Amidst The Chaos In The Mirror The Lies In Lipstick Red [Cookleta] [PG-13]
[title] Amidst The Chaos In The Mirror The Lies In Lipstick Red
[author] Lire Casander
[beta] princessleia04. Any remaining mistakes are my own fault.
[pairing] David Cook/David Archuleta
[rating] PG-13
[word count] 839
[summary] It's a twisted game, a brief & off-repeating prose that never seems to resonate, spin the finger of blame, it's always on the heart that kept on beating while the other pulled up lame
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor David Archuleta. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence. I do not own We're Only Honest When We're Sleeping either.
[warnings] Angst. *Implied infidelity*
[author's notes] Title and summary taken from David Cook's We're Only Honest When We're Sleeping.
[dedication] Written for wicked_music since she asked for angst from me. I hope this is angsty enough for you, darling, and I hope things start to look brighter for you soon.
The clothes don't fit in the suitcase but you don't care. You just keep throwing items messily into the open mouth of your suitcase, regardless of the overflowing state of your belongings. The pain is just too much to bear, cutting into you deeply, making your soul bleed from the ache, bringing tears to your eyes that should be dry after so many hours of bawling. You just square your jaw, settling an unbalanced pace as you keep walking in and out of the closet, leaving a river of scattered things in your wake.
When the last of your memories is stored away, you force the suitcase close, kneeing it as your jeans and the sleeves of your sweaters insist on breaking loose from their confinements. You pull the zipper up, grab the handle and wade through the wreck the house is right now, hours after you had a fit of frustration and blindness, an eternity after you barreled all the glasses and cutlery off from the table that had been waiting for him to come back.
The silence is broken by the steady taptaptap of the suitcase's wheels hitting the floor; you're dragging it towards the main door, a metaphor of your life just winding down to the nothingness he's reduced you to. You're so close, you can almost touch the knob, when it turns and the door opens. You jump backwards, startled, tripping over your suitcase and almost falling.
He is standing right there in front of you, tiredness in his features. You stumble back on your feet, ready to face him and whatever lie he has invented for you to buy it. This time, you have decided to go through the pain of leaving, if just for the sake of your own sanity.
"You're leaving," he states when he's done taking in the image of you and a suitcase, a scenario you never thought you'd star in.
You don't even try to deny it. He doesn't deserve an explanation, and you don't want to give him one, so you attempt to push your bigger frame past him. Sadly for you, he is blocking the exit.
"Why?" he asks, his big, puppy brown eyes throwing a plea. You blink away the tears that spring to your eyes, for he has some nerve, asking you when it's pretty obvious. "Don't you love me anymore?"
And it's the edge of desperation in his voice, the blurriness of his features under your watery gaze, that unleashes the anger in you, the pent-up emotions that war in you ever since you learned that he---he--- "You don't have the right to ask why anymore, Archie," you reply through gritted teeth, barely keeping your voice under control with all the undefined feelings swirling in your heart. "Not now, not ever again."
He reaches out, tries to caress your skin, but you're quick and retire your arm before he can make any contact - you know you won't be able to escape this trap if he manages to grasp your heart again.
"Cook," he begins.
"When were you going to tell me, Archie?" you demand harshly, jerking away from his soft fingertips that seek you still. "When were you going to tell me she wasn't a beard anymore?"
"It's not what you think," he attempts to say, but you are done with his false promises of a future that will forever be broken.
"You're marrying her!" you explode. The words fly out of your mouth before they can be filtered. "You're fucking marrying the girl who's supposed to be nothing but a fucking pantomime for the world to see! If it weren't enough with the press and those fucking paparazzi pictures of you two in different compromising situations, your parents sent me an invitation! An invitation, Archie! To my fucking house I haven't set foot in for the past three years since I've been living with you!"
"Cook, calm down," he coos. "Your blood pressure---"
"To hell with my health! You've broken me!" You're screaming your lungs out by now, not caring if the neighbors hear. "I have no heart to beat, can't you see it? I'm tired of being just your dirty little secret!"
He stares hopelessly at you as you finally push past him, shoving his thin body, suddenly frail under your touch, into the nearest wall as you walk out of his house - of his life - once and for all.
"Cook," he whispers brokenly at your back. "Please."
You stop dead in your tracks, the suitcase dangling dangerously off one single wheel. You close your eyes and focus on your reasons to leave - of all the times he has lied, he has promised you forever, only to get back to you with empty hands and vacuous words.
"Congratulations on your wedding, David," you say without turning back. Your fists clench at your sides at his sharp intake of breath. "Goodbye, and good riddance."
Those last steps to the street turn your heart into a stony pile of useless fears.
[author] Lire Casander
[beta] princessleia04. Any remaining mistakes are my own fault.
[pairing] David Cook/David Archuleta
[rating] PG-13
[word count] 839
[summary] It's a twisted game, a brief & off-repeating prose that never seems to resonate, spin the finger of blame, it's always on the heart that kept on beating while the other pulled up lame
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor David Archuleta. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence. I do not own We're Only Honest When We're Sleeping either.
[warnings] Angst. *Implied infidelity*
[author's notes] Title and summary taken from David Cook's We're Only Honest When We're Sleeping.
[dedication] Written for wicked_music since she asked for angst from me. I hope this is angsty enough for you, darling, and I hope things start to look brighter for you soon.
The clothes don't fit in the suitcase but you don't care. You just keep throwing items messily into the open mouth of your suitcase, regardless of the overflowing state of your belongings. The pain is just too much to bear, cutting into you deeply, making your soul bleed from the ache, bringing tears to your eyes that should be dry after so many hours of bawling. You just square your jaw, settling an unbalanced pace as you keep walking in and out of the closet, leaving a river of scattered things in your wake.
When the last of your memories is stored away, you force the suitcase close, kneeing it as your jeans and the sleeves of your sweaters insist on breaking loose from their confinements. You pull the zipper up, grab the handle and wade through the wreck the house is right now, hours after you had a fit of frustration and blindness, an eternity after you barreled all the glasses and cutlery off from the table that had been waiting for him to come back.
The silence is broken by the steady taptaptap of the suitcase's wheels hitting the floor; you're dragging it towards the main door, a metaphor of your life just winding down to the nothingness he's reduced you to. You're so close, you can almost touch the knob, when it turns and the door opens. You jump backwards, startled, tripping over your suitcase and almost falling.
He is standing right there in front of you, tiredness in his features. You stumble back on your feet, ready to face him and whatever lie he has invented for you to buy it. This time, you have decided to go through the pain of leaving, if just for the sake of your own sanity.
"You're leaving," he states when he's done taking in the image of you and a suitcase, a scenario you never thought you'd star in.
You don't even try to deny it. He doesn't deserve an explanation, and you don't want to give him one, so you attempt to push your bigger frame past him. Sadly for you, he is blocking the exit.
"Why?" he asks, his big, puppy brown eyes throwing a plea. You blink away the tears that spring to your eyes, for he has some nerve, asking you when it's pretty obvious. "Don't you love me anymore?"
And it's the edge of desperation in his voice, the blurriness of his features under your watery gaze, that unleashes the anger in you, the pent-up emotions that war in you ever since you learned that he---he--- "You don't have the right to ask why anymore, Archie," you reply through gritted teeth, barely keeping your voice under control with all the undefined feelings swirling in your heart. "Not now, not ever again."
He reaches out, tries to caress your skin, but you're quick and retire your arm before he can make any contact - you know you won't be able to escape this trap if he manages to grasp your heart again.
"Cook," he begins.
"When were you going to tell me, Archie?" you demand harshly, jerking away from his soft fingertips that seek you still. "When were you going to tell me she wasn't a beard anymore?"
"It's not what you think," he attempts to say, but you are done with his false promises of a future that will forever be broken.
"You're marrying her!" you explode. The words fly out of your mouth before they can be filtered. "You're fucking marrying the girl who's supposed to be nothing but a fucking pantomime for the world to see! If it weren't enough with the press and those fucking paparazzi pictures of you two in different compromising situations, your parents sent me an invitation! An invitation, Archie! To my fucking house I haven't set foot in for the past three years since I've been living with you!"
"Cook, calm down," he coos. "Your blood pressure---"
"To hell with my health! You've broken me!" You're screaming your lungs out by now, not caring if the neighbors hear. "I have no heart to beat, can't you see it? I'm tired of being just your dirty little secret!"
He stares hopelessly at you as you finally push past him, shoving his thin body, suddenly frail under your touch, into the nearest wall as you walk out of his house - of his life - once and for all.
"Cook," he whispers brokenly at your back. "Please."
You stop dead in your tracks, the suitcase dangling dangerously off one single wheel. You close your eyes and focus on your reasons to leave - of all the times he has lied, he has promised you forever, only to get back to you with empty hands and vacuous words.
"Congratulations on your wedding, David," you say without turning back. Your fists clench at your sides at his sharp intake of breath. "Goodbye, and good riddance."
Those last steps to the street turn your heart into a stony pile of useless fears.