His fingers flex as the urge to grab hold of Freddie, hold him tight again and not let go this time, washes over him. Cook steels himself and forces it to pass, but his fingers still itch with the need. They let go as he turns and find new purchase, both hands cupping Freddie's face and forcing his gaze.
"It's a new fucking day, man. We can change things." Cook's not one for hope. Optimism is bullshit. It's just lying to yourself so you can get through another day. With Effy, with Effy for about five fucking blissful seconds, he thought he could do better. He thought things would work out. But that was shit, Cook being a fucking idiot once again and getting pissed on. Now she's back, lurking in the shadows, flashing across Cook's thoughts, and that threat of destruction looms with her. But if he can just hold onto Freddie, get him to hold onto Cook, maybe it didn't have to end. Maybe they could be okay, like they once were, like they were meant to be.
He needs to believe things can change and he needs Freddie to believe it, too. Shit only works when they're together.
"We can figure it out. You and me. You can do what the fuck you like, but I need you with me Freds."
There are some things Cook won't do, not ever, because he's Cook and that means something. But with Freddie, that's all bullshit. They both know it and it's not worth pretending otherwise right now. "Please," he whispers, one of those words he never says, never means half as much as he does right now.
Even now, maybe especially now, there are moments when Cook's sheer, unbridled intensity hits Freddie like a blow. This has come on so fast, fingers at his face and those blue eyes so sharp and sudden in front of him that Freddie's breath hitches before he can steady himself.
"Look at me," he says, and lifts his own hands to frame Cook's neck. "Fucking look at me." Moisture clings to his lashes as he stares back at Cook through the mist and wills him to believe what he's saying, what he's been saying since he first showed up bloodied and lost on the beach.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here, Cook, and I fucking love you. Okay?"
It's been a long fucking day and what Cook needs is some place safe. In his mind, Freddie is that safe place. Even when they fought, when things were shit, it was that shed in Freddie's backyard that Cook crept back to. Curled up on a busted little couch, surrounded by keepsakes and trash and discarded toys and joints. That was home to him. Now, home is wherever Freddie is.
Why does it all have to be so fucking terrifying?
But underneath that, maybe supporting the fear, there's love. Love for a guy who walked away from Cook but also came back. Freddie always comes back to him, somehow.
Cook surges forward and presses their mouths together in a kiss. It's not the first nor the last time he's ever done this, overcome by emotions he cannot express, but there's a gentleness to it, after the first flare of force fades that is beyond Cook's understanding. It's there and Cook lets it be, whatever the consequences.
The kiss is perhaps the least unexpected part of all this. Cook exists within the physical, can't truly separate thoughts and feelings from action regardless of the consequences. To Freddie, it sometimes seems like Cook can't be still, as if he's terrified that if he stops moving, all of the things he's been running from his entire life will catch up with him.
It isn't an entirely unfounded fear, all things considered.
The way it lingers, though, and tapers into something softer is new, puts Freddie's heart firmly in his throat and a fine tremble back into his fingers where they rest against Cook's skin. It ought to be scary, this, and for a moment it is, but that's all residual. Force of habit from a life that pushed both of them out of itself, one way or the other.
A quiet, keening sound pushes up from his throat unbidden, muffled against Cook's mouth, but Freddie doesn't falter, doesn't draw away. Cook has seen him laid bare in so many ways, can strip him down to bone with a few casual words, and this- This thing, this heartbeat they share that is forever drawing them together until they clash again…He can't deny it. Won't. Maybe doesn't know how to, anymore.
Cook has kissed him half a dozen times, maybe more, enough times that it's to the point that Freddie seems immune to it. He acts like Cook can't move him; sometimes Cook believes that and sometimes he doesn't. But while no reaction can count as a reaction in its own way, Freddie's never reacted like this before. He's never kissed back.
Cook seizes onto it before his brain can think better of it or Freddie can remember himself. He ignores the voices inside his head telling him this is an error in judgment on Freds' part, that he will apologize in two seconds, pull away and act like this never happened. Cook slides his fingers back into Freddie's hair and holds him to the kiss. He feels like he wants to fucking devour him, all that cold loneliness burning away in a sudden burst of heat and desire, of hope of feelings requited, but he restrains himself. James Cook knows restraint, yes, but only just. He deepens the kiss, asks for more of Freddie with soft lips and shy tongue and doesn't force it. He's smart enough to know they're treading on unstable ground here and Cook doesn't want to break anything for once.
All of this has been there, longer than Freddie can recall, a low pulse beneath the foundation of their friendship that he's always taken pains to never acknowledge, not completely. They have toed the edge of that precipice as closely as they dared without falling over it, and he doesn't know why, really. Why he was so afraid to let this thing simply be before, why that same fear keeps trying to creep in now even as his long fingers shift to frame Cook's face and his tongue presses past ready lips into the warmth of a mouth that, by all rights, he really ought to know better than he does.
When their hips clash, though, Freddie startles them apart, his skin flushed despite the cold water clattering across their skin. Stupidly, he feels suddenly that he might cry and is grateful for the shower in the event he does, not wanting Cook to see and think it's anything to do with him.
On the contrary, it's absolutely everything to do with him.
"You still need to go to hospital," Freddie whispers, because he's not forgot, because it fucking matters, regardless of what Cook might say. Because he wants this but he's scared, and he needs Cook to put him in motion, one way or another.
He should feel slighted when Freddie pulls away, but he doesn't. With anyone else, Cook's insecurities would have fallen down on him like an avalanche, sending him running away lest he get caught, trapped, hurt. But with everything warring inside of him, he doesn't have the energy to feel insulted. His head's too fuzzy with the exhilarating notion that Freddie kissed him back to dwell on the fact that he pulled away. Of course he pulled away. They don't know what the fuck they're doing.
Cook lets his hands fall, palms skimming over the sharp planes of Freddie's shoulders and chest until they settle, warm and wet and heavy on his hips. His eyes never leave Freddie's face. He's searching for something there, something beyond reassurance or doubts. He knows. He knows Freddie loves him and he knows this, this thing starting to build up between them could explode, but that's not quite what he's looking for.
Water cascades onto his shoulders. He licks his lips, catching tiny droplets on his tongue and finds the words he fears, the crux of this issue that Freddie doesn't even know they're dealing with, yet.
"Effy's here." The words come out flat, anti-climatic compared to all that they mean. They're a test, in a way, and Cook's not letting Freddie cheat by letting him see his answer.
Gone deathly still, he stares back at Cook as his expression twists with confusion and pain, not simply because of what's been said, but how, and the slowly dawning realisation that Cook knew this before he'd even walked through the door. He's done this entirely on purpose, and Freddie fucking knows it.
"What?" he exhales, unwilling for the moment to believe that it's as bad as it sounds despite the fact that he can't see any way around it.
It is all crumbling down around them. Cook should have run and hid. He makes up for lost time now, removes his hands from Freddie's body and searches the ground with his gaze.
They couldn't even pretend for five seconds, could they?
"It's all fucked," he says, already mourning, quietly, resignedly, what they never really had. Not just between himself and Freddie but generally. A little shred of fucking peace amidst a world of shit. "Isn't it?"
Cook looks up before Freddie can answer. He wants to hear differently, but he's confident he'll never get what he wants. "She's from my time. After." After what should be clear enough. It's the same thing that's been foremost in both their thoughts but unspoken this past week.
"Nothing's gonna fucking work, is it?" And then he wants to cry, only then, when he thinks it's as sure as a done deal. His bottom lip curves, weakens like maybe he just might start sobbing, but he presses his lips together tightly and shakes his head. He'll get his answer dry-fucking-eyed.
It's too much. This is too fucking much, and whether it's teenage petulance or simple self-preservation, all Freddie can think is that it's all so unfair. Unfair that he'd had to die for Effy, that he'd resigned himself to never seeing her again, unfair that she probably thinks he completely fucking abandoned her. It's unfair that Cook knew all of this but chose this moment to tell him, like Freddie is so unreliable that he needs to be tested, needs to be opened up and then cut down just to see what he'll do. It's really fucking unfair that for once in his life he thought he could get by a little while not having to be the responsible one, the steady one, thought he could let someone else take care of him. It's all right back where it was before, and despite everything else, he's got to prop Cook up, too, when by rights he should be angry and hurt by his betrayal.
"Stop," Freddie says, voice rough as his own face crumples. "Just fucking stop," he pleads, and a sob hitches up from his chest. He takes two backwards steps and then just sits down and cries, his back against the wall of the shower stall and knees drawn up to his chest.
It's not the same game as back home. At some point while they were growing up, their playground became a battlefield. Stupid, childish battles, nothing like real war, but words can hurt much worse than any weapon. It's instinct that guides Cook, and the belief that no matter what he will be the one who ends up getting hurt. Lash out first, do some damage, maybe the responding blow won't hurt so much.
But things have changed. The rules, the playing field. Maybe even the players. He doesn't feel exactly like the boy he was, and Freddie's definitely not. He can blame Effy right now for the tears on Freddie's face, for every broken bit of him, but his stomach twists up with guilt. Silently, Cook turns off the shower and moves to kneel beside Freddie.
He won't say he's sorry, not when his heart's torn up like this, not when the only reason they're in this mess right now is the two of them. But he cups the back of Freddie's neck and tilts him forward so Cook can press a hard kiss to his forehead.
"Does she know?" Freddie asks in a rasp as he turns sorrowful brown eyes back up to Cook. Both possibilities terrify him, and he can't help the brief but intense wish that everything could return to the way it was last week, yesterday, an hour ago. He loves Effy and would never abandon her, but that is exactly the problem. How can he be expected to heal, to feel something close to normal again, if he has to lie about what happened? Yet if she knew, the guilt could drive her mad.
Freddie would never acknowledge it, aloud or otherwise, but in the back of his mind he understands that all of this is far too much to place on the shoulders of a boy barely eighteen years old.
"No," he says, shaking his head. It was best, Cook had decided, for both of them, for all of them, and that's the answer he would stick to if pressed. But looking at Freddie now, Cook can't imagine the other boy arguing with him on this.
"I didn't tell her. She's from right where I left her. You've been gone.. but no one knows why." He doesn't say more, unsure of what Freddie wants to hear. That knowing gleam had been in her eyes when they spoke, that tingling sensation had gone up his spine making him think she saw through him. But guessing, theorizing might not help.
"She can't know," Freddie insists as he surges forward to clamp a hand over the damp skin of Cook's shoulder. "I don't want her to know. She'll blame herself, she'll think it's all her fault. She's always thinking it's all her fault," he hastily spits out, oblivious that he's still trembling.
"Promise me, Cook," he says, hands moving to frame to other boy's face. "Promise you'll not tell her. Not ever."
"It's a new fucking day, man. We can change things." Cook's not one for hope. Optimism is bullshit. It's just lying to yourself so you can get through another day. With Effy, with Effy for about five fucking blissful seconds, he thought he could do better. He thought things would work out. But that was shit, Cook being a fucking idiot once again and getting pissed on. Now she's back, lurking in the shadows, flashing across Cook's thoughts, and that threat of destruction looms with her. But if he can just hold onto Freddie, get him to hold onto Cook, maybe it didn't have to end. Maybe they could be okay, like they once were, like they were meant to be.
He needs to believe things can change and he needs Freddie to believe it, too. Shit only works when they're together.
"We can figure it out. You and me. You can do what the fuck you like, but I need you with me Freds."
There are some things Cook won't do, not ever, because he's Cook and that means something. But with Freddie, that's all bullshit. They both know it and it's not worth pretending otherwise right now. "Please," he whispers, one of those words he never says, never means half as much as he does right now.
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"Look at me," he says, and lifts his own hands to frame Cook's neck. "Fucking look at me." Moisture clings to his lashes as he stares back at Cook through the mist and wills him to believe what he's saying, what he's been saying since he first showed up bloodied and lost on the beach.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here, Cook, and I fucking love you. Okay?"
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Why does it all have to be so fucking terrifying?
But underneath that, maybe supporting the fear, there's love. Love for a guy who walked away from Cook but also came back. Freddie always comes back to him, somehow.
Cook surges forward and presses their mouths together in a kiss. It's not the first nor the last time he's ever done this, overcome by emotions he cannot express, but there's a gentleness to it, after the first flare of force fades that is beyond Cook's understanding. It's there and Cook lets it be, whatever the consequences.
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It isn't an entirely unfounded fear, all things considered.
The way it lingers, though, and tapers into something softer is new, puts Freddie's heart firmly in his throat and a fine tremble back into his fingers where they rest against Cook's skin. It ought to be scary, this, and for a moment it is, but that's all residual. Force of habit from a life that pushed both of them out of itself, one way or the other.
A quiet, keening sound pushes up from his throat unbidden, muffled against Cook's mouth, but Freddie doesn't falter, doesn't draw away. Cook has seen him laid bare in so many ways, can strip him down to bone with a few casual words, and this- This thing, this heartbeat they share that is forever drawing them together until they clash again…He can't deny it. Won't. Maybe doesn't know how to, anymore.
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Cook seizes onto it before his brain can think better of it or Freddie can remember himself. He ignores the voices inside his head telling him this is an error in judgment on Freds' part, that he will apologize in two seconds, pull away and act like this never happened. Cook slides his fingers back into Freddie's hair and holds him to the kiss. He feels like he wants to fucking devour him, all that cold loneliness burning away in a sudden burst of heat and desire, of hope of feelings requited, but he restrains himself. James Cook knows restraint, yes, but only just. He deepens the kiss, asks for more of Freddie with soft lips and shy tongue and doesn't force it. He's smart enough to know they're treading on unstable ground here and Cook doesn't want to break anything for once.
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When their hips clash, though, Freddie startles them apart, his skin flushed despite the cold water clattering across their skin. Stupidly, he feels suddenly that he might cry and is grateful for the shower in the event he does, not wanting Cook to see and think it's anything to do with him.
On the contrary, it's absolutely everything to do with him.
"You still need to go to hospital," Freddie whispers, because he's not forgot, because it fucking matters, regardless of what Cook might say. Because he wants this but he's scared, and he needs Cook to put him in motion, one way or another.
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Cook lets his hands fall, palms skimming over the sharp planes of Freddie's shoulders and chest until they settle, warm and wet and heavy on his hips. His eyes never leave Freddie's face. He's searching for something there, something beyond reassurance or doubts. He knows. He knows Freddie loves him and he knows this, this thing starting to build up between them could explode, but that's not quite what he's looking for.
Water cascades onto his shoulders. He licks his lips, catching tiny droplets on his tongue and finds the words he fears, the crux of this issue that Freddie doesn't even know they're dealing with, yet.
"Effy's here." The words come out flat, anti-climatic compared to all that they mean. They're a test, in a way, and Cook's not letting Freddie cheat by letting him see his answer.
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Gone deathly still, he stares back at Cook as his expression twists with confusion and pain, not simply because of what's been said, but how, and the slowly dawning realisation that Cook knew this before he'd even walked through the door. He's done this entirely on purpose, and Freddie fucking knows it.
"What?" he exhales, unwilling for the moment to believe that it's as bad as it sounds despite the fact that he can't see any way around it.
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They couldn't even pretend for five seconds, could they?
"It's all fucked," he says, already mourning, quietly, resignedly, what they never really had. Not just between himself and Freddie but generally. A little shred of fucking peace amidst a world of shit. "Isn't it?"
Cook looks up before Freddie can answer. He wants to hear differently, but he's confident he'll never get what he wants. "She's from my time. After." After what should be clear enough. It's the same thing that's been foremost in both their thoughts but unspoken this past week.
"Nothing's gonna fucking work, is it?" And then he wants to cry, only then, when he thinks it's as sure as a done deal. His bottom lip curves, weakens like maybe he just might start sobbing, but he presses his lips together tightly and shakes his head. He'll get his answer dry-fucking-eyed.
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"Stop," Freddie says, voice rough as his own face crumples. "Just fucking stop," he pleads, and a sob hitches up from his chest. He takes two backwards steps and then just sits down and cries, his back against the wall of the shower stall and knees drawn up to his chest.
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But things have changed. The rules, the playing field. Maybe even the players. He doesn't feel exactly like the boy he was, and Freddie's definitely not. He can blame Effy right now for the tears on Freddie's face, for every broken bit of him, but his stomach twists up with guilt. Silently, Cook turns off the shower and moves to kneel beside Freddie.
He won't say he's sorry, not when his heart's torn up like this, not when the only reason they're in this mess right now is the two of them. But he cups the back of Freddie's neck and tilts him forward so Cook can press a hard kiss to his forehead.
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Freddie would never acknowledge it, aloud or otherwise, but in the back of his mind he understands that all of this is far too much to place on the shoulders of a boy barely eighteen years old.
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"I didn't tell her. She's from right where I left her. You've been gone.. but no one knows why." He doesn't say more, unsure of what Freddie wants to hear. That knowing gleam had been in her eyes when they spoke, that tingling sensation had gone up his spine making him think she saw through him. But guessing, theorizing might not help.
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"Promise me, Cook," he says, hands moving to frame to other boy's face. "Promise you'll not tell her. Not ever."
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