Fic: Funeral, 3/3, Rated PG-13
Title: Funeral
Author: courts
Disclaimer: This never happened. And, for the record, I hope it doesn't. I'm making this all up.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Three days that he'll never forget.
Notes: This is the third of three prompts written as a trilogy of sorts that I am going to call Three, because the number plays a part in all of the stories. It deals with death, not of Cook or Archie, but just thought I should slap a warning on here. I hope this story doesn't come true. It's purely fiction.
-=-=-=-=-
Funeral
(one)
He didn't cry at the funeral. Which was weird, because he'd always been kind of a crier, in general. He teared up when he watched Bambi with his niece and had to hold his breath to keep from crying at his high school graduation and . . . Damn, don't even get started on American Idol. That whole show was basically him sobbing like a chick, swiping at his cheeks to keep his guyliner from running.
But, for whatever reason, he couldn't cry that day.
It was April and the snow had finally melted and the grass was green and the birds were singing. And Cook wished that the sky would open up and pour down on them, because maybe then he could cry for Adam.
David stood beside him during the service and held his hand. He didn't say anything and Cook was grateful. He didn't think there were any words worth saying right about then.
Later that night, after the earth had been filled in, Cook came back and dug a little hole in the freshly turned soil. He dropped a guitar pick in and covered it back over. "Love you," he murmured, but still he didn't cry.
(three)
There was a freak snowstorm that third year and the ground was covered in white. Cook didn't care, though. He sat down cross-legged on the layer of powder in front of the headstone and used a rock to till up the frozen ground enough to drop in the pick.
Just like last year, David stood under the tree a hundred feet away, watching. He'd shown up on Cook's doorstep both years, a few days before the anniversary. On the plane ride to Indiana, David had never let go of Cook's hand.
"He's here again, just like last year," David said to his brother. "Not sure why, but he keeps showing up and I can't say I hate it. It's nice, you know . . ." Cook sighed. "I miss you, Adam."
He looked down at the ground and wondered why his tears wouldn't come. Later, as the cab pulled from the curb, ferrying them back to the airport, David reached over and slipped his hand into Cook's.
(five)
He sank down to his knees in front of the familiar piece of granite and ran his fingers across the impressions in the stone, tracing the date and thinking back.
Five years seemed like such a long time. But then, sometimes, it seemed like yesterday. He tried not to remember the bad parts. The hospital rooms and the machines and the children standing beside the bed clutching at their father's fingers and his own father standing back and trying not to cry. All of those images were too much, even after five long years.
But the feel of David's hand at the small of his back, rubbing slow, even circles as his sobs turned to hiccups, that was one he could let himself remember. Or the smile that his brother gave him just before the last time he left for the hospital, the look of pride in his eyes as he told his little brother how much being in his life had meant to him. That one hurt, but he'd never let himself forget it, not even for a second.
Cook had come back here every year, burying a guitar pick in the hard ground and telling his big brother how much he missed him and thought about him and loved him. And, every year, David was there, too. He'd stand under the same tree and watch Cook from a distance, not invading his time there, yet still keeping a watchful eye.
"David's here, too, of course," Cook said aloud. "You know how I can't be trusted on my own, right?" he said with a chuckle. The laughter faded, though, and his face settled into a fond smile. "I'm not sure what I'd do without him, honestly. He's just . . . everything, you know? Yeah, of course you do. You always did," Cook said and suddenly he missed his brother so much, wanted him back so bad it hurt.
He lay down on the ground, which was still cold in April in Indiana, and rested his head just in front of the stone. A tear slid sideways down his cheek and down into the dirt. It was the first tear he'd cried for Adam in five years and, suddenly, it felt like no time had passed. It was like he was losing his brother all over again, that very day. "It's not fair," he choked out hoarsely as the tears continued to flow. "It's just not fair."
And then there were arms around his back, pulling him up and pressing him against a warm chest and he was crying softly against a familiar shoulder. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay," David soothed.
Cook cried until David's shirt was wet, his breath finally hitching as he struggled to calm himself down. He sat back, David's hand still resting on his forearm, and Cook looked back over his shoulder at his brother's name carved in stone. "I've never cried for him before," he admitted. "I don't know why, but since the day he . . . I haven't been able to."
David rubbed his hand up and down Cook's arm and said, "He knew that you loved him so much."
"I hope so," Cook said softly, his eyes still lingering on the shape of the letters.
"He did," David assured him.
"I'm in love with you," Cook said suddenly, still not turning around to face the other man. He hadn't planned to say it; it had just come out. They'd been friends for years and they'd both known that they had feelings for each other, but neither had ever bothered to put a name to it. Now, suddenly, Cook couldn't hold it in any longer.
He felt David's hand move up to rest between his shoulder blades. "I love you, too," he said softly.
When Cook turned around and met David's eyes, they both smiled. "Took us long enough, huh?" Cook quipped. David just curved his lips up and leaned forward to place a chaste kiss to Cook's mouth.
"Thanks," Cook said when they parted. "I mean, thanks for always being here for me. It's meant . . . it means a lot."
"I never thought of being anywhere else," David replied honestly.
They rose from the ground, Cook turning around and looking back at Adam's headstone. "I love you, bro," he said. Squeezing David's hand, he added, "We'll see you next year."
-=-=-=-=-
July 4, 2008
-=-=-=-=-
Author: courts
Disclaimer: This never happened. And, for the record, I hope it doesn't. I'm making this all up.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Three days that he'll never forget.
Notes: This is the third of three prompts written as a trilogy of sorts that I am going to call Three, because the number plays a part in all of the stories. It deals with death, not of Cook or Archie, but just thought I should slap a warning on here. I hope this story doesn't come true. It's purely fiction.
-=-=-=-=-
Funeral
(one)
He didn't cry at the funeral. Which was weird, because he'd always been kind of a crier, in general. He teared up when he watched Bambi with his niece and had to hold his breath to keep from crying at his high school graduation and . . . Damn, don't even get started on American Idol. That whole show was basically him sobbing like a chick, swiping at his cheeks to keep his guyliner from running.
But, for whatever reason, he couldn't cry that day.
It was April and the snow had finally melted and the grass was green and the birds were singing. And Cook wished that the sky would open up and pour down on them, because maybe then he could cry for Adam.
David stood beside him during the service and held his hand. He didn't say anything and Cook was grateful. He didn't think there were any words worth saying right about then.
Later that night, after the earth had been filled in, Cook came back and dug a little hole in the freshly turned soil. He dropped a guitar pick in and covered it back over. "Love you," he murmured, but still he didn't cry.
(three)
There was a freak snowstorm that third year and the ground was covered in white. Cook didn't care, though. He sat down cross-legged on the layer of powder in front of the headstone and used a rock to till up the frozen ground enough to drop in the pick.
Just like last year, David stood under the tree a hundred feet away, watching. He'd shown up on Cook's doorstep both years, a few days before the anniversary. On the plane ride to Indiana, David had never let go of Cook's hand.
"He's here again, just like last year," David said to his brother. "Not sure why, but he keeps showing up and I can't say I hate it. It's nice, you know . . ." Cook sighed. "I miss you, Adam."
He looked down at the ground and wondered why his tears wouldn't come. Later, as the cab pulled from the curb, ferrying them back to the airport, David reached over and slipped his hand into Cook's.
(five)
He sank down to his knees in front of the familiar piece of granite and ran his fingers across the impressions in the stone, tracing the date and thinking back.
Five years seemed like such a long time. But then, sometimes, it seemed like yesterday. He tried not to remember the bad parts. The hospital rooms and the machines and the children standing beside the bed clutching at their father's fingers and his own father standing back and trying not to cry. All of those images were too much, even after five long years.
But the feel of David's hand at the small of his back, rubbing slow, even circles as his sobs turned to hiccups, that was one he could let himself remember. Or the smile that his brother gave him just before the last time he left for the hospital, the look of pride in his eyes as he told his little brother how much being in his life had meant to him. That one hurt, but he'd never let himself forget it, not even for a second.
Cook had come back here every year, burying a guitar pick in the hard ground and telling his big brother how much he missed him and thought about him and loved him. And, every year, David was there, too. He'd stand under the same tree and watch Cook from a distance, not invading his time there, yet still keeping a watchful eye.
"David's here, too, of course," Cook said aloud. "You know how I can't be trusted on my own, right?" he said with a chuckle. The laughter faded, though, and his face settled into a fond smile. "I'm not sure what I'd do without him, honestly. He's just . . . everything, you know? Yeah, of course you do. You always did," Cook said and suddenly he missed his brother so much, wanted him back so bad it hurt.
He lay down on the ground, which was still cold in April in Indiana, and rested his head just in front of the stone. A tear slid sideways down his cheek and down into the dirt. It was the first tear he'd cried for Adam in five years and, suddenly, it felt like no time had passed. It was like he was losing his brother all over again, that very day. "It's not fair," he choked out hoarsely as the tears continued to flow. "It's just not fair."
And then there were arms around his back, pulling him up and pressing him against a warm chest and he was crying softly against a familiar shoulder. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay," David soothed.
Cook cried until David's shirt was wet, his breath finally hitching as he struggled to calm himself down. He sat back, David's hand still resting on his forearm, and Cook looked back over his shoulder at his brother's name carved in stone. "I've never cried for him before," he admitted. "I don't know why, but since the day he . . . I haven't been able to."
David rubbed his hand up and down Cook's arm and said, "He knew that you loved him so much."
"I hope so," Cook said softly, his eyes still lingering on the shape of the letters.
"He did," David assured him.
"I'm in love with you," Cook said suddenly, still not turning around to face the other man. He hadn't planned to say it; it had just come out. They'd been friends for years and they'd both known that they had feelings for each other, but neither had ever bothered to put a name to it. Now, suddenly, Cook couldn't hold it in any longer.
He felt David's hand move up to rest between his shoulder blades. "I love you, too," he said softly.
When Cook turned around and met David's eyes, they both smiled. "Took us long enough, huh?" Cook quipped. David just curved his lips up and leaned forward to place a chaste kiss to Cook's mouth.
"Thanks," Cook said when they parted. "I mean, thanks for always being here for me. It's meant . . . it means a lot."
"I never thought of being anywhere else," David replied honestly.
They rose from the ground, Cook turning around and looking back at Adam's headstone. "I love you, bro," he said. Squeezing David's hand, he added, "We'll see you next year."
-=-=-=-=-
July 4, 2008
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