Fic: Parting Is All We Know Of Heaven, Part 2
( Part 1 )
He closes the journal and tries to let the words he just read sink in, but the only thing that does is a feeling of anger, so sudden and raw that it’s almost physically painful. His jaw tightens and his chest clenches to the point where his breaths are barely even coming. He hasn’t felt this in a long time, and he’s not sure if he’s ever felt this directed at Archie. He wants to call it irrational, an overreaction, but he just doesn’t understand how Archie can talk about choice like he wasn’t the only one who ever had one all along. Like he wasn’t the one who made the choice for both of them and left Cook alone to deal with the aftermath.
He’s overwhelmed with the hurt - practically choking on it - and suddenly the world around him is clouded over again, like he’s driving in a storm and the windshield wipers just can’t keep up. He can’t see where he is, can’t feel anything else, so all he can do is focus on one spot ahead of him and pray to make it out alive. He decides on a walk to clear his head, but all he can think about as his feet hit the pavement of the sidewalk is Archie’s words and the sheer rage he feels because of them. And then he starts to remember everything else; the way Archie used to make him feel, every touch and word turning over and over in his mind, the way it all ended. Suddenly the sense of loss is fresh once again and he’s right back in that kitchen watching Archie walk away. The world around him fades away as if he’s stuck in a never-ending tunnel, the darkness stretching out around him as he stumbles toward an end that can never be reached.
He’s so lost in the haze that he doesn’t hear the blaring of the horn or the voice screaming his name over the screeching of the tires; barely even registers that there’s a hand tangling itself in the back of his shirt and pulling him backwards onto the ground until he finds himself blinking against the sun and staring up into Kris’ face. He looks slightly angry and a lot scared as he kneels down beside Cook, frantically asking if he’s okay, hands skimming over his arms and face trying to search for injuries. Cook blinks a few more times and waves Kris off in answer as he moves to get up.
“Uh, hey,” Cook says, straightening his shirt and running his hand through his hair. “Thanks,” he adds because it seems like he should.
Kris stares at him, mouth opening and closing a few times before he actually speaks. “Hey?” Kris asks, voice more than a little shrill.
Cook is still slightly out of it and confused enough by Kris’ reaction that he doesn’t ask when Kris grabs his arm and pulls him around the corner towards a parking lot; he just lets himself be dragged along. Kris fumbles for his keys and points them at a car that must be his as they approach it.
“Just… get in, okay,” he says breathlessly, pulling the trunk open quickly and throwing whatever bag he was carrying into it. “I’ll drive you back to the apartment building.”
Cook does what Kris says, slipping into the passenger’s seat as Kris opens and slams his own door behind him, pulling furiously on his seatbelt to buckle it. He puts the key in the ignition but stops just short of starting the car, instead placing his hands firmly on the steering wheel and breathing deeply.
“So you were going to kill yourself that night on the roof,” Kris states, not really needing Cook’s reply to understand the truth.
The question seems out of place for the present situation, but Cook still doesn’t see a point in trying to lie. “Probably would have, yeah,” he answers.
Kris sucks in a sudden breath, barely loud enough for Cook to hear, and then turns to look at him. “Is that what you were trying to do just now too?” he asks. “Walking in front of that car like that?”
“No, I…” Cook starts, shaking his head. “I don’t know what happened, okay?”
“So you weren’t - it wasn’t on purpose?” Kris says impatiently, eyes searching Cook’s. “Because the look on your face… You looked so resigned, like you weren’t even in there or something.”
“No, it wasn’t on purpose,” Cook repeats, trying not to get irritated by the interrogation. “It was like I blacked out or something; I don’t even really remember anything. And I don’t understand why you’re so angry.”
“Because I know that face,” Kris replies to the steering wheel, voice dropping lower. “I saw it all the time on my fiancée.”
“Fiancée?” Cook asks, even more confused.
“Well, she was until she killed herself,” Kris replies evenly, as if it’s something he’s had a lot of practice saying. He turns back to Cook, lips drawn into a sad smile. “You’re not the only one people do drastic things to get away from I guess.”
Cook frowns and says, “I didn’t know,” for lack of anything else useful to say.
“Well now you do,” Kris shrugs, starting the car and fiddling with the radio. “I’ve worked through it, you know. But I don’t think I’d be so okay if someone else I cared about did that.”
“I read another journal entry,” Cook replies, like it explains anything, staring straight ahead into the parking lot.
Apparently it’s explanation enough because Kris takes another deep breath, loosening his fingers from the wheel where they’re resting and putting the car in reverse. “You can do this,” Kris says. “We both can. But you have to promise me you won’t give up.”
“Okay,” Cook answers. He silently hopes for the strength to keep this promise; he wants to do this for Kris.
Kris nods and pulls out of the parking lot. “Now, we’re going to my place, and I’m making you lunch,” Kris says, completely serious. “And I’m going to attempt to woo your sorry ass some more.”
“Kris…” Cook warns, trying to convey his point despite the laugh that escapes.
“Yeah, I know, but I don’t care,” Kris replies. “I’m good at being persistent when I want to be and it’s for the sake of step three.”
Cook rolls his eyes. “Of course it is.”
The rest of the car ride is spent mostly silent, but it’s not uncomfortable. Kris hums along to the radio and Cook finds himself taping out chords on his thigh to go with the songs. It’s a kind of familiarity Cook has missed and he tries to enjoy it without really thinking about it.
They get back to the apartment and Kris immediately heads for the kitchen, pulling out a box of pasta and a jar of sauce from the cabinet. He holds them up in question and Cook nods, asking, “Anything I can help with?”
Kris shakes his head and points to a stool at the counter. “Sit,” he commands. “I’m wooing you, remember?”
Cook raises an eyebrow but he sits anyway, watching Kris as he tinkers with the stove and fills a pot with water. The conversation flows easily from there, both of them talking without pause until dinner is finally ready, and continuing even as they move everything into the dining room.
“I’m a pretty horrible cook,” Kris apologizes as he dishes out the overcooked spaghetti, covering it with the sauce and frowning.
Cook pokes at it with his fork, chuckling when it wiggles as a whole, the noodles hopelessly stuck together. “I thought you were supposed to be wooing me?” he asks.
“Oh shut up,” Kris mutters, turning a shade of pink that Cook isn’t sure he’s ever even seen before. “And I wasn’t really expecting a guest, so um, beer or water to drink?”
“Always beer,” Cook winks, still thoroughly amused.
Kris gets their drinks and returns, the obviously well used dinner table wobbling precariously as he sits and stares at his own pasta. “So, I fail at wooing,” he shrugs.
Cook stifles his laughter behind his napkin. “It’s cool,” he says. “But if beer and pasta is your idea of romance, we may need to talk.”
Kris tries to hold back his own laughter but fails and ends up letting out a snort, eyes going wide when it happens. Cook gives up and finally laughs along, the sound filling the room until both of them are out of breath and practically crying.
Cook wipes at his eyes, hoping to calm himself after a few minutes. Kris is still sucking in air and biting at his knuckle, eyes crinkled in the corners and practically glowing as they meet Cook’s. The glow is permeable, flowing straight into the air and passing on to Cook, penetrating his skin from the inside out. It’s not the first time Cook has noticed the way every emotion plays out so strongly on Kris, his whole body joining in subconsciously and infecting everyone around him with the desire to do the same. In fact, it’s kind of beautiful, Cook thinks, and he smiles at Kris when he finally settles. “You’re not as bad at wooing as you think you are,” he says, eyes purposefully locked with Kris’ still.
Kris looks down shyly and takes a bite of his pasta, but not before Cook catches the way his lips twitch upward at the compliment. Lunch passes much in the same way, with them talking and laughing comfortably, topics moving seamlessly from one to another until they realize they’ve been sitting there for hours over their empty dishes.
Kris gets up to clear the table, but Cook stops him, grabbing the plate from his hand. “You made the food, at least let me shove this stuff in the dishwasher for you,” he says.
“I could get used to this,” Kris comments, handing the dish off and heading into the living room with a satisfied smirk.
Cook can hear Kris tinkering on a keyboard somewhere as he rinses off the plates and loads them into the dishwasher, bits and pieces of songs he mostly recognizes being played quietly in the background. He doesn’t pay too much attention to it until he hears a familiar chord progression, the song becoming one he’s all too familiar with - one that was Archie’s favorites to play.
He startles at the melody now floating through the apartment, dropping the half full jar of spaghetti sauce he was bringing to the refrigerator. Before he can even react the glass is shattering, fragments flying all over the kitchen and the pasta sauce spreading down the cheap linoleum to sink into the carpet of the adjacent room. He’s on his knees before he realizes it, mopping uselessly at the mess with the towel in his hand and shaking uncontrollably.
Kris hears the noise and rushes in to see what happened, eyes drawn immediately to the figure on the floor practically hyperventilating and scrubbing furiously at the ground. He spots the shards of broken glass everywhere and kneels down carefully, stilling Cook’s arm and removing the cloth from his hand. He sets it aside and replaces it with his own hand, squeezing gently and pulling Cook closer to him and away from the mess. Cook goes willingly, his whole body quivering uncontrollably against Kris’ steadier one as he rests his head on Kris’ shoulder. Kris just wraps his other arm around Cook and holds him firmly, silent and rubbing his thumb along the back of Cook’s hand comfortingly.
The rhythmic motion manages to calm Cook and his breathing eventually slows down to a normal rhythm. His first reaction is to move away and distance himself from Kris, embarrassed at his sudden outburst of emotion. But when he tries he’s met with resistance, Kris’ grip tightening ever so slightly around him, so instead he presses his face deeper into the soft cotton of Kris’ shirt.
“Sorry,” Cook mutters. “Your floor’s a mess.”
Kris huffs out a breath and runs a hand through Cook’s hair. “Do you really think that’s what I’m worried about right now?” he asks.
“I’m a mess,” Cook amends.
“A little,” Kris says. “But you don’t have to apologize for that.”
Cook lifts his head from Kris’ shoulder and sits back on the floor, Kris’ hand still in his. “It was the song,” he starts. “I just miss him.”
“You’re allowed to,” Kris states, putting his other hand on top of their joined ones. “But it’ll get easier.”
“Sometime this century?” Cook asks, eyebrows raised in doubt.
“Yeah, “ Kris chuckles. “Pretty sure before it ends even.”
Cook shakes himself, grabbing the neglected towel and standing. “Sorry, you shouldn’t have to deal with my mess,” he mumbles, rinsing the towel out and putting his walls back up as easily as they came crashing down a second ago. “This is my problem.”
Kris gets up and joins him, turning off the faucet. “Hey, don’t do that,” he says, with a force that makes Cook really listen to him. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”
“And what about when you stop wanting to be here and the same thing happens?” Cook whispers, hating how insecure he sounds.
“It won’t,” Kris says, emphasizing each word. “Stop blaming yourself. Relationships go bad; people do drastic things, but it doesn’t mean it’s anyone’s fault.”
He reaches out and grips Cook’s arm, forcing him to turn and so they can look at each other. “I get it,” he continues. “You feel guilty because you think you drove him to do it, and angry that you couldn’t do anything to stop it, and you’re upset because he just gave up when you were fighting so hard for him. I’ve been there. And that’s fine, you’re allowed to feel that way and these are things you have to work through.” His hand slides up Cook’s arm and comes to rest on the side of his neck, squeezing gently but insistent. “But you don’t get to block me out when all I want to do is help. I’m probably one of the few people who actually know how you feel and I am the one who’s actually trying to fight for you right now. I won’t let you push me away, so you’re just going to have to let me in.”
Everything Kris just said is true, Cook knows that and he’d be completely in denial to try and pretend otherwise, but he doesn’t know what to say to it yet. He isn’t ready to say what’s been on the tip of his tongue practically since they met - yes and please and I want, I need - so he settles for, “I need to finish that journal tonight. Come up to my place with me?”
“Of course,” Kris says, moving in for a full on hug and mumbling into Cook’s chest. “Just let me finish cleaning up first.”
Cook tenses for a second before sinking into the hug as well, unable to pretend that he hasn’t missed having someone hug him like they really meant it. He remembers a time that he used to have that same “personal space be damned” mentality and he smiles into Kris’ hair thinking that maybe he’d be okay with going back to it. Once they break apart, Kris reaches behind the cabinets for a broom and Cook helps him sweep the glass up, mopping the floor after while Kris scrubs the carpet as best as he can with so little supplies. Once the carpet is left only with a faint pink blotch, Kris declares it good enough for now and they head up to Cook’s apartment. When they get there, Cook hangs his jacket on the rack and pulls the journal out of the inside pocket.
“You’re kind of lucky that he did that, you know?” Kris says, gesturing towards the journal as he toes off his sneakers. “It’s a kind of closure a lot of people don’t get.”
Cook considers that for a few seconds before flopping down on the carpet in front of the couch. “I didn’t think of it that way I guess,” he says. “It feels more like a horrible reminder. This thing lurking over my head.”
“Either way,” Kris says, eyes catching sight of the guitar in the corner, “you should probably finish reading, right?”
“Right,” Cook agrees with a sigh.
Kris picks the guitar up from its rack, brushing off a layer of dust with his shirt ends and sitting a couple feet away from Cook. “So you go ahead,” he insists. “And I’m going to take the liberty of playing with your guitar. Poor thing looks like it could use some attention.”
“Maybe I should just not finish it,” Cook says, hesitating as he starts to open the cover.
“You need to and you know it. You can do it,” Kris encourages. “I’ll just be sitting here and playing you something while you do it. Maybe I can impress your subconscious with my skills.”
Cook opens the journal completely and then stops and turns to stare at Kris. “Are you actually flirting at a time like this?” he asks, amused.
Kris gives him a sheepish look and plucks out a few notes. “I think it’s kind of a habit now,” he answers. “Don’t mind me. You, reading, go.”
“Fine,” Cook groans and takes a few breaths before returning to the task at hand.
----------
You told me once that I didn’t know how to be selfish. You didn’t mean it in a bad way, I’m pretty sure you even said it with a smile, but it doesn’t make it less true. Maybe that’s what this journal is, my selfish way of trying to reassure myself that if I can just make you understand, you won’t have to hate me. That you’ll be okay then. I’ve gone over the conversation we had that night when I left in my head a million times. The anger in your voice, the hurt. I didn’t even bother to kiss you goodbye; I heard the lock click behind me, and I stood outside the door, feeling my muscles weaken all at once. I would have leapt at the opportunity for one last kiss, one more touch - I regret not having that. But that was the right thing to do in that moment and there was no room for my resolve to waiver. It felt horrible and wrong, but I knew that I had to do it. And I know now that nothing I could have said would have made you understand. How could you understand something that I’m barely even sure I understand myself sometimes?
I could write out memories for you all night. They’d make me laugh and smile and remember what we shared, and maybe they’d do the same for you. But they wouldn’t change a thing. Nothing can now.
All that we’re left with is reality, and that’s that I walked away from us. I did this. I made a decision without thinking about the consequences and you’re the one who has to deal with them. It’s sad that the one selfish thing I’ve done had to be this, but that’s why I left, so that I couldn’t make it any worse. I knew that if I didn’t leave, everything in my head about us would have faded to nothing right in front of you and that probably would have ended up destroying you even worse. You would never forgive yourself for allowing it to happen and it would have broken your spirit. This battle was beyond our control and greater than either of us. There was no choice but to lose, so I made sure you would at least lose the least.
I could never take anything we had for granted, even though it probably seems like I did by just leaving. I walked away because I had to, and now you need to as well. Take what we had for what it was, remember it for how beautiful it was or forget it if you need to, but don’t let losing it destroy you. And please, Cook, don’t stop living. I know you, and I know you like to wallow, but it won’t bring me back. And I love you too much to be the cause of so much misery in your life. I’ll be okay and so will you. I can’t be your sun anymore, but that doesn’t mean you have to live in darkness. Another sunrise will come; just don’t be so stubborn that you don’t get to see it.
xx always,
Archie
----------
Cook closes the journal and sets it aside, his back resting against the base of the couch and his head tilted back to lean on the cushion. He stays in that same position without saying a word until the sound of Kris’ guitar playing wanes and they’re both sitting in silence. Kris is the first to break it, stretching a socked foot out to push against Cook’s knee. “Are you alright?” he asks.
“I’m not sure really,” Cook says, eyes still fixed on the cheap popcorn ceiling. “I thought I’d finish it and maybe feel relieved, but I just feel… exhausted.”
Kris scoots across the floor and settles next to Cook, their thighs and shoulders pressed close together. When his hand reaches out and grabs Cook’s, Cook doesn’t pull away this time, just allows their fingers to tangle and lets his head fall to the side onto Kris’ shoulder. “Why does he always have to be so reasonable about things?” he asks.
“Because he probably knew you’d need him to be,” Kris says, resting his head on top of Cook’s.
“How did it end up like this?” Cook sighs. “We were good together. It used to feel like everything fell into place when were with each other.”
Kris squeezes Cook’s hand, filling in the words he isn’t adding. “Until it didn’t?”
“Yeah,” Cook agrees, lowering his gaze to stare at their joined hands. “And then we just stopped fitting. I think maybe our problem was that we both needed it to work too much, and neither of us could handle what that meant. It was more than either of us was prepared for.”
Kris pulls their hands into his lap and sits up straighter, angling his body towards Cook’s to look at him directly. “Then it’s probably better that you’re not together, right? For the both of you,” he says, hunching until he’s in Cook's line of vision and forcing their eyes to meet. “You deserve to be happy without being overwhelmed.”
“I think I know that on some level,” Cook replies, gaze a little distant and still withdrawn. “It doesn’t make me blame myself any less though. He was always too good for me; I keep thinking that if I could have just been-”
“No,” Kris cuts him off.
Cook’s attention snaps up to Kris, his eyebrows drawn together. “No?”
“You shouldn’t…” Kris starts before pausing for a long time, obviously weighing the words in his head. “It’s exhausting spending all your time trying to live up to expectations that you set for yourself because you think it’s what others want. And in the end it only makes things worse on all sides. You just have to let people decide what they want on their own, and if it’s you, great. If not, don’t bother. If it’s going to happen, it will.”
Cook shakes his head. “That sounds a little too much like fate,” he comments.
“I take it you’re not a believer?” Kris asks, poking Cook in the knee with his free hand.
“Not at all,” Cook says, returning the poke right back in challenge.
“Well I am,” Kris states resolutely enough to end any further conversation on the subject. “Besides,” he adds, “perfect never works - it’s not real enough. And then when expectations fail, everything comes crashing down all at once. Forget perfect, I want something I can actually feel without having to worry about everything I could screw up.”
Cook can’t really argue with that or deny that he wants the same exact thing, just like he can’t deny that Kris’ hand sitting warm in his is one of the best things he’s felt in a long time. He can see pieces of a completely different puzzle starting to fall into place and he turns back to lean against the couch, trying to keep himself from retreating into these other thoughts in his head that he’s not willing to admit are there yet. “Play something,” he asks, needing a distraction.
Kris reaches for the guitar without hesitation and settles it across his lap. “Sure,” he says. “What do you want to hear?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Cook mutters, waving a hand and drawing his knees up. “Whatever you want to play. Just play for yourself. I need something to focus on other than me.”
Kris raises an eyebrow and grins. “Well you can focus on me any day,” he says.
“You’re impossible,” Cook huffs, aiming for annoyed but unable to sound anything but fond. “Play something you wrote. I figure you probably write too, right?”
“Um, yeah, I do,” Kris answers, nodding after a moment of thought and tuning the strings. “Okay, yeah, I can do that.”
He launches into the song without another word in between, the chords starting out simple enough and mingling perfectly with his voice as he hums out the beginning of the melody. The tone of the song feels reminiscent, like it’s straight out of a memory, but Cook can tell that there’s an undercurrent he can’t quite pin, and he leans forward, attention now completely drawn to Kris. The main thing he notices almost immediately is that Kris is completely self-focused when he plays, all his energy drawing inward and pooling into the movement of his fingers and the release of his voice. Like this is all there is and outside of the music nothing exists. He’s loses himself in the music and Cook can feel himself getting lost with him.
The words finally come and flow through the room, washing over Cook like he’s in Kris’ mind with him, living in the memory that’s so obviously unraveling in his head. Cook realizes quickly that the song is about her, about them, not just by the words but by the way Kris smiles around them, light entering his eyes. But as suddenly as it came, the light starts to dim, just enough that Cook can tell the memory isn’t altogether a perfect one. The song keeps evolving, layers turning it into something else, and he watches the emotions flicker across Kris’ face, his internal struggle apparent.
Kris’ voice grows quieter as he slips into the third verse. “There's fear in the truth at hand, frozen I forgot to understand. The live keep living; growing older more into a man. But I… I let her grow away from me,” he sings, the difference in volume barely noticeable, but enough that the weight that lies in those words is evident.
Cook can feel Kris’ soul spilling out in the song and he’s undeniably drawn in by it, completely captivated. He sinks into the warmth of Kris’ voice; the smoothness and twang that’s subtle in it’s delivery, the raw sound in the lower register that has a depth and roughness in all the right ways and then bends to stretch higher, the notes to curving up sweetly. He almost can’t believe that he was able to go all those weeks ignoring it when he can’t bear to pull himself away now.
It’s almost too much to focus on all at once and Cook catches parts of the lyrics, words about love and time and mending memories, and suddenly the song isn’t just about Kris anymore. It’s echoing the things he wants, the things he needs, and he wonders if Kris even thought of that when he picked it. A smile creeps back onto Kris’s face, and he seeks Cook’s eyes out, singing, “Let the sun shine in again, face it with a grin. Oh, and open up your heart and let the sun shine in.” Cook actually laughs at that, struck by the sheer irony - of course Kris would be singing about the sun.
And that’s when realization finally hits him like a powerful wind, knocking him over and surrounding him until he’s forced to recognize what he’s been holding back. When the song finishes, Kris puts the guitar aside with a sigh and looks up at Cook, expectant and unaware of the change in him. Cook doesn’t respond for a while, not sure of what to say first, how to convey that the connection he feels to Kris is stronger than it ever has been in this moment. And all he can focus on are Kris’ words and how they were so much of what he didn’t even know he needed to say too. He doesn’t believe in fate, but in coincidence he does, and maybe this is one that he’s not meant to ignore. When he finally does speak, he asks, “Do you really believe that, what you were singing?”
The corner of Kris’ mouth quirks up slightly as he nods. “I know some of it’s kind of cheesy probably, but yeah. I do - I have to,” he says, full of serenity and quiet confidence.
“I want to,” Cook says, the words slipping from his mouth even while he’s still fighting to suppress everything else, his stomach tying itself in knots. Archie’s voice rings out in the back of his mind. “Stop being so stubborn,” it repeats, over and over.
Kris leans forward and carefully puts his hands on either side of Cook’s face, gentle pressure cradling his jaw like he’s expecting Cook to pull away. “Then why don’t you?” he asks. "Just try."
Cook knows Kris’ touch is meant to be friendly, a gesture meant to soothe and ground him, but he can’t help the way it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and his breaths come shallower. He turns to press his face into one of Kris’ palms on instinct, lips dragging over a thumb as he does and heart thumping loudly in his chest when Kris’ breath catches. Kris’ eyes are dark and obvious in their want, but his face is hesitant, clearly trying to convey to Cook that the decision is his. Cook hears the same voice in his head from before, his own right along side it this time, and he can’t ignore either of them anymore - can’t ignore that everything that has happened is turning into the momentum for everything that needs to happen. He sees the moment in sudden clarity, the decision becoming an easier one to make than Cook would have expected as it carries him forward to close the distance between them.
Kris makes a small shocked sound at first, but then he’s kissing back, whole body reacting the same as it always does. It’s nothing like kissing Archie; Archie’s mouth had always been soft and familiar, warm in a way that permeated through Cook’s whole being. But Kris’ lips feel electric on his, warm in a completely different way that makes every cell in his body thrum to the beat of his heart. He can feel his chest trembling and the knot in his stomach finally unwinding, and his hands move of their own accord, wrapping around Kris’ arms to pull him forward into his lap. Kris doesn’t protest, straddling him clumsily and slipping one hand to the back of Cook’s neck, fingers dancing at his hairline as the kiss deepens. Cook sinks into it, almost losing himself in the feel of their mouths gliding together seamlessly when Kris pulls back slightly, placing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“I thought you weren’t ready for anything?” he asks, voice uneven.
“I thought you told me to just try,” Cook responds, kissing him again just to feel Kris’ lips against his.
Kris holds Cook out at arm length, hand trailing at his collar and nails scratching lightly at the exposed skin. “I’m not him,” he says. “And I can’t be.”
“I know,” Cook nods and wraps his arms low around Kris’ waist, pulling him in even closer. “I still want you.”
Kris’ fingertips play at the top button of Cook’s shirt. “You’re sure about this?” he asks.
“I’m not sure of anything anymore,” Cook says truthfully. Kris’ face falls just slightly, his hand stilling, and Cook continues quickly, “I know how I feel right now though and I’m done pretending I don’t want this. I do. And I’m still trying to figure out the rest, but I really think I want you to be there when I do.”
“Don’t want you to regret anything,” Kris responds, resting his forehead against Cook’s.
Cook presses their lips together, breathing in the taste and the feel of Kris’ mouth. “Don’t think I could,” he says, letting his hands run up under the back of Kris’ shirt. The muscles of his back feel tense and Cook can tell by the way his lips are responding when he kisses him again that Kris is still holding back. “Please,” Cook whispers. “I need this.”
Kris lets out a long breath, fingers pushing deeper into Cook’s hair to angle his head back. “Okay,” he says. “You can have it.” This time when Kris kisses him, the fire is back, sparks flying from his lips and curling from his tongue as it glides along Cook’s. He scrapes his teeth lightly against Cook’s bottom lip as he moves to mouth down Cook’s neck, slow and wet, covering every inch of skin and pulling Cook’s buttons open one by one as he goes. Once they’re all undone and he slides his hands up Cook’s torso to curl along his shoulders beneath the shirt, kissing across his collarbone as he slides the fabric off. Cook lets the shirt fall down his arms, reaching for the hem of Kris’ once his hands are free again. Kris is busy kissing the newly exposed skin, trailing his lips and tongue along the curve of Cook’s shoulder, and Cook makes an impatient noise, pulling harder at the shirt and saying, “Off.” Kris pulls back long enough to let Cook take it off, his fingers immediately returning to Cook’s skin, ghosting over the sparse hair of his chest and down to the softer curves of his stomach.
“You’re still good?” he asks, kissing Cook’s cheek, his forehead, his chin, nosing against the side of his neck until he tilts his head.
“More than,” Cook groans as Kris sucks a kiss into the spot right behind his ear, careful and concentrated and almost torturous. The movement presses Kris’ bare chest closer to Cook’s, the intensity of skin-to-skin contact after so long without it causing Cook to grow painfully hard, straining against the front of his jeans. “Bedroom,” he says, already urging Kris back and up off his lap.
Kris wraps his arms around Cook’s neck once they’re both standing, pulling himself up to suck on Cook’s lower lip and mumbling, “So pushy,” into his mouth. Cook chuckles and walks Kris backwards to the bedroom, their mouths tangled the whole way and hands working on belts and buttons and zippers. By the time they get there, the hallway is scattered with clothing and the only thing that remains between them are the underwear neither could manage to remove while in motion.
“Lie down,” Kris says, unwinding his arms from around Cook and pushing him towards the bed. Cook settles on the edge of it, watching as Kris pushes his briefs down and looks around, probably realizing that he’s not actually in his own bedroom. “Where’s…” he trails off.
“Top drawer,” Cook laughs, motioning to the dresser across the room and scooting farther up onto the bed.
Kris ducks his head and laughs along, walking over to pull a condom and lube out of the dresser. He grins crookedly as he comes back towards him, setting them beside Cook and crawling up the bed, hovering just overtop of him. He bends down and settles his mouth just above Cook’s belly button, following the trail of hair until he reaches Cook’s briefs. He peels them off carefully, tonguing at the indentation left in Cook’s flesh from the elastic and curling his calloused fingers around Cook’s cock. He holds his hand there, loose and not nearly enough pressure to ease the growing ache as he works his way lower with his mouth, flicking his tongue at Cook’s hipbone, nipping at the sensitive skin at his inner thigh, covering every inch of skin but still ignoring Cook’s cock. “Tease,” Cook says, thrusting up slightly to try and find more friction in Kris’ hand.
Kris wraps the fingers of his other hand around Cook’s hip, pressing down to hold him there and looking up beneath his eyelashes, eyes sparkling wickedly. He tightens his grip around the base of Cook’s cock and drags the flat of his tongue up the side of it, wrapping his lips around only the head and sucking with complete attentiveness, not taking anymore until Cook’s muscles are tight with the strain of keeping still. When Kris finally takes Cook deeper into his mouth, he thumps his head back against the pillow and shoves his hands into the sheets to grip them, the fingers around his hip loosening and massaging gently into the reddened flesh before leaving completely. Cook hears the click of a cap, and looks back down to see Kris coating a couple fingers with lube and positioning them between his own legs. Cook can tell when he pushes one inside of himself by his sharp intake of breath and the way the muscles of his shoulder tense and relax with the motion. Kris’ mouth doesn’t falter around Cook’s cock as he opens himself up, his fingers pushing in and out in rhythm with his motions around Cook’s cock.
Cook is teetering on the edge, lost in the sensations and the small whimpering sounds Kris keeps making, barely even aware enough to realize when Kris pulls away with a wet sound and slides the condom onto him. Kris straddles his hips and Cook makes a movement to switch their positions, but Kris shakes his head and bends down to kiss him, slow and much gentler than before. “Let me take care of you,” he says, sliding one of his hands into Cook’s as he positions himself. Cook squeezes Kris’ hand and trails his other up Kris’ thigh and around behind him to feel where Kris is already stretched tight around his cock. Once Kris eases himself all the way down, Cook’s cock deep and hot inside of him, he runs his free hand up Cook’s side, and down his other arm, fingertips dragging against skin and digging in just slightly. When he reaches Cook’s other hand, he wraps their fingers together so that both of their hands are clasped and pushes them above Cook’s head.
His hips start rocking, taking more of Cook and deepening the angle with every undulation, and the faster the pace becomes the further he bends over until his head is resting against Cook’s shoulder, whispering babbled adulations into his ear. Every movement is intensified, every softly spoken word magnified, until they’re both consumed by it. Kris starts peppering Cook with kisses, along his ear and up his cheek, down his chin, until their mouths meet again and Cook is thrusting upwards in earnest, meeting each of Kris’ movements halfway and digging his nails into the backs of Kris’ hands. A string of “please please please” spills from Kris’s mouth, and Cook frees a hand to bring it down and wrap around Kris’ cock, sliding over it almost frantically. Kris’ hand tangles in his hair, and he mouths over Cook’s shoulder, teeth digging in as he comes all over Cook’s hand and stomach. He clutches at Cook through the orgasm, whole body quivering and muscles contracting around Cook even as he continues to rock back and forth and ride it out. Cook squeezes Kris’ hand, still thrusting upwards while Kris kisses him open mouthed and sloppy. Kris bites at the corner of his jaw and it sends Cook over the edge finally, his orgasm rippling up his spine as he thrusts a few more times and comes. Kris brings him through the aftershocks, running his fingers through his hair and repeating his name like it’s his new favorite word. When their combined panting turns into deeper breaths, Kris’ lips return, moving sweet and slow over his own. Cook focuses completely on the feeling, and when the tip of Kris’ tongue glides against his, he shudders, oversensitive. He feels Kris’ smile against his mouth and then Kris is brushing a kiss on his sweaty forehead and rolling off. He orders Cook to stay put, taking care of the condom for him and returning with a damp washcloth. Once the both of them are cleaned of, Kris settles against his side, head resting securely on his shoulder.
Cook wraps Kris in his arms, feeling fully sated, like he’s finally pushed right past the physical and mental exhaustion that’s made it too difficult to even sleep for the past few weeks and straight into the state between consciousness and sleep, where everything just is and anything else doesn’t matter. He tries to revel in the blissful, floating feeling but even while it sinks deeper into his pores, he can’t help but pull Kris tight against his chest as his lingering fears creep into the edges of his mind. It feels like he’s already dreaming and he needs to know that he isn’t, that when he wakes up tomorrow this is still going to be real.
Kris must sense what he’s feeling because he pulls one of Cook’s hands up to his lips, kissing the pad of each finger and mumbling, “I’m not going anywhere,” barely getting the words out before he’s already fast asleep. Cook brushes Kris’ slack lips with his thumb, deciding that he has no choice but to believe and finally - finally - just falls into a deep sleep as well.
Sure enough, when he wakes up Kris is still there, face smooshed into the pillow and leg slung across Cook’s stomach. Kris’ eyelids flutter against his cheek as he dreams, his lips slack and misshapen against the pillow, chest rising and falling evenly. Maybe it’s creepy that Cook just wants to lay there and stare all morning, but he honestly doesn’t care - he wants to see what Kris looks like as he wakes too, hear the sighs and quiet groans he’s sure Kris will make, and watch the shy smile spread slow across his face as his eyes blink the sleep away only to find Cook’s looking right back. Cook groans at having to delay that discovery until another morning, but Kris’ leg is pressing almost directly on his bladder and if he doesn’t get up soon, they’re both going to have a problem. So he carefully extricates himself from underneath Kris with a sigh, pulling the blanket back up over Kris and treading towards the bathroom.
When he looks into the mirror, it’s still the same him, paler and skinnier than he used to be, but the red in his eyes is clearer and the bags underneath lighter. There’s a light underneath his skin that he didn’t even know had disappeared. The ache in his chest is still there - there’s no way it could be gone yet - but it’s duller now, not so sharp and concentrated. He can’t say that he feels all right yet, but he feels concrete, real, and the lips in the mirror turn upwards slightly as the thought crosses his mind. He turns the faucet in the shower on, absently singing a long forgotten song under his breath.
Afterwards, he heads into the kitchen only to finds Kris already up making breakfast, quickly fading pillow lines still etched into his face. Kris pokes at the eggs in the pan, nose scrunching, and when Cook chuckles his eyes dart up, startled. “Oh, uh, morning,” he says, sounding a little unsure. Cook can’t quite tell what of.
He walks over to the stove behind Kris, resting his chin on Kris’ shoulder to peer at the mess in the pan and placing a kiss to his cheek. “Morning,” Cook says.
He can feel Kris relaxing at that, letting out a long breath and sinking back against him. ”My failure as a cook is showing again,” Kris whines. “But I found some microwavable bacon, so I’m pretty sure I can’t mess that up at least.”
“Let’s just go out for breakfast,” Cook replies, reaching around to turn off the burner.
“Probably safer,” Kris says, turning around to face Cook, his eyes lighting up instantaneously. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Cook laughs.
Kris leans forward, head pillowed on Cook’s chest and arms wrapping around his waist. “So, you didn’t tell me you could sing like that,” he says.
Cook shrugs. “I haven’t done it in a while. Didn’t know you were listening.”
Kris gives Cook a small squeeze before pulling away to clean up the half-cooked breakfast. “Would you maybe want to do something with me during my set next week?” he asks, throwing the pan, eggs and all, into the sink.
“Um,” Cook mutters, putting the carton of eggs back into the refrigerator.
“No, it’s cool, I get it,” Kris replies, waving a hand at Cook. “You think I suck.”
Cook raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh, I know you do,” he says. “But that has nothing to do with this.”
Kris rolls his eyes and hits Cook’s arm lightly as he walks past him and towards the bedroom. “Offer still stands whenever you’re ready,” he says over his shoulder. “But I’ll get you to do it eventually.”
“I will come watch you play though,” Cook agrees, trailing after him, “Actually watch this time, I mean.”
Kris is halfway through hopping back into the pants he wore yesterday by the time Cook comes to lean against the doorframe. He wiggles into the other leg and looks up. “You really want to?” he asks, and when Cook nods he does that stupid, infectious, full-body-smiling thing and adds a soft, “Thanks.”
Cook tears his eyes away long enough to throw on some clean clothes so they can head out for food. They decide to just head to the coffee shop - it’s right beside the Whole Foods that Kris wants to stop at after and Cook figures that they’ll get harassed less if they tell Tommy about recent developments sooner rather then later.
They walk down the street side by side, chatting idly, and Cook looks down just to see Kris’ crinkled eyes and flushed cheeks when he makes a particularly stupid joke. He can’t help the warmth that envelops him, making him temporarily oblivious to the world until he’s bumping into someone with his shoulder. He hears a familiar stutter and a quiet, “Oh gosh”, and he stops dead in his tracks. He knows what’s going to greet him when he turns around but he’s not sure if anything could prepare him for it. He forces himself not to flinch when he hears the voice again saying, “I’m so sorry,” and Kris’ hand slides into his almost knowingly, helping ground him enough to be able to turn around.
The Archie he sees isn’t the same one that Cook last saw, the one that was sad and uneasy, beaten down with worry and the weight of their failures. He looks the same as he did when they first met, kind face and clear eyes, looking for the entire world full of possibilities and endless future. Cook’s heart skips, maybe even stops, at seeing him this way again - so young and genuinely happy. But of everything he sees playing out on Archie’s face, there’s no hint of recognition, no sign that Cook is more than just another stranger on the street.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cook says, praying his voice doesn’t give anything away. “I wasn’t paying attention, so my fault too.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” Archie replies, smiling. “I’m so clumsy anyway, you know?” he adds with a slight flail of the arms.
“Yeah, I do,” Cook blurts out, doing everything he can to not laugh out loud when Archie’s face scrunches in confusion in such a familiar way. “I just meant that I’m clumsy too,” he lies.
“Oh, okay,” Archie laughs a little awkwardly before turning back towards the direction he was going. “Um, have a good day I guess!” he says, waving and heading down the street.
Cook waves after him. “Yeah, take care,” he says. This time when Archie walks away, he doesn’t take anything of Cook with him.
“Still okay?” Kris asks when Cook turns back to him, voice laced with concern.
Cook bumps his shoulder against Kris’. “I’m going to be,” he whispers, more to himself.
Kris’ hand slips into Cook’s back pocket as they walk straight ahead again, neither looking back. “So, the coffee shop then?” he asks.
Cook smiles and wraps his arm around Kris’ shoulders, pulling him close until he’s tucked under his arm. Despite everything, there’s honestly no place he’d rather be right now.
~fin~
( Master Post )
He closes the journal and tries to let the words he just read sink in, but the only thing that does is a feeling of anger, so sudden and raw that it’s almost physically painful. His jaw tightens and his chest clenches to the point where his breaths are barely even coming. He hasn’t felt this in a long time, and he’s not sure if he’s ever felt this directed at Archie. He wants to call it irrational, an overreaction, but he just doesn’t understand how Archie can talk about choice like he wasn’t the only one who ever had one all along. Like he wasn’t the one who made the choice for both of them and left Cook alone to deal with the aftermath.
He’s overwhelmed with the hurt - practically choking on it - and suddenly the world around him is clouded over again, like he’s driving in a storm and the windshield wipers just can’t keep up. He can’t see where he is, can’t feel anything else, so all he can do is focus on one spot ahead of him and pray to make it out alive. He decides on a walk to clear his head, but all he can think about as his feet hit the pavement of the sidewalk is Archie’s words and the sheer rage he feels because of them. And then he starts to remember everything else; the way Archie used to make him feel, every touch and word turning over and over in his mind, the way it all ended. Suddenly the sense of loss is fresh once again and he’s right back in that kitchen watching Archie walk away. The world around him fades away as if he’s stuck in a never-ending tunnel, the darkness stretching out around him as he stumbles toward an end that can never be reached.
He’s so lost in the haze that he doesn’t hear the blaring of the horn or the voice screaming his name over the screeching of the tires; barely even registers that there’s a hand tangling itself in the back of his shirt and pulling him backwards onto the ground until he finds himself blinking against the sun and staring up into Kris’ face. He looks slightly angry and a lot scared as he kneels down beside Cook, frantically asking if he’s okay, hands skimming over his arms and face trying to search for injuries. Cook blinks a few more times and waves Kris off in answer as he moves to get up.
“Uh, hey,” Cook says, straightening his shirt and running his hand through his hair. “Thanks,” he adds because it seems like he should.
Kris stares at him, mouth opening and closing a few times before he actually speaks. “Hey?” Kris asks, voice more than a little shrill.
Cook is still slightly out of it and confused enough by Kris’ reaction that he doesn’t ask when Kris grabs his arm and pulls him around the corner towards a parking lot; he just lets himself be dragged along. Kris fumbles for his keys and points them at a car that must be his as they approach it.
“Just… get in, okay,” he says breathlessly, pulling the trunk open quickly and throwing whatever bag he was carrying into it. “I’ll drive you back to the apartment building.”
Cook does what Kris says, slipping into the passenger’s seat as Kris opens and slams his own door behind him, pulling furiously on his seatbelt to buckle it. He puts the key in the ignition but stops just short of starting the car, instead placing his hands firmly on the steering wheel and breathing deeply.
“So you were going to kill yourself that night on the roof,” Kris states, not really needing Cook’s reply to understand the truth.
The question seems out of place for the present situation, but Cook still doesn’t see a point in trying to lie. “Probably would have, yeah,” he answers.
Kris sucks in a sudden breath, barely loud enough for Cook to hear, and then turns to look at him. “Is that what you were trying to do just now too?” he asks. “Walking in front of that car like that?”
“No, I…” Cook starts, shaking his head. “I don’t know what happened, okay?”
“So you weren’t - it wasn’t on purpose?” Kris says impatiently, eyes searching Cook’s. “Because the look on your face… You looked so resigned, like you weren’t even in there or something.”
“No, it wasn’t on purpose,” Cook repeats, trying not to get irritated by the interrogation. “It was like I blacked out or something; I don’t even really remember anything. And I don’t understand why you’re so angry.”
“Because I know that face,” Kris replies to the steering wheel, voice dropping lower. “I saw it all the time on my fiancée.”
“Fiancée?” Cook asks, even more confused.
“Well, she was until she killed herself,” Kris replies evenly, as if it’s something he’s had a lot of practice saying. He turns back to Cook, lips drawn into a sad smile. “You’re not the only one people do drastic things to get away from I guess.”
Cook frowns and says, “I didn’t know,” for lack of anything else useful to say.
“Well now you do,” Kris shrugs, starting the car and fiddling with the radio. “I’ve worked through it, you know. But I don’t think I’d be so okay if someone else I cared about did that.”
“I read another journal entry,” Cook replies, like it explains anything, staring straight ahead into the parking lot.
Apparently it’s explanation enough because Kris takes another deep breath, loosening his fingers from the wheel where they’re resting and putting the car in reverse. “You can do this,” Kris says. “We both can. But you have to promise me you won’t give up.”
“Okay,” Cook answers. He silently hopes for the strength to keep this promise; he wants to do this for Kris.
Kris nods and pulls out of the parking lot. “Now, we’re going to my place, and I’m making you lunch,” Kris says, completely serious. “And I’m going to attempt to woo your sorry ass some more.”
“Kris…” Cook warns, trying to convey his point despite the laugh that escapes.
“Yeah, I know, but I don’t care,” Kris replies. “I’m good at being persistent when I want to be and it’s for the sake of step three.”
Cook rolls his eyes. “Of course it is.”
The rest of the car ride is spent mostly silent, but it’s not uncomfortable. Kris hums along to the radio and Cook finds himself taping out chords on his thigh to go with the songs. It’s a kind of familiarity Cook has missed and he tries to enjoy it without really thinking about it.
They get back to the apartment and Kris immediately heads for the kitchen, pulling out a box of pasta and a jar of sauce from the cabinet. He holds them up in question and Cook nods, asking, “Anything I can help with?”
Kris shakes his head and points to a stool at the counter. “Sit,” he commands. “I’m wooing you, remember?”
Cook raises an eyebrow but he sits anyway, watching Kris as he tinkers with the stove and fills a pot with water. The conversation flows easily from there, both of them talking without pause until dinner is finally ready, and continuing even as they move everything into the dining room.
“I’m a pretty horrible cook,” Kris apologizes as he dishes out the overcooked spaghetti, covering it with the sauce and frowning.
Cook pokes at it with his fork, chuckling when it wiggles as a whole, the noodles hopelessly stuck together. “I thought you were supposed to be wooing me?” he asks.
“Oh shut up,” Kris mutters, turning a shade of pink that Cook isn’t sure he’s ever even seen before. “And I wasn’t really expecting a guest, so um, beer or water to drink?”
“Always beer,” Cook winks, still thoroughly amused.
Kris gets their drinks and returns, the obviously well used dinner table wobbling precariously as he sits and stares at his own pasta. “So, I fail at wooing,” he shrugs.
Cook stifles his laughter behind his napkin. “It’s cool,” he says. “But if beer and pasta is your idea of romance, we may need to talk.”
Kris tries to hold back his own laughter but fails and ends up letting out a snort, eyes going wide when it happens. Cook gives up and finally laughs along, the sound filling the room until both of them are out of breath and practically crying.
Cook wipes at his eyes, hoping to calm himself after a few minutes. Kris is still sucking in air and biting at his knuckle, eyes crinkled in the corners and practically glowing as they meet Cook’s. The glow is permeable, flowing straight into the air and passing on to Cook, penetrating his skin from the inside out. It’s not the first time Cook has noticed the way every emotion plays out so strongly on Kris, his whole body joining in subconsciously and infecting everyone around him with the desire to do the same. In fact, it’s kind of beautiful, Cook thinks, and he smiles at Kris when he finally settles. “You’re not as bad at wooing as you think you are,” he says, eyes purposefully locked with Kris’ still.
Kris looks down shyly and takes a bite of his pasta, but not before Cook catches the way his lips twitch upward at the compliment. Lunch passes much in the same way, with them talking and laughing comfortably, topics moving seamlessly from one to another until they realize they’ve been sitting there for hours over their empty dishes.
Kris gets up to clear the table, but Cook stops him, grabbing the plate from his hand. “You made the food, at least let me shove this stuff in the dishwasher for you,” he says.
“I could get used to this,” Kris comments, handing the dish off and heading into the living room with a satisfied smirk.
Cook can hear Kris tinkering on a keyboard somewhere as he rinses off the plates and loads them into the dishwasher, bits and pieces of songs he mostly recognizes being played quietly in the background. He doesn’t pay too much attention to it until he hears a familiar chord progression, the song becoming one he’s all too familiar with - one that was Archie’s favorites to play.
He startles at the melody now floating through the apartment, dropping the half full jar of spaghetti sauce he was bringing to the refrigerator. Before he can even react the glass is shattering, fragments flying all over the kitchen and the pasta sauce spreading down the cheap linoleum to sink into the carpet of the adjacent room. He’s on his knees before he realizes it, mopping uselessly at the mess with the towel in his hand and shaking uncontrollably.
Kris hears the noise and rushes in to see what happened, eyes drawn immediately to the figure on the floor practically hyperventilating and scrubbing furiously at the ground. He spots the shards of broken glass everywhere and kneels down carefully, stilling Cook’s arm and removing the cloth from his hand. He sets it aside and replaces it with his own hand, squeezing gently and pulling Cook closer to him and away from the mess. Cook goes willingly, his whole body quivering uncontrollably against Kris’ steadier one as he rests his head on Kris’ shoulder. Kris just wraps his other arm around Cook and holds him firmly, silent and rubbing his thumb along the back of Cook’s hand comfortingly.
The rhythmic motion manages to calm Cook and his breathing eventually slows down to a normal rhythm. His first reaction is to move away and distance himself from Kris, embarrassed at his sudden outburst of emotion. But when he tries he’s met with resistance, Kris’ grip tightening ever so slightly around him, so instead he presses his face deeper into the soft cotton of Kris’ shirt.
“Sorry,” Cook mutters. “Your floor’s a mess.”
Kris huffs out a breath and runs a hand through Cook’s hair. “Do you really think that’s what I’m worried about right now?” he asks.
“I’m a mess,” Cook amends.
“A little,” Kris says. “But you don’t have to apologize for that.”
Cook lifts his head from Kris’ shoulder and sits back on the floor, Kris’ hand still in his. “It was the song,” he starts. “I just miss him.”
“You’re allowed to,” Kris states, putting his other hand on top of their joined ones. “But it’ll get easier.”
“Sometime this century?” Cook asks, eyebrows raised in doubt.
“Yeah, “ Kris chuckles. “Pretty sure before it ends even.”
Cook shakes himself, grabbing the neglected towel and standing. “Sorry, you shouldn’t have to deal with my mess,” he mumbles, rinsing the towel out and putting his walls back up as easily as they came crashing down a second ago. “This is my problem.”
Kris gets up and joins him, turning off the faucet. “Hey, don’t do that,” he says, with a force that makes Cook really listen to him. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”
“And what about when you stop wanting to be here and the same thing happens?” Cook whispers, hating how insecure he sounds.
“It won’t,” Kris says, emphasizing each word. “Stop blaming yourself. Relationships go bad; people do drastic things, but it doesn’t mean it’s anyone’s fault.”
He reaches out and grips Cook’s arm, forcing him to turn and so they can look at each other. “I get it,” he continues. “You feel guilty because you think you drove him to do it, and angry that you couldn’t do anything to stop it, and you’re upset because he just gave up when you were fighting so hard for him. I’ve been there. And that’s fine, you’re allowed to feel that way and these are things you have to work through.” His hand slides up Cook’s arm and comes to rest on the side of his neck, squeezing gently but insistent. “But you don’t get to block me out when all I want to do is help. I’m probably one of the few people who actually know how you feel and I am the one who’s actually trying to fight for you right now. I won’t let you push me away, so you’re just going to have to let me in.”
Everything Kris just said is true, Cook knows that and he’d be completely in denial to try and pretend otherwise, but he doesn’t know what to say to it yet. He isn’t ready to say what’s been on the tip of his tongue practically since they met - yes and please and I want, I need - so he settles for, “I need to finish that journal tonight. Come up to my place with me?”
“Of course,” Kris says, moving in for a full on hug and mumbling into Cook’s chest. “Just let me finish cleaning up first.”
Cook tenses for a second before sinking into the hug as well, unable to pretend that he hasn’t missed having someone hug him like they really meant it. He remembers a time that he used to have that same “personal space be damned” mentality and he smiles into Kris’ hair thinking that maybe he’d be okay with going back to it. Once they break apart, Kris reaches behind the cabinets for a broom and Cook helps him sweep the glass up, mopping the floor after while Kris scrubs the carpet as best as he can with so little supplies. Once the carpet is left only with a faint pink blotch, Kris declares it good enough for now and they head up to Cook’s apartment. When they get there, Cook hangs his jacket on the rack and pulls the journal out of the inside pocket.
“You’re kind of lucky that he did that, you know?” Kris says, gesturing towards the journal as he toes off his sneakers. “It’s a kind of closure a lot of people don’t get.”
Cook considers that for a few seconds before flopping down on the carpet in front of the couch. “I didn’t think of it that way I guess,” he says. “It feels more like a horrible reminder. This thing lurking over my head.”
“Either way,” Kris says, eyes catching sight of the guitar in the corner, “you should probably finish reading, right?”
“Right,” Cook agrees with a sigh.
Kris picks the guitar up from its rack, brushing off a layer of dust with his shirt ends and sitting a couple feet away from Cook. “So you go ahead,” he insists. “And I’m going to take the liberty of playing with your guitar. Poor thing looks like it could use some attention.”
“Maybe I should just not finish it,” Cook says, hesitating as he starts to open the cover.
“You need to and you know it. You can do it,” Kris encourages. “I’ll just be sitting here and playing you something while you do it. Maybe I can impress your subconscious with my skills.”
Cook opens the journal completely and then stops and turns to stare at Kris. “Are you actually flirting at a time like this?” he asks, amused.
Kris gives him a sheepish look and plucks out a few notes. “I think it’s kind of a habit now,” he answers. “Don’t mind me. You, reading, go.”
“Fine,” Cook groans and takes a few breaths before returning to the task at hand.
----------
You told me once that I didn’t know how to be selfish. You didn’t mean it in a bad way, I’m pretty sure you even said it with a smile, but it doesn’t make it less true. Maybe that’s what this journal is, my selfish way of trying to reassure myself that if I can just make you understand, you won’t have to hate me. That you’ll be okay then. I’ve gone over the conversation we had that night when I left in my head a million times. The anger in your voice, the hurt. I didn’t even bother to kiss you goodbye; I heard the lock click behind me, and I stood outside the door, feeling my muscles weaken all at once. I would have leapt at the opportunity for one last kiss, one more touch - I regret not having that. But that was the right thing to do in that moment and there was no room for my resolve to waiver. It felt horrible and wrong, but I knew that I had to do it. And I know now that nothing I could have said would have made you understand. How could you understand something that I’m barely even sure I understand myself sometimes?
I could write out memories for you all night. They’d make me laugh and smile and remember what we shared, and maybe they’d do the same for you. But they wouldn’t change a thing. Nothing can now.
All that we’re left with is reality, and that’s that I walked away from us. I did this. I made a decision without thinking about the consequences and you’re the one who has to deal with them. It’s sad that the one selfish thing I’ve done had to be this, but that’s why I left, so that I couldn’t make it any worse. I knew that if I didn’t leave, everything in my head about us would have faded to nothing right in front of you and that probably would have ended up destroying you even worse. You would never forgive yourself for allowing it to happen and it would have broken your spirit. This battle was beyond our control and greater than either of us. There was no choice but to lose, so I made sure you would at least lose the least.
I could never take anything we had for granted, even though it probably seems like I did by just leaving. I walked away because I had to, and now you need to as well. Take what we had for what it was, remember it for how beautiful it was or forget it if you need to, but don’t let losing it destroy you. And please, Cook, don’t stop living. I know you, and I know you like to wallow, but it won’t bring me back. And I love you too much to be the cause of so much misery in your life. I’ll be okay and so will you. I can’t be your sun anymore, but that doesn’t mean you have to live in darkness. Another sunrise will come; just don’t be so stubborn that you don’t get to see it.
xx always,
Archie
----------
Cook closes the journal and sets it aside, his back resting against the base of the couch and his head tilted back to lean on the cushion. He stays in that same position without saying a word until the sound of Kris’ guitar playing wanes and they’re both sitting in silence. Kris is the first to break it, stretching a socked foot out to push against Cook’s knee. “Are you alright?” he asks.
“I’m not sure really,” Cook says, eyes still fixed on the cheap popcorn ceiling. “I thought I’d finish it and maybe feel relieved, but I just feel… exhausted.”
Kris scoots across the floor and settles next to Cook, their thighs and shoulders pressed close together. When his hand reaches out and grabs Cook’s, Cook doesn’t pull away this time, just allows their fingers to tangle and lets his head fall to the side onto Kris’ shoulder. “Why does he always have to be so reasonable about things?” he asks.
“Because he probably knew you’d need him to be,” Kris says, resting his head on top of Cook’s.
“How did it end up like this?” Cook sighs. “We were good together. It used to feel like everything fell into place when were with each other.”
Kris squeezes Cook’s hand, filling in the words he isn’t adding. “Until it didn’t?”
“Yeah,” Cook agrees, lowering his gaze to stare at their joined hands. “And then we just stopped fitting. I think maybe our problem was that we both needed it to work too much, and neither of us could handle what that meant. It was more than either of us was prepared for.”
Kris pulls their hands into his lap and sits up straighter, angling his body towards Cook’s to look at him directly. “Then it’s probably better that you’re not together, right? For the both of you,” he says, hunching until he’s in Cook's line of vision and forcing their eyes to meet. “You deserve to be happy without being overwhelmed.”
“I think I know that on some level,” Cook replies, gaze a little distant and still withdrawn. “It doesn’t make me blame myself any less though. He was always too good for me; I keep thinking that if I could have just been-”
“No,” Kris cuts him off.
Cook’s attention snaps up to Kris, his eyebrows drawn together. “No?”
“You shouldn’t…” Kris starts before pausing for a long time, obviously weighing the words in his head. “It’s exhausting spending all your time trying to live up to expectations that you set for yourself because you think it’s what others want. And in the end it only makes things worse on all sides. You just have to let people decide what they want on their own, and if it’s you, great. If not, don’t bother. If it’s going to happen, it will.”
Cook shakes his head. “That sounds a little too much like fate,” he comments.
“I take it you’re not a believer?” Kris asks, poking Cook in the knee with his free hand.
“Not at all,” Cook says, returning the poke right back in challenge.
“Well I am,” Kris states resolutely enough to end any further conversation on the subject. “Besides,” he adds, “perfect never works - it’s not real enough. And then when expectations fail, everything comes crashing down all at once. Forget perfect, I want something I can actually feel without having to worry about everything I could screw up.”
Cook can’t really argue with that or deny that he wants the same exact thing, just like he can’t deny that Kris’ hand sitting warm in his is one of the best things he’s felt in a long time. He can see pieces of a completely different puzzle starting to fall into place and he turns back to lean against the couch, trying to keep himself from retreating into these other thoughts in his head that he’s not willing to admit are there yet. “Play something,” he asks, needing a distraction.
Kris reaches for the guitar without hesitation and settles it across his lap. “Sure,” he says. “What do you want to hear?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Cook mutters, waving a hand and drawing his knees up. “Whatever you want to play. Just play for yourself. I need something to focus on other than me.”
Kris raises an eyebrow and grins. “Well you can focus on me any day,” he says.
“You’re impossible,” Cook huffs, aiming for annoyed but unable to sound anything but fond. “Play something you wrote. I figure you probably write too, right?”
“Um, yeah, I do,” Kris answers, nodding after a moment of thought and tuning the strings. “Okay, yeah, I can do that.”
He launches into the song without another word in between, the chords starting out simple enough and mingling perfectly with his voice as he hums out the beginning of the melody. The tone of the song feels reminiscent, like it’s straight out of a memory, but Cook can tell that there’s an undercurrent he can’t quite pin, and he leans forward, attention now completely drawn to Kris. The main thing he notices almost immediately is that Kris is completely self-focused when he plays, all his energy drawing inward and pooling into the movement of his fingers and the release of his voice. Like this is all there is and outside of the music nothing exists. He’s loses himself in the music and Cook can feel himself getting lost with him.
The words finally come and flow through the room, washing over Cook like he’s in Kris’ mind with him, living in the memory that’s so obviously unraveling in his head. Cook realizes quickly that the song is about her, about them, not just by the words but by the way Kris smiles around them, light entering his eyes. But as suddenly as it came, the light starts to dim, just enough that Cook can tell the memory isn’t altogether a perfect one. The song keeps evolving, layers turning it into something else, and he watches the emotions flicker across Kris’ face, his internal struggle apparent.
Kris’ voice grows quieter as he slips into the third verse. “There's fear in the truth at hand, frozen I forgot to understand. The live keep living; growing older more into a man. But I… I let her grow away from me,” he sings, the difference in volume barely noticeable, but enough that the weight that lies in those words is evident.
Cook can feel Kris’ soul spilling out in the song and he’s undeniably drawn in by it, completely captivated. He sinks into the warmth of Kris’ voice; the smoothness and twang that’s subtle in it’s delivery, the raw sound in the lower register that has a depth and roughness in all the right ways and then bends to stretch higher, the notes to curving up sweetly. He almost can’t believe that he was able to go all those weeks ignoring it when he can’t bear to pull himself away now.
It’s almost too much to focus on all at once and Cook catches parts of the lyrics, words about love and time and mending memories, and suddenly the song isn’t just about Kris anymore. It’s echoing the things he wants, the things he needs, and he wonders if Kris even thought of that when he picked it. A smile creeps back onto Kris’s face, and he seeks Cook’s eyes out, singing, “Let the sun shine in again, face it with a grin. Oh, and open up your heart and let the sun shine in.” Cook actually laughs at that, struck by the sheer irony - of course Kris would be singing about the sun.
And that’s when realization finally hits him like a powerful wind, knocking him over and surrounding him until he’s forced to recognize what he’s been holding back. When the song finishes, Kris puts the guitar aside with a sigh and looks up at Cook, expectant and unaware of the change in him. Cook doesn’t respond for a while, not sure of what to say first, how to convey that the connection he feels to Kris is stronger than it ever has been in this moment. And all he can focus on are Kris’ words and how they were so much of what he didn’t even know he needed to say too. He doesn’t believe in fate, but in coincidence he does, and maybe this is one that he’s not meant to ignore. When he finally does speak, he asks, “Do you really believe that, what you were singing?”
The corner of Kris’ mouth quirks up slightly as he nods. “I know some of it’s kind of cheesy probably, but yeah. I do - I have to,” he says, full of serenity and quiet confidence.
“I want to,” Cook says, the words slipping from his mouth even while he’s still fighting to suppress everything else, his stomach tying itself in knots. Archie’s voice rings out in the back of his mind. “Stop being so stubborn,” it repeats, over and over.
Kris leans forward and carefully puts his hands on either side of Cook’s face, gentle pressure cradling his jaw like he’s expecting Cook to pull away. “Then why don’t you?” he asks. "Just try."
Cook knows Kris’ touch is meant to be friendly, a gesture meant to soothe and ground him, but he can’t help the way it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and his breaths come shallower. He turns to press his face into one of Kris’ palms on instinct, lips dragging over a thumb as he does and heart thumping loudly in his chest when Kris’ breath catches. Kris’ eyes are dark and obvious in their want, but his face is hesitant, clearly trying to convey to Cook that the decision is his. Cook hears the same voice in his head from before, his own right along side it this time, and he can’t ignore either of them anymore - can’t ignore that everything that has happened is turning into the momentum for everything that needs to happen. He sees the moment in sudden clarity, the decision becoming an easier one to make than Cook would have expected as it carries him forward to close the distance between them.
Kris makes a small shocked sound at first, but then he’s kissing back, whole body reacting the same as it always does. It’s nothing like kissing Archie; Archie’s mouth had always been soft and familiar, warm in a way that permeated through Cook’s whole being. But Kris’ lips feel electric on his, warm in a completely different way that makes every cell in his body thrum to the beat of his heart. He can feel his chest trembling and the knot in his stomach finally unwinding, and his hands move of their own accord, wrapping around Kris’ arms to pull him forward into his lap. Kris doesn’t protest, straddling him clumsily and slipping one hand to the back of Cook’s neck, fingers dancing at his hairline as the kiss deepens. Cook sinks into it, almost losing himself in the feel of their mouths gliding together seamlessly when Kris pulls back slightly, placing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“I thought you weren’t ready for anything?” he asks, voice uneven.
“I thought you told me to just try,” Cook responds, kissing him again just to feel Kris’ lips against his.
Kris holds Cook out at arm length, hand trailing at his collar and nails scratching lightly at the exposed skin. “I’m not him,” he says. “And I can’t be.”
“I know,” Cook nods and wraps his arms low around Kris’ waist, pulling him in even closer. “I still want you.”
Kris’ fingertips play at the top button of Cook’s shirt. “You’re sure about this?” he asks.
“I’m not sure of anything anymore,” Cook says truthfully. Kris’ face falls just slightly, his hand stilling, and Cook continues quickly, “I know how I feel right now though and I’m done pretending I don’t want this. I do. And I’m still trying to figure out the rest, but I really think I want you to be there when I do.”
“Don’t want you to regret anything,” Kris responds, resting his forehead against Cook’s.
Cook presses their lips together, breathing in the taste and the feel of Kris’ mouth. “Don’t think I could,” he says, letting his hands run up under the back of Kris’ shirt. The muscles of his back feel tense and Cook can tell by the way his lips are responding when he kisses him again that Kris is still holding back. “Please,” Cook whispers. “I need this.”
Kris lets out a long breath, fingers pushing deeper into Cook’s hair to angle his head back. “Okay,” he says. “You can have it.” This time when Kris kisses him, the fire is back, sparks flying from his lips and curling from his tongue as it glides along Cook’s. He scrapes his teeth lightly against Cook’s bottom lip as he moves to mouth down Cook’s neck, slow and wet, covering every inch of skin and pulling Cook’s buttons open one by one as he goes. Once they’re all undone and he slides his hands up Cook’s torso to curl along his shoulders beneath the shirt, kissing across his collarbone as he slides the fabric off. Cook lets the shirt fall down his arms, reaching for the hem of Kris’ once his hands are free again. Kris is busy kissing the newly exposed skin, trailing his lips and tongue along the curve of Cook’s shoulder, and Cook makes an impatient noise, pulling harder at the shirt and saying, “Off.” Kris pulls back long enough to let Cook take it off, his fingers immediately returning to Cook’s skin, ghosting over the sparse hair of his chest and down to the softer curves of his stomach.
“You’re still good?” he asks, kissing Cook’s cheek, his forehead, his chin, nosing against the side of his neck until he tilts his head.
“More than,” Cook groans as Kris sucks a kiss into the spot right behind his ear, careful and concentrated and almost torturous. The movement presses Kris’ bare chest closer to Cook’s, the intensity of skin-to-skin contact after so long without it causing Cook to grow painfully hard, straining against the front of his jeans. “Bedroom,” he says, already urging Kris back and up off his lap.
Kris wraps his arms around Cook’s neck once they’re both standing, pulling himself up to suck on Cook’s lower lip and mumbling, “So pushy,” into his mouth. Cook chuckles and walks Kris backwards to the bedroom, their mouths tangled the whole way and hands working on belts and buttons and zippers. By the time they get there, the hallway is scattered with clothing and the only thing that remains between them are the underwear neither could manage to remove while in motion.
“Lie down,” Kris says, unwinding his arms from around Cook and pushing him towards the bed. Cook settles on the edge of it, watching as Kris pushes his briefs down and looks around, probably realizing that he’s not actually in his own bedroom. “Where’s…” he trails off.
“Top drawer,” Cook laughs, motioning to the dresser across the room and scooting farther up onto the bed.
Kris ducks his head and laughs along, walking over to pull a condom and lube out of the dresser. He grins crookedly as he comes back towards him, setting them beside Cook and crawling up the bed, hovering just overtop of him. He bends down and settles his mouth just above Cook’s belly button, following the trail of hair until he reaches Cook’s briefs. He peels them off carefully, tonguing at the indentation left in Cook’s flesh from the elastic and curling his calloused fingers around Cook’s cock. He holds his hand there, loose and not nearly enough pressure to ease the growing ache as he works his way lower with his mouth, flicking his tongue at Cook’s hipbone, nipping at the sensitive skin at his inner thigh, covering every inch of skin but still ignoring Cook’s cock. “Tease,” Cook says, thrusting up slightly to try and find more friction in Kris’ hand.
Kris wraps the fingers of his other hand around Cook’s hip, pressing down to hold him there and looking up beneath his eyelashes, eyes sparkling wickedly. He tightens his grip around the base of Cook’s cock and drags the flat of his tongue up the side of it, wrapping his lips around only the head and sucking with complete attentiveness, not taking anymore until Cook’s muscles are tight with the strain of keeping still. When Kris finally takes Cook deeper into his mouth, he thumps his head back against the pillow and shoves his hands into the sheets to grip them, the fingers around his hip loosening and massaging gently into the reddened flesh before leaving completely. Cook hears the click of a cap, and looks back down to see Kris coating a couple fingers with lube and positioning them between his own legs. Cook can tell when he pushes one inside of himself by his sharp intake of breath and the way the muscles of his shoulder tense and relax with the motion. Kris’ mouth doesn’t falter around Cook’s cock as he opens himself up, his fingers pushing in and out in rhythm with his motions around Cook’s cock.
Cook is teetering on the edge, lost in the sensations and the small whimpering sounds Kris keeps making, barely even aware enough to realize when Kris pulls away with a wet sound and slides the condom onto him. Kris straddles his hips and Cook makes a movement to switch their positions, but Kris shakes his head and bends down to kiss him, slow and much gentler than before. “Let me take care of you,” he says, sliding one of his hands into Cook’s as he positions himself. Cook squeezes Kris’ hand and trails his other up Kris’ thigh and around behind him to feel where Kris is already stretched tight around his cock. Once Kris eases himself all the way down, Cook’s cock deep and hot inside of him, he runs his free hand up Cook’s side, and down his other arm, fingertips dragging against skin and digging in just slightly. When he reaches Cook’s other hand, he wraps their fingers together so that both of their hands are clasped and pushes them above Cook’s head.
His hips start rocking, taking more of Cook and deepening the angle with every undulation, and the faster the pace becomes the further he bends over until his head is resting against Cook’s shoulder, whispering babbled adulations into his ear. Every movement is intensified, every softly spoken word magnified, until they’re both consumed by it. Kris starts peppering Cook with kisses, along his ear and up his cheek, down his chin, until their mouths meet again and Cook is thrusting upwards in earnest, meeting each of Kris’ movements halfway and digging his nails into the backs of Kris’ hands. A string of “please please please” spills from Kris’s mouth, and Cook frees a hand to bring it down and wrap around Kris’ cock, sliding over it almost frantically. Kris’ hand tangles in his hair, and he mouths over Cook’s shoulder, teeth digging in as he comes all over Cook’s hand and stomach. He clutches at Cook through the orgasm, whole body quivering and muscles contracting around Cook even as he continues to rock back and forth and ride it out. Cook squeezes Kris’ hand, still thrusting upwards while Kris kisses him open mouthed and sloppy. Kris bites at the corner of his jaw and it sends Cook over the edge finally, his orgasm rippling up his spine as he thrusts a few more times and comes. Kris brings him through the aftershocks, running his fingers through his hair and repeating his name like it’s his new favorite word. When their combined panting turns into deeper breaths, Kris’ lips return, moving sweet and slow over his own. Cook focuses completely on the feeling, and when the tip of Kris’ tongue glides against his, he shudders, oversensitive. He feels Kris’ smile against his mouth and then Kris is brushing a kiss on his sweaty forehead and rolling off. He orders Cook to stay put, taking care of the condom for him and returning with a damp washcloth. Once the both of them are cleaned of, Kris settles against his side, head resting securely on his shoulder.
Cook wraps Kris in his arms, feeling fully sated, like he’s finally pushed right past the physical and mental exhaustion that’s made it too difficult to even sleep for the past few weeks and straight into the state between consciousness and sleep, where everything just is and anything else doesn’t matter. He tries to revel in the blissful, floating feeling but even while it sinks deeper into his pores, he can’t help but pull Kris tight against his chest as his lingering fears creep into the edges of his mind. It feels like he’s already dreaming and he needs to know that he isn’t, that when he wakes up tomorrow this is still going to be real.
Kris must sense what he’s feeling because he pulls one of Cook’s hands up to his lips, kissing the pad of each finger and mumbling, “I’m not going anywhere,” barely getting the words out before he’s already fast asleep. Cook brushes Kris’ slack lips with his thumb, deciding that he has no choice but to believe and finally - finally - just falls into a deep sleep as well.
Sure enough, when he wakes up Kris is still there, face smooshed into the pillow and leg slung across Cook’s stomach. Kris’ eyelids flutter against his cheek as he dreams, his lips slack and misshapen against the pillow, chest rising and falling evenly. Maybe it’s creepy that Cook just wants to lay there and stare all morning, but he honestly doesn’t care - he wants to see what Kris looks like as he wakes too, hear the sighs and quiet groans he’s sure Kris will make, and watch the shy smile spread slow across his face as his eyes blink the sleep away only to find Cook’s looking right back. Cook groans at having to delay that discovery until another morning, but Kris’ leg is pressing almost directly on his bladder and if he doesn’t get up soon, they’re both going to have a problem. So he carefully extricates himself from underneath Kris with a sigh, pulling the blanket back up over Kris and treading towards the bathroom.
When he looks into the mirror, it’s still the same him, paler and skinnier than he used to be, but the red in his eyes is clearer and the bags underneath lighter. There’s a light underneath his skin that he didn’t even know had disappeared. The ache in his chest is still there - there’s no way it could be gone yet - but it’s duller now, not so sharp and concentrated. He can’t say that he feels all right yet, but he feels concrete, real, and the lips in the mirror turn upwards slightly as the thought crosses his mind. He turns the faucet in the shower on, absently singing a long forgotten song under his breath.
Afterwards, he heads into the kitchen only to finds Kris already up making breakfast, quickly fading pillow lines still etched into his face. Kris pokes at the eggs in the pan, nose scrunching, and when Cook chuckles his eyes dart up, startled. “Oh, uh, morning,” he says, sounding a little unsure. Cook can’t quite tell what of.
He walks over to the stove behind Kris, resting his chin on Kris’ shoulder to peer at the mess in the pan and placing a kiss to his cheek. “Morning,” Cook says.
He can feel Kris relaxing at that, letting out a long breath and sinking back against him. ”My failure as a cook is showing again,” Kris whines. “But I found some microwavable bacon, so I’m pretty sure I can’t mess that up at least.”
“Let’s just go out for breakfast,” Cook replies, reaching around to turn off the burner.
“Probably safer,” Kris says, turning around to face Cook, his eyes lighting up instantaneously. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Cook laughs.
Kris leans forward, head pillowed on Cook’s chest and arms wrapping around his waist. “So, you didn’t tell me you could sing like that,” he says.
Cook shrugs. “I haven’t done it in a while. Didn’t know you were listening.”
Kris gives Cook a small squeeze before pulling away to clean up the half-cooked breakfast. “Would you maybe want to do something with me during my set next week?” he asks, throwing the pan, eggs and all, into the sink.
“Um,” Cook mutters, putting the carton of eggs back into the refrigerator.
“No, it’s cool, I get it,” Kris replies, waving a hand at Cook. “You think I suck.”
Cook raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh, I know you do,” he says. “But that has nothing to do with this.”
Kris rolls his eyes and hits Cook’s arm lightly as he walks past him and towards the bedroom. “Offer still stands whenever you’re ready,” he says over his shoulder. “But I’ll get you to do it eventually.”
“I will come watch you play though,” Cook agrees, trailing after him, “Actually watch this time, I mean.”
Kris is halfway through hopping back into the pants he wore yesterday by the time Cook comes to lean against the doorframe. He wiggles into the other leg and looks up. “You really want to?” he asks, and when Cook nods he does that stupid, infectious, full-body-smiling thing and adds a soft, “Thanks.”
Cook tears his eyes away long enough to throw on some clean clothes so they can head out for food. They decide to just head to the coffee shop - it’s right beside the Whole Foods that Kris wants to stop at after and Cook figures that they’ll get harassed less if they tell Tommy about recent developments sooner rather then later.
They walk down the street side by side, chatting idly, and Cook looks down just to see Kris’ crinkled eyes and flushed cheeks when he makes a particularly stupid joke. He can’t help the warmth that envelops him, making him temporarily oblivious to the world until he’s bumping into someone with his shoulder. He hears a familiar stutter and a quiet, “Oh gosh”, and he stops dead in his tracks. He knows what’s going to greet him when he turns around but he’s not sure if anything could prepare him for it. He forces himself not to flinch when he hears the voice again saying, “I’m so sorry,” and Kris’ hand slides into his almost knowingly, helping ground him enough to be able to turn around.
The Archie he sees isn’t the same one that Cook last saw, the one that was sad and uneasy, beaten down with worry and the weight of their failures. He looks the same as he did when they first met, kind face and clear eyes, looking for the entire world full of possibilities and endless future. Cook’s heart skips, maybe even stops, at seeing him this way again - so young and genuinely happy. But of everything he sees playing out on Archie’s face, there’s no hint of recognition, no sign that Cook is more than just another stranger on the street.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cook says, praying his voice doesn’t give anything away. “I wasn’t paying attention, so my fault too.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” Archie replies, smiling. “I’m so clumsy anyway, you know?” he adds with a slight flail of the arms.
“Yeah, I do,” Cook blurts out, doing everything he can to not laugh out loud when Archie’s face scrunches in confusion in such a familiar way. “I just meant that I’m clumsy too,” he lies.
“Oh, okay,” Archie laughs a little awkwardly before turning back towards the direction he was going. “Um, have a good day I guess!” he says, waving and heading down the street.
Cook waves after him. “Yeah, take care,” he says. This time when Archie walks away, he doesn’t take anything of Cook with him.
“Still okay?” Kris asks when Cook turns back to him, voice laced with concern.
Cook bumps his shoulder against Kris’. “I’m going to be,” he whispers, more to himself.
Kris’ hand slips into Cook’s back pocket as they walk straight ahead again, neither looking back. “So, the coffee shop then?” he asks.
Cook smiles and wraps his arm around Kris’ shoulders, pulling him close until he’s tucked under his arm. Despite everything, there’s honestly no place he’d rather be right now.
~fin~
( Master Post )