LOW PLACE LIKE HOME - ONE
Title: LOW PLACE LIKE HOME
Wordcount: 1,191
Pairing: Cook/Effy!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything!
Warning: This is set after Freddie's episode in S4, so major spoilers ahead!
Their faces swim by as you’re drifting in and out of consciousness. You can hear the sirens of the ambulance that is rushing you to the hospital ringing in your ears, and everything around you is blurred, so that the faces that are looking over you are nothing but patches of fair colour. there’s one of them that’s darker than all of the others, but nothing really matters, because somewhere, deep inside, you can hear the demons growling with content. You feel yourself smiling and then you close your eyes, and the last thing you remember is a pair of light blue eyes piercing into yours.
Hours, or possibly days later - you don’t know, nothing really makes sense to you right now - you hear the door of your hospital room opening in a way that you already know who’s coming to see you. You feel him inches from your bed, the way he sits on the chair next to you is so gentle, the way he takes in a deep breath, the way you feel his eyes on your wasted body, it’s him, all right. You’d recognise him even if he was miles away from you.
And yet you hate him, because he’s made you weak. He cracked the shell you thought would always keep you safe, keep you away from them. The first time your eyes met his, you already felt the demons’ claws scratching their way to the surface, already felt the fire burning a bit too bright. You hate him. You hate him so much. If it wasn’t for him, you’d be home right now, smoking cigarettes - you miss those dearly - and you’d be laughing with the other one, the one that had eyes that reminded you of summer.
And that’s when you open your eyes, and it’s such a hard task, it takes you a few moments before being able to look at him properly. There’s tears rolling down his cheeks, but you already knew that. You could hear them falling down the carpeted floor as soon as he entered the room. Your eyes connect, and he tries to compose himself, but fails miserably. You don’t blame him.
Actually, you do.
That’s why you tell him, slowly: “Go away.” He looks at you and his eyes are pleading, and you remember a time when it was the other one that was pleading - never out loud, though, no, but by his eyes, how they seemed to glow with hopelessness - and all you want to do is scream. Scream at the top of your lungs, but you don’t, because you’re tired. Everything you do is so tiring.
Your eyes are already closed when he leaves the room.
* * *
One time, you wake up, and all you remember from your dream is a little girl telling you to open the swan and at first you think, hey, that’s fucking stupid, because I would never cut open a fucking swan. And then you see it, it’s so small and fragile you’re afraid touching it might turn it straight to ash.
It’s a swan made out of paper, and you take it in your hand, your fingers tracing the creases he’s made in the paper. You already know what’s inside. You’ve known this for a very long time, but you can still feel yourself opening the swan, slowly.
That’s when you see it. In black ink, looking as though it had been written with trembling hands; ‘LOVE YOU FOREVER.’
You start crying then. Not because it’s all so lovely and romantic, but because you don’t know what you’re doing. No matter how hard you try, you’re still not really willing to let go, are you? Once again, you wish you could go back to a time where you never really spoke, where the only person that really mattered was your brother. Where you were someone everybody could look at, but never touch.
You stop crying suddenly, and then a wicked smile curves on your lips.
Until the end of your journey at the hospital, he never comes back to visit.
* * *
You’ve been in the hospital for two weeks now, and the only person that visits you is your mother. She tells you they’ll discharge you soon, but then you’ll have to go to some fucking loony bin so that the doctors can figure out what the fuck is wrong with you. Of course, your mother didn’t really say it that way. She used words like ‘rehabilitation center’ and ‘find out what your current state of mind is.’
Sometimes, she’ll bring the daily paper and read the news out loud, but you both know she’s not really doing this for you and it makes you cringe.
What you really want to know is if your brother knows, if he’s going to pop on a train anytime soon to come and visit you.
* * *
He visits you one evening, after your disgusting mass produced hospital meal. He sits on the chair your mother would usually occupy and looks at you. Just looks at you, before placing his hand over yours, the one with the IV stuck inside.
“Fuckin’ hell, Eff…” is all he can come up with and you shrug. You decide to look into his eyes and once again, you’re completely hit by how beautiful they are.
They’re much like your own, but there’s something more. A spark of recklessness you’ve been lacking of for such a long time. They’re laughing but caring at the same time, and all of a sudden, you yank your hand away from his and place it back on top of his own, gripping at it tightly.
He looks at both of your hands quietly and doesn’t move his away for a really long time.
* * *
It becomes some kind of ritual for the pair of you. He comes to your side every evening, once you’re done eating. Sometimes, he’ll tell you about your circle of friends, but it doesn't really matter to you anymore. You don't relate to them anymore. You never did.
Instead, he makes up stories about things normal people would never really talk about - because you both know you’re far from normal - recounting facts about empty teacups and grass so crisp and green, it would actually twinkle in the sunlight. You like the stories, because they’re all beautiful.
“I never knew you had such talent with story-telling, Cook.”
And he’s looking at you as if you’ve just handed him a bouquet full of flowers. He smiles, and there are so many things unsaid in that smile. “You know this is the first time you’ve spoken ever since we’ve started this shit, yeah?” he says, and you’re surprised at this. Somehow, the silence felt natural around him. You never really felt the need to talk. It’s all so effortless, being around him.
You shrug. “You should become a writer.” you say, a weak smile creeping on your lips.
He smiles again, and if he keeps doing that, you might just have to tell him to stop doing it, because it’s making you weak again. “Yeah.”
This will linger.
-----------------
Wooo. Wow, kudos if you've read through the whole thing, lmao. Yeah. There's not too many CE in this chapter, but there will be in the second, don't worry~ be happy~
Wordcount: 1,191
Pairing: Cook/Effy!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything!
Warning: This is set after Freddie's episode in S4, so major spoilers ahead!
Their faces swim by as you’re drifting in and out of consciousness. You can hear the sirens of the ambulance that is rushing you to the hospital ringing in your ears, and everything around you is blurred, so that the faces that are looking over you are nothing but patches of fair colour. there’s one of them that’s darker than all of the others, but nothing really matters, because somewhere, deep inside, you can hear the demons growling with content. You feel yourself smiling and then you close your eyes, and the last thing you remember is a pair of light blue eyes piercing into yours.
Hours, or possibly days later - you don’t know, nothing really makes sense to you right now - you hear the door of your hospital room opening in a way that you already know who’s coming to see you. You feel him inches from your bed, the way he sits on the chair next to you is so gentle, the way he takes in a deep breath, the way you feel his eyes on your wasted body, it’s him, all right. You’d recognise him even if he was miles away from you.
And yet you hate him, because he’s made you weak. He cracked the shell you thought would always keep you safe, keep you away from them. The first time your eyes met his, you already felt the demons’ claws scratching their way to the surface, already felt the fire burning a bit too bright. You hate him. You hate him so much. If it wasn’t for him, you’d be home right now, smoking cigarettes - you miss those dearly - and you’d be laughing with the other one, the one that had eyes that reminded you of summer.
And that’s when you open your eyes, and it’s such a hard task, it takes you a few moments before being able to look at him properly. There’s tears rolling down his cheeks, but you already knew that. You could hear them falling down the carpeted floor as soon as he entered the room. Your eyes connect, and he tries to compose himself, but fails miserably. You don’t blame him.
Actually, you do.
That’s why you tell him, slowly: “Go away.” He looks at you and his eyes are pleading, and you remember a time when it was the other one that was pleading - never out loud, though, no, but by his eyes, how they seemed to glow with hopelessness - and all you want to do is scream. Scream at the top of your lungs, but you don’t, because you’re tired. Everything you do is so tiring.
Your eyes are already closed when he leaves the room.
* * *
One time, you wake up, and all you remember from your dream is a little girl telling you to open the swan and at first you think, hey, that’s fucking stupid, because I would never cut open a fucking swan. And then you see it, it’s so small and fragile you’re afraid touching it might turn it straight to ash.
It’s a swan made out of paper, and you take it in your hand, your fingers tracing the creases he’s made in the paper. You already know what’s inside. You’ve known this for a very long time, but you can still feel yourself opening the swan, slowly.
That’s when you see it. In black ink, looking as though it had been written with trembling hands; ‘LOVE YOU FOREVER.’
You start crying then. Not because it’s all so lovely and romantic, but because you don’t know what you’re doing. No matter how hard you try, you’re still not really willing to let go, are you? Once again, you wish you could go back to a time where you never really spoke, where the only person that really mattered was your brother. Where you were someone everybody could look at, but never touch.
You stop crying suddenly, and then a wicked smile curves on your lips.
Until the end of your journey at the hospital, he never comes back to visit.
* * *
You’ve been in the hospital for two weeks now, and the only person that visits you is your mother. She tells you they’ll discharge you soon, but then you’ll have to go to some fucking loony bin so that the doctors can figure out what the fuck is wrong with you. Of course, your mother didn’t really say it that way. She used words like ‘rehabilitation center’ and ‘find out what your current state of mind is.’
Sometimes, she’ll bring the daily paper and read the news out loud, but you both know she’s not really doing this for you and it makes you cringe.
What you really want to know is if your brother knows, if he’s going to pop on a train anytime soon to come and visit you.
* * *
He visits you one evening, after your disgusting mass produced hospital meal. He sits on the chair your mother would usually occupy and looks at you. Just looks at you, before placing his hand over yours, the one with the IV stuck inside.
“Fuckin’ hell, Eff…” is all he can come up with and you shrug. You decide to look into his eyes and once again, you’re completely hit by how beautiful they are.
They’re much like your own, but there’s something more. A spark of recklessness you’ve been lacking of for such a long time. They’re laughing but caring at the same time, and all of a sudden, you yank your hand away from his and place it back on top of his own, gripping at it tightly.
He looks at both of your hands quietly and doesn’t move his away for a really long time.
* * *
It becomes some kind of ritual for the pair of you. He comes to your side every evening, once you’re done eating. Sometimes, he’ll tell you about your circle of friends, but it doesn't really matter to you anymore. You don't relate to them anymore. You never did.
Instead, he makes up stories about things normal people would never really talk about - because you both know you’re far from normal - recounting facts about empty teacups and grass so crisp and green, it would actually twinkle in the sunlight. You like the stories, because they’re all beautiful.
“I never knew you had such talent with story-telling, Cook.”
And he’s looking at you as if you’ve just handed him a bouquet full of flowers. He smiles, and there are so many things unsaid in that smile. “You know this is the first time you’ve spoken ever since we’ve started this shit, yeah?” he says, and you’re surprised at this. Somehow, the silence felt natural around him. You never really felt the need to talk. It’s all so effortless, being around him.
You shrug. “You should become a writer.” you say, a weak smile creeping on your lips.
He smiles again, and if he keeps doing that, you might just have to tell him to stop doing it, because it’s making you weak again. “Yeah.”
This will linger.
-----------------
Wooo. Wow, kudos if you've read through the whole thing, lmao. Yeah. There's not too many CE in this chapter, but there will be in the second, don't worry~ be happy~