fic: "the broken lights on the freeway" | cookleta, pg13
So here it is, my first official Cookleta fic to be posted. I didn't intend my first foray into this fandom to be so angst-ridden, but you can blame isvirgil, who said (and I quote), "I would like to receive a Cookleta breakup fic. The angsty, painful kind that's all the more painful because it is natural yet completely wrong."
So this is all her fault, is what I'm saying. :)
title: the broken lights on the freeway (left me here alone)
fandom: American Idol RPF
pairings/characters: cookleta
word count: ~2,300
rating: pg-13
disclaimer: I don't own either David, or anything, really. D:
summary: sometimes things just don't work out like you want them to.
warnings: unresolved angst.
notes: for isvirgil, who basically coerced me into writing a breakup!fic because she is a horrible, horrible person who likes to cause emotional pain. shame on you, v. (i ♥ you, though, against all reason. happy birthday, bb. ♥♥)
there is also a small soundtrack that I made, also for isvirgil's birthday, which can be found here. (I picked songs which I thought would be your taste, and still fit the story.)
the broken lights on the freeway (left me here alone)
"So, what does this mean?" David finally asks, his voice hoarse and quiet from shouting. It takes a lot to say it out loud. He knows exactly what this means.
Cook's seated across the room (they'd both realized a while ago that the distance between was probably necessary), his back and shoulders wearily rounded, his hands gripped tensely together, held rigid against his mouth.
David can't look at him for long, and unfixes his gaze to rest on an undetermined point near the burgundy curtains of their bedroom. They flutter idly above a vent, a steady hum of warm, processed air.
He hears Cook inhale shakily, piercingly loud in the stifling silence.
David feels lightheaded, a tense pressure pinching behind his eyes.
"I really thought..." Cook trails off, his voice thick, and David screws his eyes shut and digs his nails against the side of his leg, through the dark denim of his jeans, as hard as he can.
"Yeah," David says, after a beat, his voice impressively unwavering. He takes a slow, shallow breathe in, and tries not to choke. "I thought so, too."
**
It began with a short article in some B-list tabloid.
(That's totally not true, though - things had been falling apart for a while, and wasn't anyone's fault that this one thing happened to carry just enough weight to break everything apart. It wasn't anyone's fault that they'd somehow wandered down a dead-end path, or that neither of them was very good at planning for the future.)
The article wasn't even bad, is the ironic part; it was actually just a silly thing, with the headline "Nine Couples We Love!" They were number five on the list, with a small blurb and a picture that someone had snapped of them last summer, holding hands and walking Dublin on his red, chewed up leash.
These media-labeled soulmates have been together for almost half a decade, the blurb said cheerfully, and we couldn't be happier for them! We're just asking that we get invited to the wedding when the Davids decide to tie the knot!
**
They had moved in together after about a year, having survived confrontations with their families and their friends, and come out the other end relatively unscathed. Moving in together had been easy in comparison; a smooth merging of their lives which had been so closely intertwined anyway.
It had taken a week, four days, and six and a half hours to move most of David's stuff into Cook's modest house in L.A., put the rest in storage, and hand over the keys of David's apartment. To celebrate, they had settled into Cook's sofa, ordered pizza, and watched a marathon of Pixar movies.
David had fallen asleep halfway through Toy Story with his head pillowed on Cook's chest, their fingers tangled together loosely. He had woken up a couple hours later to a low rumbling in his ear, the product of Cook's almost-indiscernible humming.
He had lifted his head, blinking blearily against the muted glow of the television. Cook was smiling at him, his eyes drooping sleepily. And David had arched forward and kissed him, then; Cook still humming lightly in the back of his throat, his grip on David's hips secure and his palms warm through layers of clothing. David had felt the soft, smooth curve of Cook's smile, fond and warm, and had let his eyes flutter shut.
They had pulled away after a minute, and Cook had rested their foreheads together, still smiling as David had reached up to drape his arms over Cook's shoulders.
"I love you," David had said, after a beat, his eyes still contentedly closed, and had tilted his head closer so that they were cheek-to-cheek. It hadn't been the first time that they'd said it, by far, but when David had opened his eyes, Cook had been grinning big at him, his thumb rubbing soft circles on David's hipbone.
"I love you back," Cook had said, happiness rumbling low and warm and thick on his tongue.
**
That night Cook sleeps in one of the guest bedrooms. David's not even sure which one, and he doesn't allow himself to get up and find out.
David has trouble sleeping, for various little reasons (the bed's too big, the sheets are rumpled, the pillows are lumpy) and one big reason (the bed is too big).
David lies on his side of the mattress, huddled under the thick comforter, and manages to drift in and out of consciousness a couple times. He wakes up abruptly, a little after seven in the morning, violently clenching a handful of bedsheet, his closed fists trembling.
Strands of pre-dawn light have found their way around the thick curtains, and David stares at the way they fall across the ceiling, hoping to find an answer.
**
David remembers a specific date they'd had, about eight months in, when they had gone to a concert on one of the rare nights that neither of them was working. ('Date' is a loose term - they are almost never conventionally romantic, and even then it's usually by accident.)
(Cook pokes David in the belly, right beneath his ribs, and laughs when he squirms. "I still don't think this is a good idea, strategically," he says with a mock-pout.
David rolls his eyes, grabbing Cook's hand with one of his and tangling their fingers together, out of habit. "I already promised that I wouldn't run off with John Mayer," he says. It's almost a drawl - a testament to the amount of time they've spent together.
Cook's trying not to laugh, David can tell, but he puts on his best serious face. "What if he proposed to you, huh? Onstage. Don't tell me you could possibly say no to that."
David smiles at him. "Actually, I think you would want me to tell you that. For your sake, I mean," he clarifies, and squeezes Cook's hand when Cook starts to laugh.)
Afterwards, they had put on their sunglasses and gone through the drive-thru at Wendy's - Cook making funny faces when David had tried to place their order in his politest voice.
Back at Cook's house, they had ended up sprawled out in the living room, Cook's head pillowed in David's lap. Something had been playing on the radio, a swaying melody and a soft voice, some lyrics about love.
David remembers watching Cook's eyes close, and touching Cook's hair, his jaw. There had been burger wrappers scattered across the carpet. Cook had hummed at him, rumbly and sleepy, and David had leaned back against the foot of the sofa, contented to let the silence stretch.
"I think I would say yes," David had whispered into the quiet room, awhile later, "if you asked."
Cook was already asleep.
**
David calls his assistant at noon, and asks her to look into getting him a new apartment, as soon as possible, please. He can tell that she wants to ask questions, but Karen knows better and agrees, her voice carefully neutral. "I'll let you know when I find something."
"Thank you," David says, genuinely grateful, and hangs up. He and Cook haven't talked about who's going to live where, but it had been Cook's house to begin with, so.
David looks around the room, at their bed and their shared closet space and the door leading to their bathroom (they'd painted it green when David moved in).
He doesn't think that he could stay here, regardless.
**
David remembers a day a couple of weeks ago, in February, when he'd woken up in the familiar cradle of Cook's arms, both of them bundled under layers of blankets, and nothing had happened.
David's arms hadn't instinctively tightened around Cook's torso; his heart hadn't sped up at the sight of Cook's slack face in the cool morning light.
David had carefully untangled himself from the sheets, acutely aware of the moment when he could no longer smell Cook's distinct scent, musky and warm. David had gotten dressed without any particular urge to crawl back under the covers.
**
Cook had been the first to read the article, although both of their assistants had stuck the thing into their respective press clips, as usual.
He'd come barging into David's office without warning. David hadn't even batted an eye; had simply closed the notebook he'd been writing in and shifted in his seat to balance out the weight for when Cook came up and leaned on the back of it.
"Someday we're gonna beat out Brangelina," Cook had said, and plopped his laptop down in front of David's face.
They had both laughed at the expression on David's face as he scanned the article. "This is so ridiculous," David said, making another face.
"I wonder how they'd react if we actually invited them," Cook had chuckled, leaning over David's chair, his chin rested on his head. There was a stretch of silence, while David looked at the picture again, part of his brain already drifting back to his work.
"We should elope," Cook had said, suddenly.
David completely didn't comprehend it for about ten seconds. "What," he had said when he did, almost taking Cook out by the chin when he'd abruptly turned his head. "But, you sound serious," David had said, flailing a little.
Cook had laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. "I'll be honest, that's not the response I was hoping for."
"You sound serious," David had repeated, bypassing Cook's attempted joke, his eyes still widened with shock. "Are you serious?"
David had watched as Cook leaned down, kneeling to the floor with his hands resting gently on David's legs.
"I am dead serious," Cook had said, with a tender smile and sincerity in his eyes. "Archie, will you marry me?"
David had rested his hands on top of Cook's, his fingertips trembling.
"I don't think I can."
**
What had followed was the longest argument David had ever had.
"So, we don't have a future," Cook had said, finally, his voice resigned and bitter, tinged with anger and hurt.
There wasn't really an easy answer, but that's what they'd decided that it all boiled down to, after several hours of terse words and frustrated silences, while Cook had slammed his fist uselessly into the wall and David had (mostly) successfully kept from crying.
David wasn't ready for marriage. Cook was thirty-two, he wanted to have kids soon; David was only twenty-four, he hadn't even thought about having kids. David wanted to focus on his music; Cook would readily put his career on hold for a family.
The idea of getting married to Cook wasn't a foreign thought - it had always seemed wonderful, in a distant, cheerful sort of way. But then, faced with the reality of such a fierce commitment; love and dedication and unwavering trust--
It hadn't felt right. David hadn't felt ready.
"We don't have a future," David had repeated quietly, resignedly into the terse air of their bedroom. It hadn't sounded any better the second time.
**
It surprises David, how painful it is to extricate their lives from one another. It feels like they're getting divorced or something. A break up sounds so trivial, not for people who've spent five years together.
David almost wishes that they were getting divorced - it seems too easy this way, and some secretly masochistic part of him wants to prolong the pain - it seems like it's what they deserve, what their relationship deserves for leading them into a dead end.
It had taken a week, four days, and six and a half hours when David had moved in. It takes only two days and four hours for both of them to move out.
(David argues - in the tense, quiet voice that he uses around the house, now - that it's ridiculous for both of them to move out.
"Then you can stay," Cook says, determinedly keeping his eyes turned away. "Because I sure as hell can't."
David bristles at that, and snaps, "The house isn't going to be condemned just because we're breaking up."
The air seems to get a little thicker every time it's said aloud.
David can see Cook deflating, from the corner of his eye (he's trying not to look, but it's a hard habit to break). (He feels bad, because it's not like he wants to stay here either). When Cook speaks, it sounds tired and small.
"It feels like it.")
David sits in his shiny, new apartment on the rich, leather couch. Karen did a great job, as usual. There's a full set of brand new dishes in the kitchen, and food in the fridge, and sheets on the bed, and the bathroom is even painted (it's a pale, impartial yellow, and it makes David sick).
He pulls his legs up and curls into the corner of the unfamiliar couch, places his head against the cold leather.
**
Later, David will remember the last time he kisses Cook, standing outside of their former home, David's luggage in the back of his car.
"Um, I'll get Karen to get the rest of my stuff," David had said, his head bowed, to avoid looking directly at Cook.
"David," Cook had said, low, but urgent.
David looked up, and Cook placed his open hand on the side of David's neck, his thumb tucked tightly into the space right behind David's jaw. David could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, fluttering frantically right underneath Cook's palm.
David knew, then, that he was going to be fine (they were both going to be fine, alright, David knew it for a fact), but was a little harder to breathe, anyway. There was a clenching in his chest.
Cook pulled David closer, then, and hugged him. "I still love you, you know," he had said fiercely, into David's hair. "I mean it."
David gripped Cook's shirt, nodding. "I know, I - me too."
**
Later, David will get off of the couch, and go into his new, single-person bedroom and unpack his things.
.end
author's notes.
1. despite the short length, this was an incredibly difficult fic to write, and even though I knew exactly what was going to happen, the process was slow and painful. in all honesty, I ship these two so hard that it feels unnatural to have to break them up.
2. the title comes from the song "broken" by lifehouse, which is on the companion soundtrack to this fic.
3. cook is hard for me to write, for some reason. he doesn't seem to like cooperating with me very much. :[ why, cook, whyy?
4. I will very much likely play around some more in this fandom; I have a couple half-finished fics laying around, including a Christmas!au fic, as well as a superhero!au and a random piece that isn't going anywhere but has somehow managed to be over 5k. so look out for those. ♥
5. happy birthday, V. major love for, well, the past eleven years of awesome. (holy crap, that's a long time.) ♥♥♥♥♥
6. thanks to everyone who actually read all of this. :)
So this is all her fault, is what I'm saying. :)
title: the broken lights on the freeway (left me here alone)
fandom: American Idol RPF
pairings/characters: cookleta
word count: ~2,300
rating: pg-13
disclaimer: I don't own either David, or anything, really. D:
summary: sometimes things just don't work out like you want them to.
warnings: unresolved angst.
notes: for isvirgil, who basically coerced me into writing a breakup!fic because she is a horrible, horrible person who likes to cause emotional pain. shame on you, v. (i ♥ you, though, against all reason. happy birthday, bb. ♥♥)
there is also a small soundtrack that I made, also for isvirgil's birthday, which can be found here. (I picked songs which I thought would be your taste, and still fit the story.)
the broken lights on the freeway (left me here alone)
"So, what does this mean?" David finally asks, his voice hoarse and quiet from shouting. It takes a lot to say it out loud. He knows exactly what this means.
Cook's seated across the room (they'd both realized a while ago that the distance between was probably necessary), his back and shoulders wearily rounded, his hands gripped tensely together, held rigid against his mouth.
David can't look at him for long, and unfixes his gaze to rest on an undetermined point near the burgundy curtains of their bedroom. They flutter idly above a vent, a steady hum of warm, processed air.
He hears Cook inhale shakily, piercingly loud in the stifling silence.
David feels lightheaded, a tense pressure pinching behind his eyes.
"I really thought..." Cook trails off, his voice thick, and David screws his eyes shut and digs his nails against the side of his leg, through the dark denim of his jeans, as hard as he can.
"Yeah," David says, after a beat, his voice impressively unwavering. He takes a slow, shallow breathe in, and tries not to choke. "I thought so, too."
**
It began with a short article in some B-list tabloid.
(That's totally not true, though - things had been falling apart for a while, and wasn't anyone's fault that this one thing happened to carry just enough weight to break everything apart. It wasn't anyone's fault that they'd somehow wandered down a dead-end path, or that neither of them was very good at planning for the future.)
The article wasn't even bad, is the ironic part; it was actually just a silly thing, with the headline "Nine Couples We Love!" They were number five on the list, with a small blurb and a picture that someone had snapped of them last summer, holding hands and walking Dublin on his red, chewed up leash.
These media-labeled soulmates have been together for almost half a decade, the blurb said cheerfully, and we couldn't be happier for them! We're just asking that we get invited to the wedding when the Davids decide to tie the knot!
**
They had moved in together after about a year, having survived confrontations with their families and their friends, and come out the other end relatively unscathed. Moving in together had been easy in comparison; a smooth merging of their lives which had been so closely intertwined anyway.
It had taken a week, four days, and six and a half hours to move most of David's stuff into Cook's modest house in L.A., put the rest in storage, and hand over the keys of David's apartment. To celebrate, they had settled into Cook's sofa, ordered pizza, and watched a marathon of Pixar movies.
David had fallen asleep halfway through Toy Story with his head pillowed on Cook's chest, their fingers tangled together loosely. He had woken up a couple hours later to a low rumbling in his ear, the product of Cook's almost-indiscernible humming.
He had lifted his head, blinking blearily against the muted glow of the television. Cook was smiling at him, his eyes drooping sleepily. And David had arched forward and kissed him, then; Cook still humming lightly in the back of his throat, his grip on David's hips secure and his palms warm through layers of clothing. David had felt the soft, smooth curve of Cook's smile, fond and warm, and had let his eyes flutter shut.
They had pulled away after a minute, and Cook had rested their foreheads together, still smiling as David had reached up to drape his arms over Cook's shoulders.
"I love you," David had said, after a beat, his eyes still contentedly closed, and had tilted his head closer so that they were cheek-to-cheek. It hadn't been the first time that they'd said it, by far, but when David had opened his eyes, Cook had been grinning big at him, his thumb rubbing soft circles on David's hipbone.
"I love you back," Cook had said, happiness rumbling low and warm and thick on his tongue.
**
That night Cook sleeps in one of the guest bedrooms. David's not even sure which one, and he doesn't allow himself to get up and find out.
David has trouble sleeping, for various little reasons (the bed's too big, the sheets are rumpled, the pillows are lumpy) and one big reason (the bed is too big).
David lies on his side of the mattress, huddled under the thick comforter, and manages to drift in and out of consciousness a couple times. He wakes up abruptly, a little after seven in the morning, violently clenching a handful of bedsheet, his closed fists trembling.
Strands of pre-dawn light have found their way around the thick curtains, and David stares at the way they fall across the ceiling, hoping to find an answer.
**
David remembers a specific date they'd had, about eight months in, when they had gone to a concert on one of the rare nights that neither of them was working. ('Date' is a loose term - they are almost never conventionally romantic, and even then it's usually by accident.)
(Cook pokes David in the belly, right beneath his ribs, and laughs when he squirms. "I still don't think this is a good idea, strategically," he says with a mock-pout.
David rolls his eyes, grabbing Cook's hand with one of his and tangling their fingers together, out of habit. "I already promised that I wouldn't run off with John Mayer," he says. It's almost a drawl - a testament to the amount of time they've spent together.
Cook's trying not to laugh, David can tell, but he puts on his best serious face. "What if he proposed to you, huh? Onstage. Don't tell me you could possibly say no to that."
David smiles at him. "Actually, I think you would want me to tell you that. For your sake, I mean," he clarifies, and squeezes Cook's hand when Cook starts to laugh.)
Afterwards, they had put on their sunglasses and gone through the drive-thru at Wendy's - Cook making funny faces when David had tried to place their order in his politest voice.
Back at Cook's house, they had ended up sprawled out in the living room, Cook's head pillowed in David's lap. Something had been playing on the radio, a swaying melody and a soft voice, some lyrics about love.
David remembers watching Cook's eyes close, and touching Cook's hair, his jaw. There had been burger wrappers scattered across the carpet. Cook had hummed at him, rumbly and sleepy, and David had leaned back against the foot of the sofa, contented to let the silence stretch.
"I think I would say yes," David had whispered into the quiet room, awhile later, "if you asked."
Cook was already asleep.
**
David calls his assistant at noon, and asks her to look into getting him a new apartment, as soon as possible, please. He can tell that she wants to ask questions, but Karen knows better and agrees, her voice carefully neutral. "I'll let you know when I find something."
"Thank you," David says, genuinely grateful, and hangs up. He and Cook haven't talked about who's going to live where, but it had been Cook's house to begin with, so.
David looks around the room, at their bed and their shared closet space and the door leading to their bathroom (they'd painted it green when David moved in).
He doesn't think that he could stay here, regardless.
**
David remembers a day a couple of weeks ago, in February, when he'd woken up in the familiar cradle of Cook's arms, both of them bundled under layers of blankets, and nothing had happened.
David's arms hadn't instinctively tightened around Cook's torso; his heart hadn't sped up at the sight of Cook's slack face in the cool morning light.
David had carefully untangled himself from the sheets, acutely aware of the moment when he could no longer smell Cook's distinct scent, musky and warm. David had gotten dressed without any particular urge to crawl back under the covers.
**
Cook had been the first to read the article, although both of their assistants had stuck the thing into their respective press clips, as usual.
He'd come barging into David's office without warning. David hadn't even batted an eye; had simply closed the notebook he'd been writing in and shifted in his seat to balance out the weight for when Cook came up and leaned on the back of it.
"Someday we're gonna beat out Brangelina," Cook had said, and plopped his laptop down in front of David's face.
They had both laughed at the expression on David's face as he scanned the article. "This is so ridiculous," David said, making another face.
"I wonder how they'd react if we actually invited them," Cook had chuckled, leaning over David's chair, his chin rested on his head. There was a stretch of silence, while David looked at the picture again, part of his brain already drifting back to his work.
"We should elope," Cook had said, suddenly.
David completely didn't comprehend it for about ten seconds. "What," he had said when he did, almost taking Cook out by the chin when he'd abruptly turned his head. "But, you sound serious," David had said, flailing a little.
Cook had laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. "I'll be honest, that's not the response I was hoping for."
"You sound serious," David had repeated, bypassing Cook's attempted joke, his eyes still widened with shock. "Are you serious?"
David had watched as Cook leaned down, kneeling to the floor with his hands resting gently on David's legs.
"I am dead serious," Cook had said, with a tender smile and sincerity in his eyes. "Archie, will you marry me?"
David had rested his hands on top of Cook's, his fingertips trembling.
"I don't think I can."
**
What had followed was the longest argument David had ever had.
"So, we don't have a future," Cook had said, finally, his voice resigned and bitter, tinged with anger and hurt.
There wasn't really an easy answer, but that's what they'd decided that it all boiled down to, after several hours of terse words and frustrated silences, while Cook had slammed his fist uselessly into the wall and David had (mostly) successfully kept from crying.
David wasn't ready for marriage. Cook was thirty-two, he wanted to have kids soon; David was only twenty-four, he hadn't even thought about having kids. David wanted to focus on his music; Cook would readily put his career on hold for a family.
The idea of getting married to Cook wasn't a foreign thought - it had always seemed wonderful, in a distant, cheerful sort of way. But then, faced with the reality of such a fierce commitment; love and dedication and unwavering trust--
It hadn't felt right. David hadn't felt ready.
"We don't have a future," David had repeated quietly, resignedly into the terse air of their bedroom. It hadn't sounded any better the second time.
**
It surprises David, how painful it is to extricate their lives from one another. It feels like they're getting divorced or something. A break up sounds so trivial, not for people who've spent five years together.
David almost wishes that they were getting divorced - it seems too easy this way, and some secretly masochistic part of him wants to prolong the pain - it seems like it's what they deserve, what their relationship deserves for leading them into a dead end.
It had taken a week, four days, and six and a half hours when David had moved in. It takes only two days and four hours for both of them to move out.
(David argues - in the tense, quiet voice that he uses around the house, now - that it's ridiculous for both of them to move out.
"Then you can stay," Cook says, determinedly keeping his eyes turned away. "Because I sure as hell can't."
David bristles at that, and snaps, "The house isn't going to be condemned just because we're breaking up."
The air seems to get a little thicker every time it's said aloud.
David can see Cook deflating, from the corner of his eye (he's trying not to look, but it's a hard habit to break). (He feels bad, because it's not like he wants to stay here either). When Cook speaks, it sounds tired and small.
"It feels like it.")
David sits in his shiny, new apartment on the rich, leather couch. Karen did a great job, as usual. There's a full set of brand new dishes in the kitchen, and food in the fridge, and sheets on the bed, and the bathroom is even painted (it's a pale, impartial yellow, and it makes David sick).
He pulls his legs up and curls into the corner of the unfamiliar couch, places his head against the cold leather.
**
Later, David will remember the last time he kisses Cook, standing outside of their former home, David's luggage in the back of his car.
"Um, I'll get Karen to get the rest of my stuff," David had said, his head bowed, to avoid looking directly at Cook.
"David," Cook had said, low, but urgent.
David looked up, and Cook placed his open hand on the side of David's neck, his thumb tucked tightly into the space right behind David's jaw. David could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, fluttering frantically right underneath Cook's palm.
David knew, then, that he was going to be fine (they were both going to be fine, alright, David knew it for a fact), but was a little harder to breathe, anyway. There was a clenching in his chest.
Cook pulled David closer, then, and hugged him. "I still love you, you know," he had said fiercely, into David's hair. "I mean it."
David gripped Cook's shirt, nodding. "I know, I - me too."
**
Later, David will get off of the couch, and go into his new, single-person bedroom and unpack his things.
.end
author's notes.
1. despite the short length, this was an incredibly difficult fic to write, and even though I knew exactly what was going to happen, the process was slow and painful. in all honesty, I ship these two so hard that it feels unnatural to have to break them up.
2. the title comes from the song "broken" by lifehouse, which is on the companion soundtrack to this fic.
3. cook is hard for me to write, for some reason. he doesn't seem to like cooperating with me very much. :[ why, cook, whyy?
4. I will very much likely play around some more in this fandom; I have a couple half-finished fics laying around, including a Christmas!au fic, as well as a superhero!au and a random piece that isn't going anywhere but has somehow managed to be over 5k. so look out for those. ♥
5. happy birthday, V. major love for, well, the past eleven years of awesome. (holy crap, that's a long time.) ♥♥♥♥♥
6. thanks to everyone who actually read all of this. :)