likecharity (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hardparade) wrote2010-02-17 11:31 pm
hardparade) wrote2010-02-17 11:31 pm
to fuck and fight (2/2), cook/freddie (skins), nc-17
Title: to fuck and fight, part 2/2
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Cook/Freddie, Cook/everyone else ever
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Underage sex, violence, drug use, STDs, misogyny, occasional grossness in general...it's Cook-centric, what can I say?
Summary: A sexuality-based character study. Cook's sexual history, and what happens when it ends up including Freddie. Making people moan and writhe is kind of the only thing he knows how to do.
A/N: It's very long!! It's the first time I've had to split a fic in two in order to post it. The timeline starts pre-show and ends just before season 4.
(Part 1/2 here.)
It's funny, really, how fast feelings change. He never thought he was that fussed about having feelings in the first place, and now, all of a sudden, it seems like they're everywhere, pummeling his head and his heart til he's doing stupid shit all the fucking time. There's so many that he can't link each one directly to an event even if he could be arsed, so he doesn't try figure them out, doesn't dare beat them. He just lets them win.
It's when he wakes up beside her after a series of the best nights he's ever had, that he finally considers the idea that he might love her. She wakes him up by prodding his morning boner and calling him 'slugger', and he opens his eyes to her pretty, mascara-smeared face, cigarette-tinged morning breath and messy, unwashed braids. And maybe he's still half-asleep, and in that weird state between still-drunk and hungover, but he starts to seriously wonder if she could be some kind of extension of himself. Like he has a long-lost twin, or he's some nutter with an imaginary friend, like Russell Crowe in that one movie.
He looks out at the dock they've woken up by, its poorly-kept ships and the overcast morning sky, and everything seems perfect in that beautiful, fucked-up way. They've been wearing the same clothes for a fortnight at least, been pretty much homeless, but none of it's mattered because they're together. It's like being with himself, only better. She knows what he wants and when he wants it, because she feels the same way. And it's fucking amazing.
It starts as a little inkling, and turns into an assumption. All these feelings are like what people describe love as. He can imagine living with her, even fucking marrying her, 'cause it's all so easy, so natural and comfortable. The way he's been feeling and acting lately are easily explained away by love. And it's weird, in retrospect, how quickly this assumption turns into an ardent belief. Something he clings to, something he's so willing to fight for.
It's not long since that morning, now, that he sits on the boat with the whole thing in tatters, the fucked-up beauty turned into something simply fucked-up. Effy's chosen Freddie (no words spoken, but her eyes said it all), and then Freddie fucked her, and now he's standing here asking for permission to do it again, and again, and to love her on top of it all. And he just can't say yes, can't give them his blessing or whatever the fuck they want. The idea of them together makes him sick to his stomach, makes him feel rotten to the core, makes him want to fuck shit up til it kills him.
All of that must be love. It must be.
Later, on the boat, they crack open some beers, still high on the success of their getaway. Cook's Dad has been thrown overboard and Cook and Freddie have shared an impulsive hug, but the excitement of the atmosphere is dying down slowly. Freddie pats the space beside him in invitation, and Cook takes his place there. They clink cans and everyone but him smiles. He can sense that it's a significant moment, and he wants to believe it's some silent agreement to put all this shit behind them; to forget love and let friendship reign.
But he looks at Effy, and her smile fades, and she looks worn-out and wracked with guilt and pity, and his heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. He aches there more than anywhere else, pain worse than the bruises all over his face and body. He can't stand it, and so he looks at Freddie instead, notices the contrast between the two. He appreciates the familiarity of Freddie's face for a moment, the skin clean and fresh, the optimistic expression when he shrugs and says, "So. What do we do now?"
It makes Cook feel like there's hope, after all. Somewhere, buried deep in all of this, there's hope.
**
They spend a little while away from each other when they get back home, rehabilitating. At least, he assumes that's the deal. That's what JJ tells him. That they're all going to take a little time apart before they all decide what the fuck they're going to do about this situation. But then, one evening, Cook meets up with everyone to be told Effy's buggered off somewhere and no one's heard from her for a good couple of weeks.
So that's that.
He forgets about her, to be honest. Not entirely, but not having her around makes things better, easier to cope with. Things with Freddie and JJ start being a little bit more normal again, and he doesn't feel quite so frantic anymore, doesn't feel like there's something inside him scratching to get out.
Still, Freddie's pretty torn up, and JJ too, and it doesn't seem to be solved by night after night at strip clubs, so Cook's not sure what to do. That tugging in his heart is back when he sees the look on Freddie's face, 'cause it looks like how he feels, that sick and rotten feeling deep inside like your heart's going bad 'cause there's no one to tend to it. And as much as he hates the fact that Freddie wants Effy, misses Effy, that these feelings are caused by Effy, he still feels sorry for him.
One night, he notices that Freddie starts to cheer up a bit after a lapdance from a girl who kind of looks like how Effy might appear if she started doing meth and lost every last bit of her self-respect. Maybe it's 'cause the girl has Effy's wavy brown hair and piercing cat-like blue eyes and aloof attitude, but Cook can't stand Freddie looking at her like that. It makes him feel like he's got to have her, even if it's just to take her away from him.
So when Freddie and JJ stumble out for a kebab when the club closes, Cook sticks around, asks her her name.
"Cherry, love," the girl says disinterestedly, lighting a cigarette and heading into the back to change.
"Cherry, eh? That's original," Cook replies, following her, ignoring the big guy at the door who half-heartedly attempts to stop him. "Been to a strip club every night this week and not met a Cherry yet."
Actually, they've met exactly six, but he lies 'cause he's drunk enough to think it'll help him get into her pants.
"Well, great," she says, unclasping her bra and shoving it into a locker. "If only originality was what you guys got off on, then maybe I'd earn more."
"Come on, put on a bit of a show," Cook taunts, gesturing to the crumpled up bra and doing a bit of gyrating to give her the hint. "Like before, yeah?"
"I'm off-duty, love," she says, laughing out cigarette smoke as she lifts one leg up onto the bench between them. She unzips the thigh-high PVC boot that covers it.
"You're taking your clothes off," Cook shrugs. He jokes, lamely, losing sight of his aim. "Looks like work to me."
She stands up straight again, boot unzipped with all the fabric of it pooling awkwardly around her foot. She crosses her arms against her bare chest. "What do you want?"
"My friend thinks you're hot," Cook says, stepping up on the bench and then hopping down on the other side, coming closer to her.
She laughs, takes another drag of her cigarette. "What are we, teenagers?"
"Sure." Cook comes even closer, daringly slides a hand around her waist. With her stripper heels on, he only comes up to her chest, but that's fine by him. His lips brush against her skin as he says, "sure, teenagers. Reckless, horny teenagers. Whatever gets you off, love."
Her breath seems to hitch. "I'm a stripper, not a hooker."
He pulls back, looking her in the eye and speaking without thinking. "Good, 'cause I'm not planning on paying you."
"You're a charmer," she snorts.
"Pride myself on it," he says before stretching up to kiss her. He feels her sigh before she starts to kiss back, and he says, "'sides, hookers don't tend to kiss their clients."
As he fucks her against the lockers, all he can think of is Freddie and Effy, Freddie and Effy. He tries for a moment to imagine this is Effy, but his focus shifts to Freddie instead. He thinks about how he's fucking this girl so Freddie can't, so Freddie won't, so Freddie will move on from Effy and be alone like Cook. He forgets, for a few brief blissful minutes, his usual stance that girls are reusable. In this moment, Cherry's all there is, she's the last girl on earth and Freddie's never going to have her.
He comes with that thought, gritting his teeth against her neck, and then he pulls up his jeans and leaves without even looking at her again.
**
Things are pretty calm for the next month or so. It's actually an otherwise uneventful party the night Freddie attacks him in the loo of a club.
All Cook says is, "Fuck, it hurts to piss these days. Must've picked something up," and Freddie flips out.
He's chosen the urinal that's furthest possible from Cook, so it takes him a moment to actually come up and confront him, but even with the advanced warning (Freddie gets that crazed incredulous look in his eyes) Cook doesn't do a single thing to protect himself. Even though he's got no idea what Freddie's issue is, even though Freddie's shoving him against the wall and then wrestling him to the ground, he doesn't bother to defend himself.
"You fucked her. You must've."
"Who? What?" Cook spits out, and Freddie punches him hard in the ribs, drawing out a wet, broken gasp.
"Girl at the club. Strip club. Stripper. Cherry. She gave us chlamydia."
Cook still does absolutely nothing to get Freddie off of him, just lies there and takes it. He laughs, even, at the realisation that that's who this is about. They went back to the same club a couple of weeks ago because they ran out and started doing the rounds again. Cook was particularly off his head that night, must've missed the part where Freddie got the stripper's number and asked her out for dinner, or whatever it is Freddie does when he wants to fuck someone. And presumably he's recently noticed the painful pissing too and connected the dots.
Cook's laughter seems to spur Freddie on, earns him a brisk punch in the stomach which makes him start coughing and spluttering instead.
"Fuck you," Freddie hisses, makes a noise of disgust. He shifts, half-sprawled across Cook's body, tense and heavy.
Cook spits in his face. "Fuck you, man."
Freddie doesn't bother to wipe it off, lets it slide grotesquely down one cheek and drip off, right back down onto Cook's own face. Cook's hand jerks up instinctively but Freddie grasps both of his wrists tightly. "You fucked her," he whispers, his voice strangely hoarse. "You knew I liked her and you fucked her."
"Who're we talking about, Freds?"
Freddie's expression's not readable, it's some mess of surprise and realisation and anger all at once, but it doesn't matter anyway because at that moment the door squeaks open and JJ comes in, staring down at them anxiously.
"Oh. Oh dear," he says. "That's. Oh. I think we should go home."
**
In the taxi, he sits between them and tries to mediate. He does that thing he used to do when they were little, where he'd pretend to be his own therapist, putting on a silly voice and asking them all the sorts of questions he had to answer three times a week at 4 o'clock.
Eventually they give in and explain the situation.
JJ immediately loses the silly voice. "You're fighting over a stripper who gave you a sexually-transmitted disease," he says simply, and putting it like that seems to help Freddie realise how stupid it is, because they all end up laughing.
The car pulls up outside Freddie's house, and Freddie and Cook both get out. It takes them a few seconds to realise JJ's still in the car, giving the cabbie his own address.
"I'm helping you work it out," he says, grinning triumphantly. "I'm even willing to pay your cab fee for it," he adds as he leans over and slams the door shut.
**
The tension's still thick in the air as Cook and Freddie head inside. They discover no one else is in, so Freddie almost empties the fridge and brings the contents upstairs with them. He dumps it all on his desk and then shuts the door and stands there with his arms crossed, and Cook has the feeling this isn't over. None of it is. And the weird thing is, he doesn't mind. He's pumped up and ready this time, ready for the fight he assumes is coming. The pain of Freddie's fist hitting his stomach felt good, but he wants to know how it feels with the roles reversed. He wants to slam Freddie to the floor and hold him down, sit astride him and feel the muscles in Freddie's stomach tense up between his legs.
Adrenaline crackles into Cook's veins and he revs up, ready for it.
But all Freddie does is speak. "Effy was here just before she disappeared."
"What?"
Freddie unfolds his arms, reaches behind him to clasp the edge of his desk instead and lean against it. The information is blurry in Cook's brain, reality merging with imagination. He thinks about pinning Freddie against the desk, the edge of it digging a deep ridge in his back.
"She was round at mine," Freddie goes on. "We spent the whole day fucking and then she said she was going to go home and have a bath because mine was too rank to consider getting into." He pauses. "And then she went off somewhere abroad with her brother but her Mum won't tell me where."
Cook stares at him. He takes a step forward, but then stops. Winces. The adrenaline bubbles quietly away inside him like lava in a volcano that's not quite ready to erupt.
"When was this?" he demands.
"Couple of days after we got back," Freddie shrugs.
He turns away, getting ready for bed like that's all there is to say. He kicks off his shoes, pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. Cook hears the soft clinking of a belt buckle, and he stares fixedly at Freddie's lower back, the indent of his spine and the two little dimples in the smooth skin. The jeans slip down Freddie's legs and Cook's gaze follows them. When Freddie bends to pull off his socks, he juts out his arse, balancing on one foot and then the next, and all Cook does is watch speechlessly.
Freddie turns around. "I don't want you to hate me, I just wanted to say. JJ said I shouldn't because you might actually murder me, or go off the rails anyway when you found out Effy was gone."
There's a long, long pause, during which they only look at one another. Hundreds of things seem to happen outside this bedroom: a police car's siren blares somewhere in the distance as it heads to an accident, girls skitter their way home in high heels, people awaken to the sound of their alarm clocks and dress for work. The sun comes up. Lovers kiss partners good morning, and tiptoe away from one-night stands.
Inside this bedroom, there's only stillness, and silence. And it's that stifling, choking kind of silence, the kind that that slashes up your vocal cords and ties up your tongue. Cook wants to break it, with his fist, but eventually Freddie speaks, voice sounding young and broken.
"I just don't like lying to you."
"Yeah," says Cook quietly. "No, I get that."
He doesn't like this. He can't stand this quiet, the feeling of the calm before the storm. He prefers it when the storm's raging all around him, wild and crazy and breaking everything to pieces. That's when he feels secure. Especially with Freddie. It's how they've always been. On the fringes of being nothing at all, held together by unfinished business.
So he lunges forward, 'cause there's only two things in this world that he can do: he can fuck and he can fight. His fist curls, flies up, but it's like he's moving in slow motion and his knuckles just graze Freddie's cheek. Freddie stands there like a fucking statue and it feels like all of Cook's organs are twisting inside him, frustrated and anticipating.
Part of him—the part he's used to—wants to beat Freddie to a pulp. But the emotional part of him—this burgeoning swell of irrationality that's been growing inside of him, all year long—wants to feel that curve of Freddie's lips against his own again, wants to hold him close and tell him never to let go.
Freddie takes one slow, careful step back. And then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pulls them down his legs and throws himself down onto his bed face-first. He presses himself against the mattress and then raises himself up, resting on his forearms and his knees. He rests his head against his hands, and thrusts his arse upwards like a whore, naked and exposed. His body asks for it, begs for it, but he says nothing.
Cook says, "I don't want to fuck you," and the way his voice wavers surprises him, just a little.
"No," Freddie says, and though he sounded coherent earlier, this word is slurred. He rolls over, stretches out, movements fluid and unembarrassed. He's drunker than Cook realised. "That's what this is about. I know it. I—I figured it out."
"You didn't figure shit out," Cook spits.
He stares down at Freddie's dick, unable to stop himself. It rests soft and dark against his left thigh. Cook's fists clench and unclench, his own cock hardening uncomfortably in his trousers. He grunts, and yanks his t-shirt up over his head suddenly. It's honestly more an angry gesture than anything else—everything feels too hot and close and claustrophobic. He pulls the shirt between his hands, wrings it and then flings it down on the floor.
Freddie rolls over onto his side, curls in on himself slightly. Cook won't look at his face too closely, but he seems almost frightened, ashamed. Freddie presses his face against the bed, slowly pulling the duvet up against him in a hesitant attempt to cover himself.
"I just—" Cook blurts out. "Look, stop it, all right? Jesus." He swipes his hand across the sweat gathering on his forehead. "You can't call me gay and then just—"
"What?" Freddie throws the duvet back and sits up, dumbfounded. "I'm not calling you gay, I—are you trying to miss the point, or—"
"What's the point, then? What? Share your fuckin' wisdom. You want me to fuck you, is that it? You're jealous of all the girls I've done?" He's fussing with the fastenings of his trousers as he's talking, the button clinking and zipper snarling in his hurry. His dick aches, thick and leaking, and the cool air against his hot, sticky skin is a sharp shock.
"Because it has to be me, doesn't it?" Freddie bites back. "It has to be me so it's all my fault, so none of it's coming from you, so—"
He's talking so fast that Cook barely takes the rest in. In rising fury and panic Cook grabs at his shoes and socks with his trousers round his ankles, kicks everything off hastily, stumbling and grabbing hold of the bed for support. The world seems to swing on its hinges around him.
He struggles his way onto the bed, upright on his knees with his back straight, stocky and confident. Freddie stops mid-sentence. Cook's dick bobs against his stomach, stiff and wet, and Freddie's eyes flicker to it. He swallows, starts to lick his dry lips instinctively and then stops himself. Something throbs painfully in the pit of Cook's stomach and then explodes, energy bursting out of every pore. He shoves at Freddie's shoulders, pushes him down easily. He clambers on top of him, his cock nudging against Freddie's thighs, smearing them with precome before he pulls the legs apart roughly.
He settles himself, shoving Freddie's legs up alongside his torso, pinning them to his chest and then stopping abruptly, his breathing heavy and loud in the quiet bedroom. He stares down at the crease between Freddie's thighs, aligns his dick with it and hears Freddie's sharp intake of breath in response. He's fucked girls in the arse before, goaded them into it, told them everyone does it and just doesn't talk about it. It was never unplanned, though—the girls always had lube and were a lot cleaner and more hairless than Freddie, and—
"C—Cook," Freddie breathes sort of brokenly.
Cook doesn't look at him, keeps his eyes cast low. He rubs his cock against the narrow crevice, lets it drag down to Freddie's balls, the sac heavier now, fuller. Freddie makes a strained sound, his growing erection trapped painfully between thigh and stomach, Cook still holding him firmly in place. His fingers are starting to ache from the grip, nails pressing into skin. Fixated, he lets his dick drop lower, lets the flushed head jab forwards.
Freddie's body jolts. "Cook," he warns, voice sounding stronger now.
Cook forces his eyes upwards, follows the awkward path of Freddie's legs, body folded in two. He sees Freddie's face peering out, eyes wild and nervous.
"Cook," Freddie says again, like he's trying to bring him out of a trance. "Fuck. Cook. Don't."
He reaches round, and Cook feels a hand close over one of his own on Freddie's thigh, easing him off. He lets go, and Freddie's legs fall open around him. Cook sees Freddie's half-hard dick, curving against his smooth belly, and he sinks down, head resting beside it. His breath ghosts over Freddie's skin and he inhales shakily, nose and mouth filled with a musky scent. Their surroundings seem surreal, turned upside-down, and time seems to slow. He doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't even know what he wants to do.
Freddie's hand brushes his shoulder and he pulls himself upwards slowly. He moves against Freddie the way water displaces alongside a body in a bath, and finds himself curled against him, front to back. He wraps his arms tightly around Freddie, draws him closer, buries his face in the nook between neck and shoulder. He curls in so their bodies slot together tightly, side by side, skin to skin.
It's just a hug; a tight, fierce, and desperate hug. It doesn't feel as sexual as maybe it should, until Cook stops focusing on that stinging feeling in his sinuses and starts to acknowledge the sweaty heat of Freddie's skin against his, the anxious beating of his heart against the plane of Freddie's back. His cock is nestled at the small of Freddie's back, and when the awareness of that really hits him, Cook holds Freddie tighter, blood surging between his legs with renewed vigour.
He brings one hand to his mouth to spit in his palm before sliding it down between their bodies, curling it around his dick as it presses hot and hard against Freddie's back. Freddie's breathing is harsh and guttural so close to his ears, and he shifts on the bed, palming his cock clumsily, arm bumping up against Freddie's back. He gives up, hand sliding around onto Freddie's chest once again, one fingertip against a nipple. As his hips shift and he pulls Freddie close, his erection slips up between the cheeks of Freddie's arse, and he bucks forward involuntarily in response to the friction, pushing and sliding against that crack.
"Fuck," Freddie hisses, the word drawn out.
Cook hooks his chin over Freddie's shoulder, gaze lowered to see Freddie taking his own cock in hand. Freddie's fist is tight, pulling up the shaft and covering it from view. But as Cook rocks against him, slicking a smooth, tight path against Freddie's arse, the darkened head of Freddie's cock pushes through his clenched hand. Freddie hisses again, wordless this time, and Cook looks at him, sidelong, sees his eyes shut tight and his mouth wide and wet. He grinds into Freddie's back, watching Freddie fuck his own fist in a clumsy rhythm. Cook's teeth graze against his own lips, almost gnawing, his hips bucking back and forth and up and down, rutting frantically.
Freddie's free hand stops clutching at Cook's forearm and clutches at a pillow instead. He drags it down from the head of the bed and grips it tightly, even shoving it against his mouth as he groans, embarrassed. Cook holds him, pressing his own mouth to Freddie's shoulderblade, panting against sweaty skin. His balls go taut and he bites down suddenly into Freddie's skin, hardly listening to the stifled cry. His hips work desperately, violently, and then his body tenses as he streaks wet and white across the clear plane of Freddie's back.
"Shit," he breathes, mouthing the word into Freddie's skin.
He shudders, an aftershock coursing through him, and his dick twitches in his limp hand. He can hear Freddie still slickly jerking his own cock and he wants to watch, wants to see—again—what Freddie looks like when he comes. He remembers how he tried not to look at Freddie's face, that night in the shed, how he tried not to look at Freddie's anything, just focused on getting him off as quickly as possible and hoping they'd never speak of it again.
But he couldn't help being transfixed when Freddie got there. He knew Freddie was close, because he started fucking up Cook's rhythm, hips thrusting clumsily to meet the hand wrapped around him. And then his breath caught in his throat and he let out this raw, weak gasp, and Cook just stared at him in amazement. His face was only dimly visible in the moonlight that seeped through the shed's windows, making everything shadowy and dreamlike. Cook watched his eyelashes flutter, his Adam's apple quiver, and he drew the rest of Freddie's orgasm from him with a determined fist, feeling the heat dripping down over his fingers.
He hadn't ever seen anybody come before, not in real life.
Freddie's arm suddenly darts back behind him, twisting to clutch at Cook's waist, pulling him in closer, skin pressed to sticky skin.
"I'm—fuck—I'm—" Freddie stammers, and Cook curls a dirty hand over his hip, encouraging. He brings it lower, brushing Freddie's own frantic hand and the rigid heat of his dick beneath it. He feels the tension in Freddie's balls, massaging them in the palm of his hand like he knows what he's doing, doing anything he can to bring Freddie closer.
Suddenly Freddie makes a hard 'C—' sound in his throat but can't get the word out, and he twists his head back, looking Cook right in the eyes. They both buck forwards with such force that the kiss hurts, but Cook finds himself thinking distantly that kissing Freddie always hurts, in one way or another.
In the end, when Freddie comes, Cook is too busy kissing him to be all that aware. He's got his hand up on Freddie's face now, fingers splayed across cheekbone and ear. He only notices that Freddie gasps sharply into his mouth and then goes limp against him. But it's only for a second and then he keeps kissing him, sloppily, breathing heavily. Cook lets go and starts to pull back, to give Freddie a chance to catch his breath, but Freddie rolls over and grabs him by the face, both of his hot, slick, bitter-smelling hands on Cook's cheeks and their lips pressed together once again.
"Just don't talk, alright," Cook hisses against Freddie's lips, staring into the blurred darkness of Freddie's eyes so close. "I don't want to talk about it."
Freddie bites his lip and nods, then nods again with more certainty. His face drifts in and out of focus. Freddie takes his clammy hands off Cook's face and wipes them on the duvet, and Cook's last thought before he falls asleep is that a shower would feel pretty fucking fantastic right about now.
**
Cook wakes up at quarter past four in the afternoon with a pounding headache, and Freddie's bedsheets stuck to his stomach with dried come. He grimaces, shoving groggily at all the fabric that's covering him or sticking to him, only to reveal a completely naked Freddie lying beside him. Last night's events come back to him in a sort of slow dribble and he groans. The sheets are stuck to his face, too. He stumbles out of bed and tries to find his boxers.
He finds a pair on the floor and doesn't remember that he wasn't actually wearing any yesterday until they're already on. On Freddie's desk, he spots a half-empty bottle of white wine—one of the many things they brought up from the fridge earlier—and he takes a long swig. He's always found the best cure for a hangover is more alcohol, even if it's lukewarm chardonnay.
He leans against the desk and looks at the bed, looks at Freddie lying haphazardly on it, pillows thrown about randomly and the duvet strewn across the floor. He's seen this sort of scene many times, behaved as he's behaving now, slipping out of bed and getting ready to leave. But he's not looking at some random girl in an unfamiliar room, he's looking at Freddie, in a bedroom he's known since childhood.
He starts to feel a wave of nausea wash over him and he guzzles down some more wine in attempt to quell it. It doesn't really help. He fumbles to get the duvet covering Freddie again without waking him up, and that seems to help a little.
But then Freddie's eyes flicker open, looking at him in confusion and then realisation, and he winces, rolling over and burying his head in his pillow.
Cook looks at the door, looks back at Freddie, looks at the door one last time and heaves a sigh. He goes over to the side of the bed, nudges Freddie with his knee and proffers the wine bottle.
Freddie winces again, but hoists himself up and takes it, swilling it down and spilling quite a bit on the sheets. He wipes his mouth with the palm of his hand, then gags and takes another swig of the wine instead.
"So," he says after an extremely awkward silence. "You haven't left."
"No," agrees Cook.
"I thought you would."
"Oh."
Another long silence. Cook walks back around to the other side of the bed and climbs back on. They pass the bottle back and forth until it's empty, and then Freddie lets it drop onto the messy floor.
He clears his throat. "So you're not going to go out and find some girl to fuck right away?"
Cook raises his eyebrows. "No..." He shrugs. "Don't want to spread the chlamydia, do I, mate? Best keep that kind of thing between friends."
Freddie snorts, but Cook can tell he's making a mental note to get in touch with a doctor as soon as possible. "So you're not going to go out and pick up another stripper or a prostitute—"
"No, look, what's your deal?" Cook snaps. His mind is a mess right now but Freddie's turning all of his confusion to anger. "Jesus. Do you want me to, is that it? Let's do that, shall we? Let's forget this ever happened, let's forget whatever happened last night to make me wake up this morning with your fuckin' nasty spunk all over my face, shall we?"
Freddie gapes at him, stammers something and then shuts up, speechless.
"Yeah, no, let's do that. I'll go out and stick my diseased dick in some random slappers, shall I? And you can lie here and sulk until Effy comes back, and then you can stick your diseased dick in her, and we can all have a fucking lovely time of it, yeah?" He wipes his face agitatedly, can smell the clinging sour scent on his skin, mixing with his own sweat. "Let's get on with that then," he continues, voice raised even louder now. "Fuck you."
He starts to get up off the bed but Freddie suddenly grabs him by the wrist, and he loses it, snatching himself free from Freddie's grip and punching him hard in the face. For a moment he's stunned, staring as Freddie clutches at his cheekbone, groaning in pain.
But then the anger surges through him again and he dives on top of Freddie, aims for the same spot and gets Freddie's hand, their knuckles colliding and hurting like hell. Freddie grabs hold of him, and they wrestle, rolling over and over on the bed, thrashing and kicking ineffectively. The duvet gets caught between their bodies and then slides onto the floor, and Cook's got Freddie in a headlock when he feels Freddie's cock getting hard against him. He swears, tightening his grip, and Freddie punches at his thigh and manages to pull free, shoving him off.
Cook's hand darts out and he grabs Freddie's hard-on, securing his fingers around the base firmly, stopping Freddie from moving.
"This is what you want, yeah?" he spits out, tugging roughly, and Freddie jerks forwards towards him, frowning with his eyes shut tight and saying nothing.
Cook licks his hand and starts to wank Freddie off with it, awed by the feel of him even through his anger. He struggles to sit up and then clambers on top of him, straddling his thighs. He twists his hand round Freddie's cock, staring down at it, fist moving faster and faster until it's a blur around the stiff flesh.
"Don't tell me," he leans down to hiss in Freddie's ear, "what you think I'm gonna do. Don't fucking tell me."
Freddie looks at him. "Truth hurts," he gasps out just as he comes, splashing both of their stomachs.
In a flurry of movement, Cook instantly slides up Freddie's body, pinning Freddie's head between his knees. He grits his teeth, his blood boiling. He sits firmly on Freddie's chest, and pins his arms to the bed. For a moment Freddie squirms, weak and breathless from orgasm, and then he goes still, staring up at Cook, forcing Cook to look him in the eyes. Cook does, and Freddie lifts his head up as best he can, pressing his mouth to Cook's crotch, lips mouthing through the cotton.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, voice muffled against the fabric. "I'm sorry. Just stop."
He stares up at him with pleading dark eyes and his mouth moves again, half-kissing Cook's dick through the boxers, and Cook feels a twinge of arousal. Freddie keeps going, mouth warm, boxers clinging damply to Cook's skin. He's hard in seconds.
"Fuck you," he whispers.
He lets go of Freddie's wrists, wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. Freddie just nods, staring up at him fixedly, lips working at the slit in the boxers, brushing wetly against Cook's bare shaft.
Cook places a shaky hand on Freddie's forehead and pushes him back, sliding off him and slumping on the bed with his head against the wall. "Fuck you," he chokes out weakly again. "Fuck you."
A pause, and then Freddie says his name.
"Cook. Cook." His voice is soft but urgent, and he tentatively strokes at his shoulder, his bicep. "Shh. It's okay."
Cook wants to shake him off—or, knows he should want to shake him off—but he likes the feel of it, finds it soothing. He doesn't like to crumble in front of others, like to keep his guard up and his image strong, but this is his best friend, and besides, it seems like it's too late.
"Just stop," Freddie says, again. He leans in, gently kisses Cook's shoulder. Cook feels him grin as he says, "What do I have to do to get you to stop?"
Cook laughs a bit in spite of himself, but his laughter dies down fast. He picks at his own fingernails. "Stop what?" he can't resist asking, finally.
"Whatever you're doing," Freddie says. "Whatever you're doing that's making you crazy. You can stop. It's okay, 'cause I..."
He trails off, and then pulls back a little, and the unfinished sentence seems to hang in the air. Cook wonders if he was going to say 'I love you', and kind of understands, given their current situation, why he changed his mind. But he wonders why Freddie never seems to say it, never really has.
"I just..." Freddie laughs, trying to break the tension. "Just...I. Me. You know?"
Cook snorts, getting up. He can't stand this sort of conversation, wants to change the subject. "Yeah. All right. So you do want to go out later or what?" He remembers something suddenly. "Did I mention Emily and Naomi said something about a rave next week? Night before college starts again, I think. We're going, right?"
Freddie raises his eyebrows at him, and then shrugs. "Yeah. Sure. Just, no drama, okay?" he laughs. "Promise me you won't end up killing anyone. Especially me."
"Hand on my heart, mate," Cook says, placing his palm firmly over his dick. (Which is no longer standing to attention, as emotional conversation is one of the few things Cook considers a boner-killer.)
Freddie laughs, and then they grin at each other for a while, and Cook can't decide whether or not it'd be a good idea to get back into bed, but then the sound of keys in the front door downstairs solve that decision for him fairly quickly. Without a word, they're pulling on clothes and stripping off bedsheets at lightning speed.
Not long later, Cook stands at the front door with a chunk of slightly warm cheese in one hand and a sausage in the other, fridge remnants found on Freddie's desk that Cook is calling breakfast. Or dinner.
"See you tonight then, yeah?" he says, taking a bite out of each. "And tomorrow night at Naomi's. And next week for the rave."
Freddie nods. "Yeah. Right," he calls as Cook heads out. "No killing, remember? And try not to think with your dick."
"I can't promise that, mate, that's asking the impossible," Cook yells back.
It pretty much is, but if he's honest, he's not feeling much of an urge to pick up a girl tonight. Sure, he doesn't want to spread anything, but even if he was all clear down there he wouldn't be feeling the need to jump into bed with the next girl he sees. And that's new. He's had that need since he was twelve, a need to prove himself, fucking and fighting for years in order to do it.
It's not like it's easy now, not like he knows how he's feeling and what any of it means, but without Effy around he feels like he's got more of a chance. He feels calm, and for once, he doesn't mind.
Maybe the storm is on its way, but so what, maybe this time he'll be ready for it.
End.
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Cook/Freddie, Cook/everyone else ever
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Underage sex, violence, drug use, STDs, misogyny, occasional grossness in general...it's Cook-centric, what can I say?
Summary: A sexuality-based character study. Cook's sexual history, and what happens when it ends up including Freddie. Making people moan and writhe is kind of the only thing he knows how to do.
A/N: It's very long!! It's the first time I've had to split a fic in two in order to post it. The timeline starts pre-show and ends just before season 4.
(Part 1/2 here.)
It's funny, really, how fast feelings change. He never thought he was that fussed about having feelings in the first place, and now, all of a sudden, it seems like they're everywhere, pummeling his head and his heart til he's doing stupid shit all the fucking time. There's so many that he can't link each one directly to an event even if he could be arsed, so he doesn't try figure them out, doesn't dare beat them. He just lets them win.
It's when he wakes up beside her after a series of the best nights he's ever had, that he finally considers the idea that he might love her. She wakes him up by prodding his morning boner and calling him 'slugger', and he opens his eyes to her pretty, mascara-smeared face, cigarette-tinged morning breath and messy, unwashed braids. And maybe he's still half-asleep, and in that weird state between still-drunk and hungover, but he starts to seriously wonder if she could be some kind of extension of himself. Like he has a long-lost twin, or he's some nutter with an imaginary friend, like Russell Crowe in that one movie.
He looks out at the dock they've woken up by, its poorly-kept ships and the overcast morning sky, and everything seems perfect in that beautiful, fucked-up way. They've been wearing the same clothes for a fortnight at least, been pretty much homeless, but none of it's mattered because they're together. It's like being with himself, only better. She knows what he wants and when he wants it, because she feels the same way. And it's fucking amazing.
It starts as a little inkling, and turns into an assumption. All these feelings are like what people describe love as. He can imagine living with her, even fucking marrying her, 'cause it's all so easy, so natural and comfortable. The way he's been feeling and acting lately are easily explained away by love. And it's weird, in retrospect, how quickly this assumption turns into an ardent belief. Something he clings to, something he's so willing to fight for.
It's not long since that morning, now, that he sits on the boat with the whole thing in tatters, the fucked-up beauty turned into something simply fucked-up. Effy's chosen Freddie (no words spoken, but her eyes said it all), and then Freddie fucked her, and now he's standing here asking for permission to do it again, and again, and to love her on top of it all. And he just can't say yes, can't give them his blessing or whatever the fuck they want. The idea of them together makes him sick to his stomach, makes him feel rotten to the core, makes him want to fuck shit up til it kills him.
All of that must be love. It must be.
Later, on the boat, they crack open some beers, still high on the success of their getaway. Cook's Dad has been thrown overboard and Cook and Freddie have shared an impulsive hug, but the excitement of the atmosphere is dying down slowly. Freddie pats the space beside him in invitation, and Cook takes his place there. They clink cans and everyone but him smiles. He can sense that it's a significant moment, and he wants to believe it's some silent agreement to put all this shit behind them; to forget love and let friendship reign.
But he looks at Effy, and her smile fades, and she looks worn-out and wracked with guilt and pity, and his heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. He aches there more than anywhere else, pain worse than the bruises all over his face and body. He can't stand it, and so he looks at Freddie instead, notices the contrast between the two. He appreciates the familiarity of Freddie's face for a moment, the skin clean and fresh, the optimistic expression when he shrugs and says, "So. What do we do now?"
It makes Cook feel like there's hope, after all. Somewhere, buried deep in all of this, there's hope.
**
They spend a little while away from each other when they get back home, rehabilitating. At least, he assumes that's the deal. That's what JJ tells him. That they're all going to take a little time apart before they all decide what the fuck they're going to do about this situation. But then, one evening, Cook meets up with everyone to be told Effy's buggered off somewhere and no one's heard from her for a good couple of weeks.
So that's that.
He forgets about her, to be honest. Not entirely, but not having her around makes things better, easier to cope with. Things with Freddie and JJ start being a little bit more normal again, and he doesn't feel quite so frantic anymore, doesn't feel like there's something inside him scratching to get out.
Still, Freddie's pretty torn up, and JJ too, and it doesn't seem to be solved by night after night at strip clubs, so Cook's not sure what to do. That tugging in his heart is back when he sees the look on Freddie's face, 'cause it looks like how he feels, that sick and rotten feeling deep inside like your heart's going bad 'cause there's no one to tend to it. And as much as he hates the fact that Freddie wants Effy, misses Effy, that these feelings are caused by Effy, he still feels sorry for him.
One night, he notices that Freddie starts to cheer up a bit after a lapdance from a girl who kind of looks like how Effy might appear if she started doing meth and lost every last bit of her self-respect. Maybe it's 'cause the girl has Effy's wavy brown hair and piercing cat-like blue eyes and aloof attitude, but Cook can't stand Freddie looking at her like that. It makes him feel like he's got to have her, even if it's just to take her away from him.
So when Freddie and JJ stumble out for a kebab when the club closes, Cook sticks around, asks her her name.
"Cherry, love," the girl says disinterestedly, lighting a cigarette and heading into the back to change.
"Cherry, eh? That's original," Cook replies, following her, ignoring the big guy at the door who half-heartedly attempts to stop him. "Been to a strip club every night this week and not met a Cherry yet."
Actually, they've met exactly six, but he lies 'cause he's drunk enough to think it'll help him get into her pants.
"Well, great," she says, unclasping her bra and shoving it into a locker. "If only originality was what you guys got off on, then maybe I'd earn more."
"Come on, put on a bit of a show," Cook taunts, gesturing to the crumpled up bra and doing a bit of gyrating to give her the hint. "Like before, yeah?"
"I'm off-duty, love," she says, laughing out cigarette smoke as she lifts one leg up onto the bench between them. She unzips the thigh-high PVC boot that covers it.
"You're taking your clothes off," Cook shrugs. He jokes, lamely, losing sight of his aim. "Looks like work to me."
She stands up straight again, boot unzipped with all the fabric of it pooling awkwardly around her foot. She crosses her arms against her bare chest. "What do you want?"
"My friend thinks you're hot," Cook says, stepping up on the bench and then hopping down on the other side, coming closer to her.
She laughs, takes another drag of her cigarette. "What are we, teenagers?"
"Sure." Cook comes even closer, daringly slides a hand around her waist. With her stripper heels on, he only comes up to her chest, but that's fine by him. His lips brush against her skin as he says, "sure, teenagers. Reckless, horny teenagers. Whatever gets you off, love."
Her breath seems to hitch. "I'm a stripper, not a hooker."
He pulls back, looking her in the eye and speaking without thinking. "Good, 'cause I'm not planning on paying you."
"You're a charmer," she snorts.
"Pride myself on it," he says before stretching up to kiss her. He feels her sigh before she starts to kiss back, and he says, "'sides, hookers don't tend to kiss their clients."
As he fucks her against the lockers, all he can think of is Freddie and Effy, Freddie and Effy. He tries for a moment to imagine this is Effy, but his focus shifts to Freddie instead. He thinks about how he's fucking this girl so Freddie can't, so Freddie won't, so Freddie will move on from Effy and be alone like Cook. He forgets, for a few brief blissful minutes, his usual stance that girls are reusable. In this moment, Cherry's all there is, she's the last girl on earth and Freddie's never going to have her.
He comes with that thought, gritting his teeth against her neck, and then he pulls up his jeans and leaves without even looking at her again.
**
Things are pretty calm for the next month or so. It's actually an otherwise uneventful party the night Freddie attacks him in the loo of a club.
All Cook says is, "Fuck, it hurts to piss these days. Must've picked something up," and Freddie flips out.
He's chosen the urinal that's furthest possible from Cook, so it takes him a moment to actually come up and confront him, but even with the advanced warning (Freddie gets that crazed incredulous look in his eyes) Cook doesn't do a single thing to protect himself. Even though he's got no idea what Freddie's issue is, even though Freddie's shoving him against the wall and then wrestling him to the ground, he doesn't bother to defend himself.
"You fucked her. You must've."
"Who? What?" Cook spits out, and Freddie punches him hard in the ribs, drawing out a wet, broken gasp.
"Girl at the club. Strip club. Stripper. Cherry. She gave us chlamydia."
Cook still does absolutely nothing to get Freddie off of him, just lies there and takes it. He laughs, even, at the realisation that that's who this is about. They went back to the same club a couple of weeks ago because they ran out and started doing the rounds again. Cook was particularly off his head that night, must've missed the part where Freddie got the stripper's number and asked her out for dinner, or whatever it is Freddie does when he wants to fuck someone. And presumably he's recently noticed the painful pissing too and connected the dots.
Cook's laughter seems to spur Freddie on, earns him a brisk punch in the stomach which makes him start coughing and spluttering instead.
"Fuck you," Freddie hisses, makes a noise of disgust. He shifts, half-sprawled across Cook's body, tense and heavy.
Cook spits in his face. "Fuck you, man."
Freddie doesn't bother to wipe it off, lets it slide grotesquely down one cheek and drip off, right back down onto Cook's own face. Cook's hand jerks up instinctively but Freddie grasps both of his wrists tightly. "You fucked her," he whispers, his voice strangely hoarse. "You knew I liked her and you fucked her."
"Who're we talking about, Freds?"
Freddie's expression's not readable, it's some mess of surprise and realisation and anger all at once, but it doesn't matter anyway because at that moment the door squeaks open and JJ comes in, staring down at them anxiously.
"Oh. Oh dear," he says. "That's. Oh. I think we should go home."
**
In the taxi, he sits between them and tries to mediate. He does that thing he used to do when they were little, where he'd pretend to be his own therapist, putting on a silly voice and asking them all the sorts of questions he had to answer three times a week at 4 o'clock.
Eventually they give in and explain the situation.
JJ immediately loses the silly voice. "You're fighting over a stripper who gave you a sexually-transmitted disease," he says simply, and putting it like that seems to help Freddie realise how stupid it is, because they all end up laughing.
The car pulls up outside Freddie's house, and Freddie and Cook both get out. It takes them a few seconds to realise JJ's still in the car, giving the cabbie his own address.
"I'm helping you work it out," he says, grinning triumphantly. "I'm even willing to pay your cab fee for it," he adds as he leans over and slams the door shut.
**
The tension's still thick in the air as Cook and Freddie head inside. They discover no one else is in, so Freddie almost empties the fridge and brings the contents upstairs with them. He dumps it all on his desk and then shuts the door and stands there with his arms crossed, and Cook has the feeling this isn't over. None of it is. And the weird thing is, he doesn't mind. He's pumped up and ready this time, ready for the fight he assumes is coming. The pain of Freddie's fist hitting his stomach felt good, but he wants to know how it feels with the roles reversed. He wants to slam Freddie to the floor and hold him down, sit astride him and feel the muscles in Freddie's stomach tense up between his legs.
Adrenaline crackles into Cook's veins and he revs up, ready for it.
But all Freddie does is speak. "Effy was here just before she disappeared."
"What?"
Freddie unfolds his arms, reaches behind him to clasp the edge of his desk instead and lean against it. The information is blurry in Cook's brain, reality merging with imagination. He thinks about pinning Freddie against the desk, the edge of it digging a deep ridge in his back.
"She was round at mine," Freddie goes on. "We spent the whole day fucking and then she said she was going to go home and have a bath because mine was too rank to consider getting into." He pauses. "And then she went off somewhere abroad with her brother but her Mum won't tell me where."
Cook stares at him. He takes a step forward, but then stops. Winces. The adrenaline bubbles quietly away inside him like lava in a volcano that's not quite ready to erupt.
"When was this?" he demands.
"Couple of days after we got back," Freddie shrugs.
He turns away, getting ready for bed like that's all there is to say. He kicks off his shoes, pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. Cook hears the soft clinking of a belt buckle, and he stares fixedly at Freddie's lower back, the indent of his spine and the two little dimples in the smooth skin. The jeans slip down Freddie's legs and Cook's gaze follows them. When Freddie bends to pull off his socks, he juts out his arse, balancing on one foot and then the next, and all Cook does is watch speechlessly.
Freddie turns around. "I don't want you to hate me, I just wanted to say. JJ said I shouldn't because you might actually murder me, or go off the rails anyway when you found out Effy was gone."
There's a long, long pause, during which they only look at one another. Hundreds of things seem to happen outside this bedroom: a police car's siren blares somewhere in the distance as it heads to an accident, girls skitter their way home in high heels, people awaken to the sound of their alarm clocks and dress for work. The sun comes up. Lovers kiss partners good morning, and tiptoe away from one-night stands.
Inside this bedroom, there's only stillness, and silence. And it's that stifling, choking kind of silence, the kind that that slashes up your vocal cords and ties up your tongue. Cook wants to break it, with his fist, but eventually Freddie speaks, voice sounding young and broken.
"I just don't like lying to you."
"Yeah," says Cook quietly. "No, I get that."
He doesn't like this. He can't stand this quiet, the feeling of the calm before the storm. He prefers it when the storm's raging all around him, wild and crazy and breaking everything to pieces. That's when he feels secure. Especially with Freddie. It's how they've always been. On the fringes of being nothing at all, held together by unfinished business.
So he lunges forward, 'cause there's only two things in this world that he can do: he can fuck and he can fight. His fist curls, flies up, but it's like he's moving in slow motion and his knuckles just graze Freddie's cheek. Freddie stands there like a fucking statue and it feels like all of Cook's organs are twisting inside him, frustrated and anticipating.
Part of him—the part he's used to—wants to beat Freddie to a pulp. But the emotional part of him—this burgeoning swell of irrationality that's been growing inside of him, all year long—wants to feel that curve of Freddie's lips against his own again, wants to hold him close and tell him never to let go.
Freddie takes one slow, careful step back. And then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pulls them down his legs and throws himself down onto his bed face-first. He presses himself against the mattress and then raises himself up, resting on his forearms and his knees. He rests his head against his hands, and thrusts his arse upwards like a whore, naked and exposed. His body asks for it, begs for it, but he says nothing.
Cook says, "I don't want to fuck you," and the way his voice wavers surprises him, just a little.
"No," Freddie says, and though he sounded coherent earlier, this word is slurred. He rolls over, stretches out, movements fluid and unembarrassed. He's drunker than Cook realised. "That's what this is about. I know it. I—I figured it out."
"You didn't figure shit out," Cook spits.
He stares down at Freddie's dick, unable to stop himself. It rests soft and dark against his left thigh. Cook's fists clench and unclench, his own cock hardening uncomfortably in his trousers. He grunts, and yanks his t-shirt up over his head suddenly. It's honestly more an angry gesture than anything else—everything feels too hot and close and claustrophobic. He pulls the shirt between his hands, wrings it and then flings it down on the floor.
Freddie rolls over onto his side, curls in on himself slightly. Cook won't look at his face too closely, but he seems almost frightened, ashamed. Freddie presses his face against the bed, slowly pulling the duvet up against him in a hesitant attempt to cover himself.
"I just—" Cook blurts out. "Look, stop it, all right? Jesus." He swipes his hand across the sweat gathering on his forehead. "You can't call me gay and then just—"
"What?" Freddie throws the duvet back and sits up, dumbfounded. "I'm not calling you gay, I—are you trying to miss the point, or—"
"What's the point, then? What? Share your fuckin' wisdom. You want me to fuck you, is that it? You're jealous of all the girls I've done?" He's fussing with the fastenings of his trousers as he's talking, the button clinking and zipper snarling in his hurry. His dick aches, thick and leaking, and the cool air against his hot, sticky skin is a sharp shock.
"Because it has to be me, doesn't it?" Freddie bites back. "It has to be me so it's all my fault, so none of it's coming from you, so—"
He's talking so fast that Cook barely takes the rest in. In rising fury and panic Cook grabs at his shoes and socks with his trousers round his ankles, kicks everything off hastily, stumbling and grabbing hold of the bed for support. The world seems to swing on its hinges around him.
He struggles his way onto the bed, upright on his knees with his back straight, stocky and confident. Freddie stops mid-sentence. Cook's dick bobs against his stomach, stiff and wet, and Freddie's eyes flicker to it. He swallows, starts to lick his dry lips instinctively and then stops himself. Something throbs painfully in the pit of Cook's stomach and then explodes, energy bursting out of every pore. He shoves at Freddie's shoulders, pushes him down easily. He clambers on top of him, his cock nudging against Freddie's thighs, smearing them with precome before he pulls the legs apart roughly.
He settles himself, shoving Freddie's legs up alongside his torso, pinning them to his chest and then stopping abruptly, his breathing heavy and loud in the quiet bedroom. He stares down at the crease between Freddie's thighs, aligns his dick with it and hears Freddie's sharp intake of breath in response. He's fucked girls in the arse before, goaded them into it, told them everyone does it and just doesn't talk about it. It was never unplanned, though—the girls always had lube and were a lot cleaner and more hairless than Freddie, and—
"C—Cook," Freddie breathes sort of brokenly.
Cook doesn't look at him, keeps his eyes cast low. He rubs his cock against the narrow crevice, lets it drag down to Freddie's balls, the sac heavier now, fuller. Freddie makes a strained sound, his growing erection trapped painfully between thigh and stomach, Cook still holding him firmly in place. His fingers are starting to ache from the grip, nails pressing into skin. Fixated, he lets his dick drop lower, lets the flushed head jab forwards.
Freddie's body jolts. "Cook," he warns, voice sounding stronger now.
Cook forces his eyes upwards, follows the awkward path of Freddie's legs, body folded in two. He sees Freddie's face peering out, eyes wild and nervous.
"Cook," Freddie says again, like he's trying to bring him out of a trance. "Fuck. Cook. Don't."
He reaches round, and Cook feels a hand close over one of his own on Freddie's thigh, easing him off. He lets go, and Freddie's legs fall open around him. Cook sees Freddie's half-hard dick, curving against his smooth belly, and he sinks down, head resting beside it. His breath ghosts over Freddie's skin and he inhales shakily, nose and mouth filled with a musky scent. Their surroundings seem surreal, turned upside-down, and time seems to slow. He doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't even know what he wants to do.
Freddie's hand brushes his shoulder and he pulls himself upwards slowly. He moves against Freddie the way water displaces alongside a body in a bath, and finds himself curled against him, front to back. He wraps his arms tightly around Freddie, draws him closer, buries his face in the nook between neck and shoulder. He curls in so their bodies slot together tightly, side by side, skin to skin.
It's just a hug; a tight, fierce, and desperate hug. It doesn't feel as sexual as maybe it should, until Cook stops focusing on that stinging feeling in his sinuses and starts to acknowledge the sweaty heat of Freddie's skin against his, the anxious beating of his heart against the plane of Freddie's back. His cock is nestled at the small of Freddie's back, and when the awareness of that really hits him, Cook holds Freddie tighter, blood surging between his legs with renewed vigour.
He brings one hand to his mouth to spit in his palm before sliding it down between their bodies, curling it around his dick as it presses hot and hard against Freddie's back. Freddie's breathing is harsh and guttural so close to his ears, and he shifts on the bed, palming his cock clumsily, arm bumping up against Freddie's back. He gives up, hand sliding around onto Freddie's chest once again, one fingertip against a nipple. As his hips shift and he pulls Freddie close, his erection slips up between the cheeks of Freddie's arse, and he bucks forward involuntarily in response to the friction, pushing and sliding against that crack.
"Fuck," Freddie hisses, the word drawn out.
Cook hooks his chin over Freddie's shoulder, gaze lowered to see Freddie taking his own cock in hand. Freddie's fist is tight, pulling up the shaft and covering it from view. But as Cook rocks against him, slicking a smooth, tight path against Freddie's arse, the darkened head of Freddie's cock pushes through his clenched hand. Freddie hisses again, wordless this time, and Cook looks at him, sidelong, sees his eyes shut tight and his mouth wide and wet. He grinds into Freddie's back, watching Freddie fuck his own fist in a clumsy rhythm. Cook's teeth graze against his own lips, almost gnawing, his hips bucking back and forth and up and down, rutting frantically.
Freddie's free hand stops clutching at Cook's forearm and clutches at a pillow instead. He drags it down from the head of the bed and grips it tightly, even shoving it against his mouth as he groans, embarrassed. Cook holds him, pressing his own mouth to Freddie's shoulderblade, panting against sweaty skin. His balls go taut and he bites down suddenly into Freddie's skin, hardly listening to the stifled cry. His hips work desperately, violently, and then his body tenses as he streaks wet and white across the clear plane of Freddie's back.
"Shit," he breathes, mouthing the word into Freddie's skin.
He shudders, an aftershock coursing through him, and his dick twitches in his limp hand. He can hear Freddie still slickly jerking his own cock and he wants to watch, wants to see—again—what Freddie looks like when he comes. He remembers how he tried not to look at Freddie's face, that night in the shed, how he tried not to look at Freddie's anything, just focused on getting him off as quickly as possible and hoping they'd never speak of it again.
But he couldn't help being transfixed when Freddie got there. He knew Freddie was close, because he started fucking up Cook's rhythm, hips thrusting clumsily to meet the hand wrapped around him. And then his breath caught in his throat and he let out this raw, weak gasp, and Cook just stared at him in amazement. His face was only dimly visible in the moonlight that seeped through the shed's windows, making everything shadowy and dreamlike. Cook watched his eyelashes flutter, his Adam's apple quiver, and he drew the rest of Freddie's orgasm from him with a determined fist, feeling the heat dripping down over his fingers.
He hadn't ever seen anybody come before, not in real life.
Freddie's arm suddenly darts back behind him, twisting to clutch at Cook's waist, pulling him in closer, skin pressed to sticky skin.
"I'm—fuck—I'm—" Freddie stammers, and Cook curls a dirty hand over his hip, encouraging. He brings it lower, brushing Freddie's own frantic hand and the rigid heat of his dick beneath it. He feels the tension in Freddie's balls, massaging them in the palm of his hand like he knows what he's doing, doing anything he can to bring Freddie closer.
Suddenly Freddie makes a hard 'C—' sound in his throat but can't get the word out, and he twists his head back, looking Cook right in the eyes. They both buck forwards with such force that the kiss hurts, but Cook finds himself thinking distantly that kissing Freddie always hurts, in one way or another.
In the end, when Freddie comes, Cook is too busy kissing him to be all that aware. He's got his hand up on Freddie's face now, fingers splayed across cheekbone and ear. He only notices that Freddie gasps sharply into his mouth and then goes limp against him. But it's only for a second and then he keeps kissing him, sloppily, breathing heavily. Cook lets go and starts to pull back, to give Freddie a chance to catch his breath, but Freddie rolls over and grabs him by the face, both of his hot, slick, bitter-smelling hands on Cook's cheeks and their lips pressed together once again.
"Just don't talk, alright," Cook hisses against Freddie's lips, staring into the blurred darkness of Freddie's eyes so close. "I don't want to talk about it."
Freddie bites his lip and nods, then nods again with more certainty. His face drifts in and out of focus. Freddie takes his clammy hands off Cook's face and wipes them on the duvet, and Cook's last thought before he falls asleep is that a shower would feel pretty fucking fantastic right about now.
**
Cook wakes up at quarter past four in the afternoon with a pounding headache, and Freddie's bedsheets stuck to his stomach with dried come. He grimaces, shoving groggily at all the fabric that's covering him or sticking to him, only to reveal a completely naked Freddie lying beside him. Last night's events come back to him in a sort of slow dribble and he groans. The sheets are stuck to his face, too. He stumbles out of bed and tries to find his boxers.
He finds a pair on the floor and doesn't remember that he wasn't actually wearing any yesterday until they're already on. On Freddie's desk, he spots a half-empty bottle of white wine—one of the many things they brought up from the fridge earlier—and he takes a long swig. He's always found the best cure for a hangover is more alcohol, even if it's lukewarm chardonnay.
He leans against the desk and looks at the bed, looks at Freddie lying haphazardly on it, pillows thrown about randomly and the duvet strewn across the floor. He's seen this sort of scene many times, behaved as he's behaving now, slipping out of bed and getting ready to leave. But he's not looking at some random girl in an unfamiliar room, he's looking at Freddie, in a bedroom he's known since childhood.
He starts to feel a wave of nausea wash over him and he guzzles down some more wine in attempt to quell it. It doesn't really help. He fumbles to get the duvet covering Freddie again without waking him up, and that seems to help a little.
But then Freddie's eyes flicker open, looking at him in confusion and then realisation, and he winces, rolling over and burying his head in his pillow.
Cook looks at the door, looks back at Freddie, looks at the door one last time and heaves a sigh. He goes over to the side of the bed, nudges Freddie with his knee and proffers the wine bottle.
Freddie winces again, but hoists himself up and takes it, swilling it down and spilling quite a bit on the sheets. He wipes his mouth with the palm of his hand, then gags and takes another swig of the wine instead.
"So," he says after an extremely awkward silence. "You haven't left."
"No," agrees Cook.
"I thought you would."
"Oh."
Another long silence. Cook walks back around to the other side of the bed and climbs back on. They pass the bottle back and forth until it's empty, and then Freddie lets it drop onto the messy floor.
He clears his throat. "So you're not going to go out and find some girl to fuck right away?"
Cook raises his eyebrows. "No..." He shrugs. "Don't want to spread the chlamydia, do I, mate? Best keep that kind of thing between friends."
Freddie snorts, but Cook can tell he's making a mental note to get in touch with a doctor as soon as possible. "So you're not going to go out and pick up another stripper or a prostitute—"
"No, look, what's your deal?" Cook snaps. His mind is a mess right now but Freddie's turning all of his confusion to anger. "Jesus. Do you want me to, is that it? Let's do that, shall we? Let's forget this ever happened, let's forget whatever happened last night to make me wake up this morning with your fuckin' nasty spunk all over my face, shall we?"
Freddie gapes at him, stammers something and then shuts up, speechless.
"Yeah, no, let's do that. I'll go out and stick my diseased dick in some random slappers, shall I? And you can lie here and sulk until Effy comes back, and then you can stick your diseased dick in her, and we can all have a fucking lovely time of it, yeah?" He wipes his face agitatedly, can smell the clinging sour scent on his skin, mixing with his own sweat. "Let's get on with that then," he continues, voice raised even louder now. "Fuck you."
He starts to get up off the bed but Freddie suddenly grabs him by the wrist, and he loses it, snatching himself free from Freddie's grip and punching him hard in the face. For a moment he's stunned, staring as Freddie clutches at his cheekbone, groaning in pain.
But then the anger surges through him again and he dives on top of Freddie, aims for the same spot and gets Freddie's hand, their knuckles colliding and hurting like hell. Freddie grabs hold of him, and they wrestle, rolling over and over on the bed, thrashing and kicking ineffectively. The duvet gets caught between their bodies and then slides onto the floor, and Cook's got Freddie in a headlock when he feels Freddie's cock getting hard against him. He swears, tightening his grip, and Freddie punches at his thigh and manages to pull free, shoving him off.
Cook's hand darts out and he grabs Freddie's hard-on, securing his fingers around the base firmly, stopping Freddie from moving.
"This is what you want, yeah?" he spits out, tugging roughly, and Freddie jerks forwards towards him, frowning with his eyes shut tight and saying nothing.
Cook licks his hand and starts to wank Freddie off with it, awed by the feel of him even through his anger. He struggles to sit up and then clambers on top of him, straddling his thighs. He twists his hand round Freddie's cock, staring down at it, fist moving faster and faster until it's a blur around the stiff flesh.
"Don't tell me," he leans down to hiss in Freddie's ear, "what you think I'm gonna do. Don't fucking tell me."
Freddie looks at him. "Truth hurts," he gasps out just as he comes, splashing both of their stomachs.
In a flurry of movement, Cook instantly slides up Freddie's body, pinning Freddie's head between his knees. He grits his teeth, his blood boiling. He sits firmly on Freddie's chest, and pins his arms to the bed. For a moment Freddie squirms, weak and breathless from orgasm, and then he goes still, staring up at Cook, forcing Cook to look him in the eyes. Cook does, and Freddie lifts his head up as best he can, pressing his mouth to Cook's crotch, lips mouthing through the cotton.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, voice muffled against the fabric. "I'm sorry. Just stop."
He stares up at him with pleading dark eyes and his mouth moves again, half-kissing Cook's dick through the boxers, and Cook feels a twinge of arousal. Freddie keeps going, mouth warm, boxers clinging damply to Cook's skin. He's hard in seconds.
"Fuck you," he whispers.
He lets go of Freddie's wrists, wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. Freddie just nods, staring up at him fixedly, lips working at the slit in the boxers, brushing wetly against Cook's bare shaft.
Cook places a shaky hand on Freddie's forehead and pushes him back, sliding off him and slumping on the bed with his head against the wall. "Fuck you," he chokes out weakly again. "Fuck you."
A pause, and then Freddie says his name.
"Cook. Cook." His voice is soft but urgent, and he tentatively strokes at his shoulder, his bicep. "Shh. It's okay."
Cook wants to shake him off—or, knows he should want to shake him off—but he likes the feel of it, finds it soothing. He doesn't like to crumble in front of others, like to keep his guard up and his image strong, but this is his best friend, and besides, it seems like it's too late.
"Just stop," Freddie says, again. He leans in, gently kisses Cook's shoulder. Cook feels him grin as he says, "What do I have to do to get you to stop?"
Cook laughs a bit in spite of himself, but his laughter dies down fast. He picks at his own fingernails. "Stop what?" he can't resist asking, finally.
"Whatever you're doing," Freddie says. "Whatever you're doing that's making you crazy. You can stop. It's okay, 'cause I..."
He trails off, and then pulls back a little, and the unfinished sentence seems to hang in the air. Cook wonders if he was going to say 'I love you', and kind of understands, given their current situation, why he changed his mind. But he wonders why Freddie never seems to say it, never really has.
"I just..." Freddie laughs, trying to break the tension. "Just...I. Me. You know?"
Cook snorts, getting up. He can't stand this sort of conversation, wants to change the subject. "Yeah. All right. So you do want to go out later or what?" He remembers something suddenly. "Did I mention Emily and Naomi said something about a rave next week? Night before college starts again, I think. We're going, right?"
Freddie raises his eyebrows at him, and then shrugs. "Yeah. Sure. Just, no drama, okay?" he laughs. "Promise me you won't end up killing anyone. Especially me."
"Hand on my heart, mate," Cook says, placing his palm firmly over his dick. (Which is no longer standing to attention, as emotional conversation is one of the few things Cook considers a boner-killer.)
Freddie laughs, and then they grin at each other for a while, and Cook can't decide whether or not it'd be a good idea to get back into bed, but then the sound of keys in the front door downstairs solve that decision for him fairly quickly. Without a word, they're pulling on clothes and stripping off bedsheets at lightning speed.
Not long later, Cook stands at the front door with a chunk of slightly warm cheese in one hand and a sausage in the other, fridge remnants found on Freddie's desk that Cook is calling breakfast. Or dinner.
"See you tonight then, yeah?" he says, taking a bite out of each. "And tomorrow night at Naomi's. And next week for the rave."
Freddie nods. "Yeah. Right," he calls as Cook heads out. "No killing, remember? And try not to think with your dick."
"I can't promise that, mate, that's asking the impossible," Cook yells back.
It pretty much is, but if he's honest, he's not feeling much of an urge to pick up a girl tonight. Sure, he doesn't want to spread anything, but even if he was all clear down there he wouldn't be feeling the need to jump into bed with the next girl he sees. And that's new. He's had that need since he was twelve, a need to prove himself, fucking and fighting for years in order to do it.
It's not like it's easy now, not like he knows how he's feeling and what any of it means, but without Effy around he feels like he's got more of a chance. He feels calm, and for once, he doesn't mind.
Maybe the storm is on its way, but so what, maybe this time he'll be ready for it.
End.