enough time for that to be happening. No, there's plenty of time left, plenty of dreams still to realize. That trip to Spain, for one thing. Hawaiian cruise, road trip across middle America. Lots of plans. Lots and lots of plans.
Energy is pulsing through the house, but not the same energy he's used to. Cook always had some scatter-brained idea going and his excitement for it never came half-heartedly. But this energy is different; uneasy and tense. David stands still in his living room as more people come in and out. Heck, days might pass, he has no idea anymore. He just knows blurs -- people -- are moving back and forth, and sometimes noise comes from them. Sometimes one of them -- Claudia -- leads him from one room to another. Nothing is real, only surreal and even then he doesn't get it. His throat is tightened, his heart feels like it's taken a permanent vacation. There is heat behind his eyes and a heaviness on his stomach.
To counter all the confusion and commotion, David is quiet; quiet like he's forgotten how to speak. He keeps within himself and in the corners and with his mouth closed. He watches the figures pass from his left to his right and grow in number before fading away. Now and again Claudia's gentle voice touches his ear lobe and he can focus on her for a second and nod and do as she instructs him to do, most often that being a reminder to breathe. When she walks away it all disconnects again, and he's left isolated and vulnerable and holding his breath.
Andrew is standing next to him with his fingers gripping his shoulder tightly when someone says to them both, "I'm so sorry."
~~♥~~
Got me out here in the water so deep
Tell me how you gonna be without me
If you ain't here I just can't breathe
~~♥~~
Andrew's wife helps him carry groceries into his brother's house, which he finds eerily quiet. They walk carefully through the foyer and along the hall to the dining room. For a moment Andrew thinks David has left, which worries him a little. David's been in such a fragile state in the last couple days that Andrew's almost afraid to leave him alone, lest he have a break down or worse. He's already spent more than one night staying up with David, comforting him and getting him to bed and making sure he's taking care of himself during the day.
The couple are just rounding the corner into the kitchen when Andrew is relieved to see David sitting at the kitchen table, paperwork spread out all in front of him. His wife, Anna, carries the bag she has to the counter and gives David a friendly hello, which he hardly acknowledges. Andrew is watching David's face as he slowly sets the bag and gallon of milk he's carrying down on the far end of the table.
In front of David are stacks of ripped open envelopes; invoices for water, garbage, and electricity are piled haphazardly. His laptop is glowing in front of him and legal documents poke out from under file folders and more envelopes and other miscellaneous papers. David is gripping a pen in his hand and pressing it against a scratch paper but not writing anything. There are dark circles under his eyes and Andrew knows he hasn't slept in days, at least not well. He also knows David hasn't slept in his bed at all, but rather on the living room couch.
"David, have you eaten yet today?" Anna asks as she's already pulling out bread and reaching for the door handle of the fridge. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear as she waits for an answer that David's not going to give. Andrew nods at her, waving his hand a little to indicate that she should go ahead.
"Archie," Andrew says quietly. "What are you doing?"
"These bills," David says, his voice cracked and small. "And these papers. I'm just--" He stops short, staring down in front of him still, not looking at his brother-in-law. He sighs heavily and leans the palm of his hand against his face, covering his eyes. Andrew can't help but gaze at him, note how there are flecks of gray peppering his jet-black hair. Hair that has changed more in the last three or four days than it has the whole entire time he's known him.
"I thought I told you to let me do that for you," Andrew offers, leaning on the back of the dining room chair in front of him. "I know it's difficult to sort through when you're--" He stops short of saying something that will cause him to choke on his own words. He can't believe what has happened either, and if he's not careful, he's going to make himself cry, which is the last thing he wants. Right now he's so concerned about David that he wants to focus on him first.
David chokes on the words before they make it out of his mouth. He looks blearily up at Andrew, his eyes dark and swollen. "I'm an adult, Andrew, I can take care of myself."
Andrew remains quiet a moment. The ups and downs of this week have been about a million fold what other people must experience, he's relatively certain. There's no way anyone on earth has been struck this way before, suddenly bombarded with unexpected change like this. Whether a brother or a lover, no one has ever felt the excruciating pain that has attacked both he and David this week.
Andrew pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses with his shirt, his eyes flicking towards David occasionally. He feels so badly for him, the kid (Andrew just can't help still referring to him as "the kid" even after all this time) has shown immense strength, but Andrew knows down deep he's floundering and flailing about with no clue of how he's supposed to function anymore.
David goes back to sifting some papers, organizing things in carefully labeled folders. Anna brings a sandwich to the table and hovers until David begrudgingly takes one small bite. Her soft, aged hands rest gently on David's shoulder as he picks up a familiar looking paper, clearly something official. David's fingers falter on the edges decorated in scroll work and he pauses, staring at the writing on it for longer than he has given notice to any of the other documents.
Andrew pushes his glasses back onto his face and from where he's standing he can see the words that are seeping into David's eyes even now. He himself holds his breath and his brain is telling him to grab the paper from David before the kid regrets spending so much time looking at it. He's about to reach his hand out, but he's too late -- David makes a hiccuping gasp, squeezes his eyes tightly closed and covers his mouth with his hand as the paper flutters slowly across the table, stopping short of the edge. Andrew pushes back his own sob as the words come into sparkling clear focus:
STATE OF CALIFORNIA -- CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
DAVID ROLAND COOK
Born 20 December, 1982, Houston, Texas
Died 5 February 2054, Newport Beach, California
~~♥~~
So how do you expect me
To live alone with just me
'Cause my world revolves around you
It's so hard for me to breathe
~~♥~~
The wake is a few days later and David is almost overcome by all the people who have crowded into his house. Some he hasn't seen in quite some time, and being presented with how different they look reminds him of his age. He feels like he has to smile for them though it's impossible, and they all commend him for his strength and express their condolences. Each word, each syllable has dual effect -- both comforting and biting at the same time and it takes the little life he has in him still to keep from screaming.
After an hour, he's resorted to mostly nodding and polite distraction as he grips the glass of water that keeps getting refilled for him even though he's not sure by whom. The people are blurring in front of him and it feels like the air is thinning with so many sets of lungs pulling at the same atmosphere. It makes his head pulse with dizziness and he feels tired, so very tired. He excuses himself and walks straight down the hall and makes the sharp turn up the staircase, his palm lingering on the worn banister. It doesn't escape his notice that Andrew's gaze has trailed his entire path.
David's knees creak as he climbs the stairs and he bites back the verbal protest out of habit. He can almost hear Cook's voice calling after him -- "I heard that groan, old man! I'm seriously going to have a lift installed for you, I swear!" For as realistic as David had always been, he hated admitting that he couldn't run up and down those stairs anymore. As much as he protested in his younger days, he really enjoyed all those times Cook had chased him down this same passageway, always closing the gap between them by taking the stairs two at a time before caging him between his arms and squeezing the breath right out of him, then administering the reviving press of lips against his.
David slows at the top, his fingers unconsciously dragging along the wall as if reading the memories its seen. It's amazing to him that this newly-built house they'd bought in 2009 wasn't new at all anymore. He realizes he's never really noticed it get older and more worn as time passed by. He's not noticed it happening to him either so much, which adds to the surrealness of these last few days. He pauses at their bedroom door before walking in reverently and standing just in the middle of the room and closing his eyes.
It's quiet in there, and it's cooler despite being upstairs. The window is open slightly and a gentle wave of air pours in and tickles David's face as he closes his eyes. This is what he needs, this calm. The bustle downstairs is too much and he needs a break. He fills his nostrils with fresh air, holds it in his lungs a moment and then lets it out slowly. Nice even breaths. Yes.
After a moment, his eyes seem to open on their own, and it takes a moment for him to adjust to his surroundings again. The room was so strangely familiar and foreign at the same time. Forty-seven years in that room together, how long ago had he stopped noticing the details of it? How the in-wall bookcase had never been perfectly level (Cook had had a period of home improvement fever in his thirties) and the now decades old rub on the wall where Cook had leaned back in his chair from the desk that used to sit in there. So many things. So many nicks and scrapes and changing of paint and window treatments. Every bit of it them. Every bit of it him.
He moves closer to the bed and sits carefully at the edge of it. The silver frame at their bedside somehow shines even in the half-light and David reaches out carefully, almost at his hand's will instead of his own. His fingers brush along the scalloped side before they hook around its edge and he grips the picture in his palm and draws it closer to him. There are two figures who have been housed inside that rectangle, there since David was seventeen and Cook was twenty-five. Their arms are hooked around one another and they're laughing and it's the first day of the rest of their lives, as it were. David traces his thumb along Cook's taught cheek and has to close his eyes as a hot tear streaks across his face. He breathes in deeply.
There is a beat, a pulse, a stop in time. David leans to his side, dragging his Converse-clad feet onto the bed as he slowly lays himself out in a more restful position. He draws the photograph to his chest, pressing it so tightly to himself one would think he were trying to merge himself with it. He lets out a rough breath, emptying his lungs, and doesn't get up again.
~~♥~~
If I should die before I wake
It's 'cause you took my breath away
Losing you is like living in a world with no air
~~♥~~