sticks and stones (the but words are just reactions remix)
Title: sticks and stones (the but words are just reactions remix)
Author: epicflailer
Rating: r
Warnings: swearing. (allusions to) sex. (badly minimally un-researched) subject matter. second person pov.
Word Count: 1223
Summary: he comes to you first.
Original story: archie inadvertently insults cook by odi-et-amo53
Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. any similarity between the fictional versions of the persons portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. no infringement intended, and no profits made.
Notes: this would not be possible without the famazing ciudad, bloodbelieve, pixiebeanz, and miss-charmed. ALL MY FIC ARE BELONG TO YOU, LOVELIES.
He comes to you first.
("If that's how you remember it," he says, mouth twisting, the one time you bring it up.
You remember the dressing room, remember the post-concert high singing in your blood, remember stumbling into a clothes rack when he said, "Cook," and kissed you; you remember skin and heat and tongue, Jesus fucking Christ, remember panting, "Archie," into the curve of his neck as you fisted your hands in his shirt.
"David," he'd said, biting at your lower lip. "It's David."
So you don't know what he thinks, but--he came to you first.)
You're not sure when it becomes a reciprocal thing.
"Jesus," he says, when you push him back into his hotel room, already jerking at his shirt, his jeans, his goddamn tie. "You are so fucking predictable."
You wince despite yourself, and he digs his fingers into your skin, hard enough to leave a mark; his.
"Shut up," you snap, as he smirks and rolls his eyes, and you're already reaching, blindly, for the light switch.
"Leave it," he breathes, against your mouth, leaning up into you, and the sound you make is harsh and ragged and unrecognizable.
You turn out the light.
"So fucking predictable," he says, again, but he's already sinking to his knees, and you trap a grimace between your teeth, manage a, "Makes two of us," instead.
He doesn't laugh.
(Once, sated and only half-awake, you say, "I can't tell you apart."
The look he gives you is hard, inscrutable. "So you really are as fucking dumb as you look.")
You hit the lights, later, but you wait till his back is turned to say, "We're not doing this anymore."
He's pulling his shirt on slow, almost ginger, his shoulders squared, and you don't even realize you're bracing yourself for the blow till he's looking at you, a stranger wearing a familiar face. "You already said that," he points out, "but you're in my fucking room." His smile is wan, mirthless. "Kind of ironic."
"It's not--" you say. "You're not--"
"What?" he goads, when you can't finish.
And it shouldn't be -- you never meant for it to go this far. "David--"
"No," he says. "Tell me. I'm not what? Not good enough? Real enough? Him enough?"
When you falter, it's all the answer he needs.
"Dang it," he says, and you clench your jaw. "Sorry, I don't -- oh my gosh, this is awkward."
"David," you grit out.
"Sorry," he says, embarrassed but smiling. "Just - I'm always saying stuff like that, and, like, rambling a lot, but I don't usually--"
"You're his clone," you snarl. "You're just here to help him deal with the fucking media circus! And you should stick to that fucking job, because you're never going to be--"
You can't make yourself say it. David's mouth is twisted again, a hard slant you've never seen on Archie; you swallow and look away.
"Him?" David finishes for you. "I'm never going to be him but I'm fucking adequate for this, right?" He gestures at the room, the scattered papers on his desk, the crumpled bedsheets, and takes a step towards you. "David Cook, perfectionist extraordinaire, of course you need your fucking target practice, can't have you fucking it up when you finally get to--"
You kiss him. You wrap your hands in his hair and his shirt and crush your mouths together, pull him against you so tightly you can feel his heart thundering against your own chest, can feel the way he shudders against you, can feel the tight coil of tension in his shoulders even as he leans in, and--
You shouldn't, you know you shouldn't, there's only one way for this to end, but that's Archie's face and Archie's palm and Archie's mouth, open and wet and hot as sin, and you can't say no to that.
He makes a sound you've never heard before, low in his throat, almost pained, and jerks away. He turns from you, puts more space between you, the bed, silence, and you're both breathing too hard to speak for a moment.
"I don't--" you start, finally, but there's no real way to finish the sentence, so you don't try.
"That's all this was, wasn't it?" he says, without looking at you. "Practice."
You can't find your voice, aren't sure what you'd say even if you could. He nods at nothing, hands sliding easily into his pockets, practiced. For the first time, you think: brittle. "Funny," he says as he glances over his shoulder at you; his smile is anything but. "Never pegged you for a settler."
("Look," you tell him, the third time he shows up uninvited to your bedroom and you don't kick him out. "I don't know what you want from me."
He smirks, and it's not - it doesn't sit right with you. You don't think you'll ever get used to something so foreign on Archie's face. "If you could tell," he says, "I wouldn't be any fucking good at my job.")
Two doors down has never felt this far away.
You're barely out the room when you hear him, and the guilt makes you freeze. "Cook?"
The door is still shut when you turn (he gets the single by default; "I'd rather sleep in the fucking tub than with myself," he says, flatly, and no one else is comfortable with the idea of sleeping with--and you hadn't looked up when they asked if there were any takers).
Then you realize it's Archie. "Hey," you say, past a suddenly dry throat.
"Hi, Cook. Have you seen, um," Archie says, waving a hand a little, helplessly, and there is heat pooling in your veins that you wish you knew how to ignore. "I don't - he's been missing since the conference, and no one picked up when I called, but I know you guys have been hanging out lately, sort of, so I thought maybe--"
"Uh," you stall.
And then the door to David's room swings open.
"Oh," Archie says, and if you hadn't been looking, you would have missed the way David freezes, the way he pulls into himself, squares his shoulders, the way he walks up to you, lines up next to Archie, calm and deliberate.
It's the strangest sense of déjà vu, except for all the ways it isn't.
(And suddenly you realize you were wrong; telling them apart is the easiest thing in the world, once you know how.
It's too easy, and you wish it wasn't.
You don't catalog the differences.)
"Hi," Archie says, but neither of you are looking at him.
David's watching you, slow and calculative, and for a second, you think he might--
"Ever thought about joining a gym?" he says, instead. His eyes are dark, hooded, and you feel that unwanted surge of heat all over again. "Might be a good idea."
Archie winces on autopilot, appalled, makes to apologize.
You barely even notice.
(It's hard not to look at him, impossible, and you think that at one point, maybe, you forgot you had to stop.
And then he'd cornered you in the dressing room.
"Arch?" you'd asked, that first time, and, "Why are you--"
"Who knew you'd be a fan of stupid questions," he'd said.)
Yeah, you think. Who knew.
Author: epicflailer
Rating: r
Warnings: swearing. (allusions to) sex. (badly minimally un-researched) subject matter. second person pov.
Word Count: 1223
Summary: he comes to you first.
Original story: archie inadvertently insults cook by odi-et-amo53
Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. any similarity between the fictional versions of the persons portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. no infringement intended, and no profits made.
Notes: this would not be possible without the famazing ciudad, bloodbelieve, pixiebeanz, and miss-charmed. ALL MY FIC ARE BELONG TO YOU, LOVELIES.
He comes to you first.
("If that's how you remember it," he says, mouth twisting, the one time you bring it up.
You remember the dressing room, remember the post-concert high singing in your blood, remember stumbling into a clothes rack when he said, "Cook," and kissed you; you remember skin and heat and tongue, Jesus fucking Christ, remember panting, "Archie," into the curve of his neck as you fisted your hands in his shirt.
"David," he'd said, biting at your lower lip. "It's David."
So you don't know what he thinks, but--he came to you first.)
You're not sure when it becomes a reciprocal thing.
"Jesus," he says, when you push him back into his hotel room, already jerking at his shirt, his jeans, his goddamn tie. "You are so fucking predictable."
You wince despite yourself, and he digs his fingers into your skin, hard enough to leave a mark; his.
"Shut up," you snap, as he smirks and rolls his eyes, and you're already reaching, blindly, for the light switch.
"Leave it," he breathes, against your mouth, leaning up into you, and the sound you make is harsh and ragged and unrecognizable.
You turn out the light.
"So fucking predictable," he says, again, but he's already sinking to his knees, and you trap a grimace between your teeth, manage a, "Makes two of us," instead.
He doesn't laugh.
(Once, sated and only half-awake, you say, "I can't tell you apart."
The look he gives you is hard, inscrutable. "So you really are as fucking dumb as you look.")
You hit the lights, later, but you wait till his back is turned to say, "We're not doing this anymore."
He's pulling his shirt on slow, almost ginger, his shoulders squared, and you don't even realize you're bracing yourself for the blow till he's looking at you, a stranger wearing a familiar face. "You already said that," he points out, "but you're in my fucking room." His smile is wan, mirthless. "Kind of ironic."
"It's not--" you say. "You're not--"
"What?" he goads, when you can't finish.
And it shouldn't be -- you never meant for it to go this far. "David--"
"No," he says. "Tell me. I'm not what? Not good enough? Real enough? Him enough?"
When you falter, it's all the answer he needs.
"Dang it," he says, and you clench your jaw. "Sorry, I don't -- oh my gosh, this is awkward."
"David," you grit out.
"Sorry," he says, embarrassed but smiling. "Just - I'm always saying stuff like that, and, like, rambling a lot, but I don't usually--"
"You're his clone," you snarl. "You're just here to help him deal with the fucking media circus! And you should stick to that fucking job, because you're never going to be--"
You can't make yourself say it. David's mouth is twisted again, a hard slant you've never seen on Archie; you swallow and look away.
"Him?" David finishes for you. "I'm never going to be him but I'm fucking adequate for this, right?" He gestures at the room, the scattered papers on his desk, the crumpled bedsheets, and takes a step towards you. "David Cook, perfectionist extraordinaire, of course you need your fucking target practice, can't have you fucking it up when you finally get to--"
You kiss him. You wrap your hands in his hair and his shirt and crush your mouths together, pull him against you so tightly you can feel his heart thundering against your own chest, can feel the way he shudders against you, can feel the tight coil of tension in his shoulders even as he leans in, and--
You shouldn't, you know you shouldn't, there's only one way for this to end, but that's Archie's face and Archie's palm and Archie's mouth, open and wet and hot as sin, and you can't say no to that.
He makes a sound you've never heard before, low in his throat, almost pained, and jerks away. He turns from you, puts more space between you, the bed, silence, and you're both breathing too hard to speak for a moment.
"I don't--" you start, finally, but there's no real way to finish the sentence, so you don't try.
"That's all this was, wasn't it?" he says, without looking at you. "Practice."
You can't find your voice, aren't sure what you'd say even if you could. He nods at nothing, hands sliding easily into his pockets, practiced. For the first time, you think: brittle. "Funny," he says as he glances over his shoulder at you; his smile is anything but. "Never pegged you for a settler."
("Look," you tell him, the third time he shows up uninvited to your bedroom and you don't kick him out. "I don't know what you want from me."
He smirks, and it's not - it doesn't sit right with you. You don't think you'll ever get used to something so foreign on Archie's face. "If you could tell," he says, "I wouldn't be any fucking good at my job.")
Two doors down has never felt this far away.
You're barely out the room when you hear him, and the guilt makes you freeze. "Cook?"
The door is still shut when you turn (he gets the single by default; "I'd rather sleep in the fucking tub than with myself," he says, flatly, and no one else is comfortable with the idea of sleeping with--and you hadn't looked up when they asked if there were any takers).
Then you realize it's Archie. "Hey," you say, past a suddenly dry throat.
"Hi, Cook. Have you seen, um," Archie says, waving a hand a little, helplessly, and there is heat pooling in your veins that you wish you knew how to ignore. "I don't - he's been missing since the conference, and no one picked up when I called, but I know you guys have been hanging out lately, sort of, so I thought maybe--"
"Uh," you stall.
And then the door to David's room swings open.
"Oh," Archie says, and if you hadn't been looking, you would have missed the way David freezes, the way he pulls into himself, squares his shoulders, the way he walks up to you, lines up next to Archie, calm and deliberate.
It's the strangest sense of déjà vu, except for all the ways it isn't.
(And suddenly you realize you were wrong; telling them apart is the easiest thing in the world, once you know how.
It's too easy, and you wish it wasn't.
You don't catalog the differences.)
"Hi," Archie says, but neither of you are looking at him.
David's watching you, slow and calculative, and for a second, you think he might--
"Ever thought about joining a gym?" he says, instead. His eyes are dark, hooded, and you feel that unwanted surge of heat all over again. "Might be a good idea."
Archie winces on autopilot, appalled, makes to apologize.
You barely even notice.
(It's hard not to look at him, impossible, and you think that at one point, maybe, you forgot you had to stop.
And then he'd cornered you in the dressing room.
"Arch?" you'd asked, that first time, and, "Why are you--"
"Who knew you'd be a fan of stupid questions," he'd said.)
Yeah, you think. Who knew.