Fic: Parting Is All We Know Of Heaven, Part 1
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
~Emily Dickinson
Cook pushes his chair back and stands up abruptly, the legs making a loud squeak on the kitchen floor. “Wait, what are you talking about,” he demands, hands reaching out to grip the top of the chair. “What procedure? I don’t understand.”
Archie flinches at the sudden movement but keeps his eyes fixed on the tabletop, rubbing his palms back and forth over his thighs. “You know,” he mumbles, “the one that’s been on the news?”
Cook just stares at him, jaw clenched tightly. Archie doesn’t look up as he continues, “The one that they’ve been testing on trauma patients. It does the targeted memory removal and they just opened it up to the public so-“
“So what, you thought you’d just erase me?” Cook grits out cutting him off, breaths coming fast and shallow and knuckles turning white with his grip.
“No, that’s not it!” Archie yells out, raising his voice for the first time since their argument started. He looks up finally, his eyes large and glassy, pain and what looks a lot like fear etched into the lines of his face. “It - it was supposed to just get rid of the bad memories! All the fighting we’ve been doing, how much we’ve been hurting each other. I didn’t know it could… that there might be side effects.” He turns his hands in his lap, staring back down into his open palms like he’s hoping to find some answers there.
Cook tries to take a deep breath, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He can feel the sting of tears burning behind his eyelids and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, refusing to let them fall. “So what happens now?” he asks, even though he already understands and doesn’t want to hear the answer anyway.
Archie doesn’t speak or move for a long time, instead just letting his own tears fall hot down his face, small choked whimpers escaping from the back of his throat. Cook sits down across from him again, his hands reaching out across the table hesitantly. Archie nods silently, hands moving on top of the table and slipping into Cook’s waiting palms. “They called it ‘progressive specific amnesia’,” he says, barely a whisper.
Cook squeezes his hands gently, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, unable to hold them back any longer as he waits for the rest. “So it won’t be all at once,” Archie continues, voice still quiet and uncharacteristically flat. “I’ve already started forgetting things, what we did last night, what we ate. It might take a few weeks before I forget everything, and generally it works backwards - the newest memories disappearing first. And it’s specific, so… so that means…” he trails off, afraid to say out loud what they already know.
“That it’ll only be memories that involve me.” Cook finishes when Archie doesn’t, needing to actually hear the words so he can process them fully.
Archie closes his eyes, unable to look at Cook as he confirms with a shaky, “Sorry”.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, nothing but the sounds of their unsteady breathing and the whir of the refrigerator surrounding them. “We could have just worked through it,” Cook states finally, sounding more resigned than anything. “Like all the other times, we would have made it work.”
Archie smiles at him, small and sad. “I was tired of being miserable,” he says. “I thought if I got rid of the bad, we could go back to how we were.” He tightens his grip on Cook’s hands and adds, “I know I was wrong.”
“We can still make it work, even after…” Cook offers, fighting the dizzy feeling building in the front of his skull. “It’ll be hard, but that’s what you do right? Love is hard - you just have to work even harder for it sometimes.”
“This hard?” Archie asks, his empty tone knocking the breath out of Cook. “I… I don’t know a lot about love, but I don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard. I don’t think we should have to work this hard.”
Cook stares at Archie, his eyes pleading in a way that words can’t. “I would,” he insists, trying to ward off the panic engulfing him. “I would because I love you.”
Archie gives a final squeeze before letting go of Cook’s hands and standing, turning toward the door before he can second-guess his decision. He stops with his hand on the doorknob and looks over his shoulder one last time. “And I won’t, because I love you more,” he says, opening the door.
The words ring out in the room even after Cook hears the door close and when they finally stop, so does his world.
----------
A large, yellow envelope comes in the mail a month and a half later, no return address listed on it and Cook’s name and address written in clean, looping letters that he immediately recognizes as Lupe’s handwriting. There’s nothing else distinct about the envelope except for a single sentence written on the back that simply reads, “I’m sorry David.” Somehow he believes her, but it doesn’t ease the dull ache behind his eyes or the sudden feeling that everything good in his life has been reduced to this - to an inanimate object that feels too heavy in his hands and somehow so empty at the same time.
He throws the envelope onto the coffee table in front of him, knocking over a mug of tea that’s gone cold. The brown liquid sloshes onto the glass, spilling over the edge of the table onto the carpet. He doesn’t clean it up, and he doesn’t open the envelope.
When he finally does, it’s a week later and he’s had one too many beers from the case he bought only for himself. He tears the top of the envelope open with clumsy hands and the journal comes tumbling out onto the carpet. By the music note branded delicately onto the front of it, he immediately recognizes it as the one he’d bought for Archie last Christmas. Cook had agonized for weeks over what to get him, but when he saw the design, he knew it was perfect. Archie had loved it, his face lighting up brighter than the Christmas lights on the tree when Cook told him that it was for the songs he liked to pretend he wasn’t writing in his spare time. The memory lingers in Cook’s head like a phantom now, and he stares at the journal on the floor for a few minutes, eyes half closed and brain clouded from the alcohol and weeks of sleeplessness. When he bends over to pick it up, his hands tremble and he loses his grip a few times before he succeeds. The worn leather of the cover is soft and giving under his rough fingertips and he just holds the journal, trying to feel the ghost of Archie’s hands under his. But no matter how hard he concentrates, he can’t; the journal still feels cold and lifeless in his hands like the envelope it was delivered in had.
He opens the front cover carefully, hearing the crack of the spine and the crinkle of the leather. Archie’s small, crooked scrawl is written on the first page, just two lines on their own, the red ink they were written in bright against the white of the paper. “Read it and please try to understand,” it says, followed by, “I love you.” Cook lets out a mirthless laugh, no more than an abrupt puff of air, and tears the page out, crumpling it in his hand and pulling the journal to his chest with the other. He falls onto his side on the couch, legs dangling over the edge and journal held tight against him as he waits for sleep to come or to wake up from this nightmare he feels like he’s living.
As he gives into unconsciousness, the page slips from his hand and rolls across the floor, but the journal remains pressed hard against his chest, leaving an ache to mirror the one inside.
When he wakes up the next morning, his vision is blurred by the throbbing pain in his head and his eyes sting from the lines of light seeping through the cracks in the blinds. He turns over, nearly rolling off the couch as he reaches for his cell phone on the coffee table. Though he knows he shouldn’t, he thumbs through his contacts, pressing send when Archie’s number pops up. Just like every morning when he’s tried calling for the past month, the same robotic voice rings in his ear, telling him that the number is disconnected. And just like every morning for the past month, he sets the phone back down and treads into his bedroom to put some clothes on before he leaves for the coffee shop. Only this time, when he goes, he brings the journal with him.
He sits at the same table and one of the baristas, a small, tattooed guy named Tommy, brings him over his usual cup of black coffee. He drinks half and then gets lost in thinking about the journal on the table. He picks it up and turns it in his hand over and over, not even wanting to open it and read any more, but just feeling the weight shift in his palms as he stares at it.
He barely notices when Tommy slips into the seat across from him, setting the half full coffee pot and his wet rag in front of him on the table. Cook stills his hands and tears his gaze away from the journal to look up, only because he knows that’s what Tommy is waiting for.
“You see that guy over there,” Tommy says, gesturing with his head, a blond swoop of hair falling into his face. Cook looks in the direction of the motion to see a short brunette with a too big plaid shirt setting up with his guitar near the small stage in the shop, tongue peeking out slightly from between his lips in concentration.
“That’s Kris,” Tommy continues. “Cute, right?”
Cook furrows his eyebrows and takes a sip of coffee. “I didn’t think you were…” he replies.
“No, that’s not the point,” Tommy cuts him off, waving a hand. “The point is that he’s been singing here every week for the past month, and you’ve never even noticed him.”
“So?” Cook asks, wishing Tommy would just get to the point. He’s a nice enough guy, but too talkative sometimes and Cook hasn’t been in the mood for that in a while.
Tommy frowns slightly and speaks slower, like Cook really doesn’t understand anything at all. “Okay… the first week he played here, he pretty much stared at you his whole set. He fucked up a really easy song, and it’s definitely not because he sucks.”
“Mmm hmm,” Cook murmurs in response.
“The week after that,” Tommy adds, staring intently at Cook, “he played some seriously sappy shit and he kept peeking at you over the microphone the whole song.”
Cook nods. “Okay.”
Tommy rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. “Last week he did a cover of the love song from that Irish indie movie,” he says. “You know the one. He kinda sucks at the whole subtle thing if you ask me.”
“I’ve heard it,” Cook replies evenly, easily masking his growing annoyance. Tommy means well, but the conversation is rapidly approaching an uncomfortable zone for Cook. He can tell.
“Except not when he did it,” Tommy continues on, unaware of Cook’s thoughts. “You haven’t heard a single thing he’s sang somehow, even though most of it is directed at you.”
“I… I just have things on my mind,” Cook says defensively, pulling the journal closer towards him.
Tommy raises his hands in surrender. “I get that, you know I do,” he says firmly, hoping to calm Cook. “But dude, I think you’re killing him from the inside out.”
Cook is the one to roll his eyes this time, but Tommy just keeps going. “Seriously man, I saw his set list; it’s half love sick mush and half emo bullshit. It’s like he’s going schizo or something. You should really just put him out of his misery already, since you’re obviously not interested and he’s been sending you signals like his ship is going down in shark infested waters.”
Tommy really is kind of funny when he’s exaggerating, with his big eyes and waving hands. Part of Cook wants to laugh, but instead he just replies with, “Yeah”.
Tommy stands to refill Cook’s cup and shakes his head, resigned to the fact that Cook probably hasn’t really been paying attention to what he just said either. “Yeah, okay. Just think about it…” he mumbles as he walks back to the counter.
Cook turns to look at the stage again, inadvertently catching the guy - Kris apparently- staring at him. Cook looks away quickly, but not before he catches the way Kris’ eyes grow wider and his cheeks turn just barely pink. As much as he’d hate to admit it, Tommy is right; Kris is cute and he’s definitely interested. It’s flattering, but not something Cook is able to deal with. He throws a few dollars on the table for Tommy and leaves before Kris’ set starts.
Somehow he makes it home, navigating the walk unaware until he ends up on the couch in front of the TV. And without even realizing, Cook finds himself staring at the fuzzy, grey television in front of him hours later. He doesn’t know exactly how long it’s been like that, doesn’t even remember the channel going out, but judging by the dull ache in the base of his spine, he’d say he’s been sitting there like that for quite a while. He should get up, turn it off and drag himself to bed, but moving is not an option. Moving requires the desire to do something other than sit here - a will, and that’s something that left with Archie - so he just stares blankly at the screen until his eyes become unfocused and dry. Until he’s not staring at anything at all.
He grips the journal until his knuckles ache and turns it over in his hands, thinking about how everything in his life seems to have changed with one single action. He left, and everything just came to a stop. Like a switch got turned off and suddenly he didn’t like anything, didn’t want anything, didn’t care enough to do anything. His guitar collects dust in the corner now and he feels like he hasn’t slept in a year. Even when he can close his eyes long enough to fall into his dreams, all he sees are pictures in his head that remind him. His friends stopped trying to call about a week ago. He hasn’t even seen them in weeks, or anyone other than the people who come and go in the coffee shop. The worst part is that he doesn’t even miss them, doesn’t even think about them. All he can seem to focus on is the hollow feeling in his stomach that never leaves and the restless twitch of his fingers.
He’s stuck in an empty existence and tonight isn’t the first time that he’s tried to figure out how to put an end to this constant soullessness that’s taken over his life. The only solution he can ever come up with is to put an end to the life itself. He doubts there’s anyone who it would make much of a difference to, no one who would really miss him at this point, no one who’s life would change drastically except for his own in that it would be over and he wouldn’t have to feel anything anymore. But before now he could never really think of a way to do it that seemed right. Tonight though, he thinks about going to his roof and jumping. Just taking a deep breath and falling from the edge. It would be like letting go of everything and just flying away from all of this. He can already imagine the feeling of floating through the air, the wind cool and sharp against his face and wrapping around him, making him weightless, empty in a completely different way. And just as quick as his feet leave the ledge, it would be over. Instant relief. It would feel like the sweetest kind of freedom. It’s fucking poetic if you ask him, and he’s always been drawn to that sort of thing anyway.
He’s up off the couch and into the hallway before he can give it a second thought, shoes forgotten because it’s not like he really needs them anyway. He climbs the stairs to the roof, closing his eyes as he steps onto it, and breathes in the night. The cold tile of the roof is shocking against his bare feet, as is the air as it fills his lungs, sharp and fresh. But it feels good, so much better than anything’s felt in a long time. The feeling spreads slow through his body, so amazing to just finally feel real again.
But when he opens his eyes, he’s pulled out of his reverie by the man already standing beside the ledge. His hair is a mess, like his hands have been running through it all night, and he’s shoeless as well, a thin pair of pajama pants hanging low on his hips and draping loosely overtop his bare feet. His t-shirt is pulled tight across the muscles of his back as he leans against the ledge, the grey fabric shining in the moonlight like the marble of a statue, vaguely reminiscent of some stone angel watching over the city. The thought that maybe he’s up here for another purpose crosses Cook’s mind before he pushes it back and reality comes back into focus. Purpose and fate are things he stopped believing in a while ago, and there’s no reason to start now. The reality is that Cook came up here for a completely different reason, and this man just happens to be directly in his way.
When Cook walks over and leans beside him on the ledge, he startles, a small breathy sound escaping his lips as he turns his head to the side. Cook realizes that it’s the same man from the café, the Kris guy that Tommy tried so hard to make him notice, and he laughs inwardly at the irony. He definitely notices him now. Kris’ cheeks darken slightly as he realizes who is standing beside him, but he relaxes and turns back to face the ledge. “Oh, hi,” he says, barely louder than the traffic below.
“Kris, right? From the café?” Cook asks to fill the silence.
“Um, yeah,” Kris replies, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. “Guess you weren’t ignoring me completely.”
Cook rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like…” he trails off. “I just can’t.”
Kris shrugs. “It’s cool. I kind of figured after you took off early today and Tommy tried to slip some whiskey in my coffee. Why else would he think I need the alcohol?”
“Sorry,” Cook says. “You seem like a nice guy and all, but it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Kris chuckles, slightly off. “So, you live here too?”
Cook nods. “Yeah, fourth floor.”
“Cool, I’m on the third,” Kris says, fingers tapping against the ledge. “Do you, uh, think we could hang out sometime maybe?”
“Uh…” Cook mumbles, wondering if Kris really got what he was saying.
“I mean as friends. It’s just that I don’t really know a lot of people here yet,” he says, standing and turning to lean with his back against the ledge. “And since we live in the same building, it’d just be nice to have someone around.”
Cook turns his head to actually look at Kris. “I get the feeling you could use the company too,” Kris adds before Cook can respond.
Cook grips the ledge and leans forward to look over. Visions of his earlier thoughts pass through his head, but suddenly they don’t seem so perfect. Maybe it wouldn’t be completely horrible to have something to look forward to - a distraction. And the ledge certainly isn’t going anywhere. “Not sure I’m much company, but I guess that’d be okay,” he agrees.
“Great,” Kris responds with a relieved sigh, like he’d been holding his breath. “Would you want to maybe grab some lunch at the diner across from the café tomorrow? I hear good things about it.”
“Sure, lunch,” Cook nods.
Kris pushes away from the ledge and starts towards the stairs. “Alright, it’s freezing up here, so see you then?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Cook says, “see you then.”
The door closes somewhere behind Cook and he takes a deep breath as he looks over the edge of the roof one last time. As quickly as he came up to the roof, he’s back down the stairs, settling into his couch with the journal and finally opening it.
----------
Every time I look at this journal, I remember that day you came home early from work and caught me at the piano trying to write a song. It wasn’t even anything to be ashamed of, but I was so embarrassed that you walked in on me doing it that I wanted to run away and hide. We shared everything, but for some reason it just seemed too private. I should have known you would understand, and you must have because all you did was kiss me on the top of my head and tell me it sounded nice before walking into the kitchen to make dinner. When you didn’t mention it again after that all I felt was relieved.
But then you bought me this journal for Christmas three months later anyway. I was confused when I opened it but you just said, “So you can write your songs, if you want to.” The cover was so pretty and I just sat there tracing my finger over the music note again and again. I told you that I was going to save it for something special, something more important and you shook your head and told me that was why it was for my music, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You always were so good at being subtle when you wanted to be. Even when I didn’t think I deserved it, you supported me in every way and it made me want to burst with happiness just to realize it.
I guess my point is that you were always there for me, Cook, and I didn’t live up to my end of the bargain because I’m not there for you anymore. That’s why I wanted to write this for you; I want to you to have this part of me. A reminder for when my memories are gone and I can’t remind you how important to me you are anymore. I know you might not believe me now, but it is true.
I finally found something that was important enough for this journal, so I’m asking you to be there for me one last time and just read it.
Cook traces the music note on the cover of the journal with his finger before setting it down. The roof, Kris, the journal - it’s all too much for one day. Cook lies down on the couch before the headache building in the front of his head can grow and falls into another night of dreamless sleep, the feeling of the indentation in the leather of the journal burning itself onto the calloused skin of his finger like another memory.
----------
The next morning Cook throws his last clean shirt on and heads to the diner they’d agreed to meet at. He considers not showing up, just stopping into the café on the way and staying there all day like he has for the past month, but with the way he’s blown Kris off already, he doesn’t deserve that. Cook doesn’t want to hurt anyone else. So he keeps walking and pushes the heavy door open with a big sigh when he finally gets there.
Kris spots him almost immediately, waving excitedly from the back corner with a warm smile like it’s been a lot longer since they last saw each other. Cook nods at him as he slips into the booth. “Missed me that much?” he asks, momentarily surprised at the joking tone to his voice and how comfortable he actually felt using it with Kris.
Kris bites his lower lip and actually thinks about the question like it wasn’t a joke, not quite answering but eventually responding with, “That would be weird, right?”
Cook shrugs and turns his concentration to the menu in front of him so that he doesn’t have to think about the reasons why he almost wants to tell Kris no to his question. It’s not until the waitress comes to take their order and he notices Kris fidgeting with a straw wrapper that he realizes how long they’ve been sitting there in silence. “Sorry, it’s been a while,” he says, looking over at Kris and attempting a smile. “I’m not so good at conversation anymore I guess.”
Kris doesn’t press the issue, though the question is evident in his eyes. “Silence can be nice sometimes,” he replies, smiling back at him and taking a sip of his soda. “And it doesn’t hurt when the person in front of you is easy on the eyes.”
Cook raises an eyebrow, but Kris seems to already know what Cook is thinking. “I mean that in a friendly way,” he says, and Cook can tell it’s a lie by the way his voice raises at the end, unsure.
“So…” Cook attempts, changing the subject somewhat awkwardly. “You said you didn’t know a lot of people yet. Did you just move here?”
Kris sits up straighter and rests his hands on the tabletop. “Yep, about a month and a half ago,” he replies. “From Arkansas actually.”
“Well what made you come to this shithole?” Cook asks, hand motioning toward the city outside.
Kris laughs, nose scrunching up and eyes squinting. “L.A.’s not that bad.”
“Most of the time, it kind of is,” Cook says with a pointed stare.
Kris considers Cook’s words, twirling the straw wrapper around a finger. “Well, maybe,” he concedes. “It’s different, that’s for sure.”
Cook nods, signaling him to go on.
“I told everyone it was for my music,” he continues, his eyes not quite meeting Cook’s. “I mostly just needed a fresh start, you know?”
Cook pokes at the ice in his glass with a straw. “Yeah. I think I do,” he agrees.
Kris tilts his head and stares at Cook, forehead creased and obviously trying to understand something. Before Cook can get too uncomfortable under the scrutiny, his face smoothes out and he perks back up, eager and young looking. “So tell me about yourself,” he says. “All I could get out of Tommy was that you come to the café everyday and you take your coffee black.”
“I’m surprised that’s all Tommy said honestly,” is all Cook says.
Kris flicks his straw wrapper at him when he doesn’t continue. “So why are you so into the cafe? Their coffee isn’t that great and I know it’s not for the music,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh.
Cook’s eyes cloud over and he looks down at the table, hoping that Kris doesn’t see it. Luckily, the waitress chooses then to bring their orders and Cook hopes for a change in subject.
Cook isn’t that lucky though because of course Kris saw the expression on his face. He frowns once the waitress leaves and leans forward towards Cook a little. “Okay, here’s the thing…” he starts. “We don’t know each other well and I obviously have no clue what you’re dealing with.”
Cook takes a bite of his burger and blinks at him.
“But I do know what it looks like when someone’s not dealing. And you,” Kris says, punctuating his words with the wave of a French fry, “are not dealing.”
Cook lets out a big sigh, but Kris’ face only grows more serious and attentive - a little more attentive than Cook would prefer right now. “Maybe I’m not ready to deal,” he replies, stealing the fry from between Kris’ fingers and ignoring the look of indignation that spreads across his face.
“No one’s going to force you,” Kris shrugs, dragging another fry through the pile of ketchup on his plate and shoving it into his mouth quickly. “But I am going to help you.”
“Really now?” Cook asks, not bothering to mention the fact that he’s not sure he can be helped right now, or that he even deserves the help. “And how exactly?”
“Of course, we’re friends now,” Kris states firmly and apparently very confident in his plans. “There’s like, a three step process.”
Cook stares at him. “Mmm hmm,” he mumbles, unsure of where the conversation is going.
“It works ninety percent of the time,” Kris assures him, nodding excitedly.
Cook shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure my situation puts me in the ten percent,” he replies.
“No seriously. Just work with me, okay?” Kris pleads, eyes growing wide and impossibly brown.
When Cook caves, he swears to himself that it has nothing to do with the eyes. “What’s step one?” he asks with a sigh.
Kris takes a bite of his sandwich, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand when some mayonnaise smears onto it. “Well first,” he says, “you need to talk about it. Whatever it is."
“I don’t think I’m ready for that either,” Cook replies, pushing his empty glass to the edge of the table. “And I’m not sure if I were that you would be the person I’d talk to, no offense.”
“None taken, but I’m the perfect person when you think about it,” Kris says, holding his glass out to the waitress when she comes to refill Cook’s and offering her a small smile. “Firstly, you barely know me, so I’m impartial.”
Cook nods at Kris and mumbles a “thanks” to the waitress before she leaves.
“I have this embarrassing crush on you that I know you know about,” Kris adds. “So I like you too much already to be judgmental.”
Cook rolls his eyes a little and finishes the rest of the cold fries left on his plate.
“And I just… I would really like to help you,” Kris finishes, looking a lot shyer than he’s been since Cook met him.
Cook stays silent for a long time, weighing his options in his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it - doesn’t see what good it would do having another person know. Having to look another person in the eye and know that they feel sorry for him because he somehow managed to fuck up the best thing in his life that badly. But he’s already admitted to himself that he’s tired of feeling the way he does, disconnected and just not there. He doesn’t honestly think talking to Kris can bring him back to himself, and he knows it can’t bring Archie back, but it couldn’t possibly make the situation any worse. He takes a long drink of water and then starts, figuring he might as well just jump right to the point. “You know that memory removal thing that everyone’s talking about?”
Kris blinks like he wasn’t really expecting Cook to speak again and says, “Not specifics, but yeah, I’ve heard about it.”
“Well my boyfr-“ Cook cuts off, screwing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath when he realizes what he had been saying. “My last boyfriend had it done.”
“You mean he…” Kris trails off, barely hiding his surprise. “Just like that?”
Cook pokes at a spoon on the table. “Yeah, pretty much,” he says. “One day we were together, the next we weren’t.”
“How long were you together?” Kris asks.
“Almost three years,” Cook replies, the words bittersweet on his tongue.
Kris flinches when he hears the answer. “Yeah, that’s brutal.”
“That’s one word for it…” Cook breathes out, voice thin and shakier than he intends it to be.
“Did you ever think about having it done too?” Kris says, scrubbing a hand through his hair and leaning back.
“No, not really,” Cook says. The truth is that up until right now that thought had never even occurred to him, and now that he is thinking about it, the thought of having something done that has caused so much pain in his life already just leaves an unsettling feeling in his stomach, so he adds, “Why would I have anyway?”
“It would sure make things easier on you,” Kris shrugs.
“I don’t know,” Cook mumbles, more to himself than to Kris. He can’t quite argue with what Kris just said - erasing Archie like Archie erased him would be easier. He could start over completely, finally get rid of the feeling that his life has been taken over by this singular decision that wasn’t even his to make. But it still doesn’t feel like a solution, doesn’t feel like it could possibly make a difference. It just feels wrong somehow. “It all just seems so unreal,” he says, like that even begins to explain how he feels.
Kris is just looking at him with that face again, big open eyes and lips curved into the barest of smiles, more meant to encourage rather than anything, and for some reason Cook finds himself wanting to talk. “At first I didn’t actually think it was real, you know?” he comments, the words spilling easily from his mouth. “I was sure it was some sick joke and he’d come back, fidgeting at my front door with his sad eyes wanting me to take him back. But then he sent me this journal, like a parting gift or something, and I realized he had really done it. It was real.”
Kris’ smile turns into something else, lips drawn into a thin line and eyes growing a shade darker. “Something so sudden never seams real at first,” he says.
“Exactly,” Cook says, suddenly hyperaware that Kris seems like he might be speaking from experience too. Maybe he should feel bad that Kris has had to feel even a fraction of what he’s living everyday in any way, but it mostly makes him feel simultaneously relieved that he might not be alone in this and terrified for the same reason. There’s no way Kris could understand exactly, but even that there is someone who could understand a little… it’s a thought that he’s not sure what to do with.
He shakes his head to pull him out of his thoughts again and back into the conversation. “And well,” he finishes, “it feels pointless somehow for me to do it too. You can take away the memories, remove a person from your brain, but it doesn’t change the past. It doesn’t do anything to change how they affected your life. Even if you can’t remember it.”
“I get that,” Kris says, fingers tapping an involuntary rhythm on the table. “But you have to learn to live with it if you can’t forget, you know?”
“I’m trying, but it’s like a compass. No matter which direction I turn, it points north. That’s what it always comes back to,” Cook shrugs, hands splayed on the table, stretching and contracting with his words. “I just can’t get away from it. Every thought, every memory, everything in my life - it all reminds me of him. And then I realize that nothing reminds him of me now and I feel…”
“Empty,” Kris finishes for him, reaching his hand across the table to rest overtop of Cook’s. “It gets easier, as hard as it is to believe right now. And I can help you find direction or something. I don’t know, be your map if your compass isn’t working.”
Kris eyebrows furrow momentarily and then he’s laughing, face hidden behind his hands. “Wow, that was a really cheesy metaphor,” he says.
“Kind of, yeah,” Cook replies, not able to hide the affection that has found its way into his voice.
Kris shrugs, chewing on his bottom lip. “I just mean, I’m your friend now. So I’m here for you.”
“Okay then,” Cook sighs. “So what’s step two of your master plan?”
Kris leans against the booth, pulling his hands up behind his head and resting back on them. “Alcohol. Lots of alcohol.”
“Then I did this backwards because that step has been long since passed,” Cook says, ignoring the sliver of skin showing where Kris’ shirt is raised just above the line of his jeans. He scratches at his cheek, his beard softer than he remembers against his fingertips and he suddenly wonders how long it’s been since he last shaved.
“Okay, well good, then you’re ready for step three,” Kris chuckles. “Unless you’d like to revisit step two?”
“No,” Cook draws out. ”Didn’t do much good anyway and my head will thank me tomorrow for not doing it again. So, step three I guess.”
“You just have to figure out how you can move on then,” Kris states simply.
Cook rolls his eyes and huffs a short breath. “Oh is that all,” he snaps. “You’re a real genius. Why didn’t I think of that to begin with?”
Kris balls up his napkin and throws it towards Cook. “Hey, don’t be a jerk,” he says. “It’s hard but not impossible. And you’re not the only one who’s ever had to get over something like this. It’s been done, so get over yourself.”
“Aren’t you being awfully honest for only having just met me yesterday?” Cook asks, taken aback for a second. He’s not used to people pushing back when he pushes lately; everyone seems to want to tiptoe around him. And even though he hasn’t really wanted anyone around recently, he’s starting to think maybe he would have if they hadn’t been treating him so fragile.
“Well lying sure isn’t going to help you any, is it?” Kris replies, still pushing.
“No, it probably won’t,” Cook admits, reaching for the dessert menu. “Thanks,” he adds, “I could probably use someone honest around right now.”
“So you’re going to keep me?” Kris teases. “Good to know.”
Cook purposefully ignores Kris and says, “So Dr. Phil, got any more advice for me, or can I order dessert now?”
“I like pie,” Kris comments, grabbing a menu of his own and pointing it at Cook. “You know what might help too though?”
“What?” Cook groans. Really, he just wants pie.
“It’s a lot easier to get over something when you stop doing things that remind you of it,” Kris says. “Like when you get out of rehab, they tell you to get rid of your triggers, right?”
“You mean like the journal,” Cook asks.
Kris opens his menu. “Yeah, like that,” he answers. “You should think about getting rid of it if you can.”
Cook just nods and motions to the waitress. They finish lunch without another word about any of this, instead talking about Kris’ music and what few things he’s done around LA so far. Cook chimes in occasionally to talk about his old band or a random story, but mostly he just listens, finding it easy to just get lost in Kris’ enthusiasm for everything. Afterwards, they walk back to the apartment building together, and Cook catches himself stealing glances at Kris out of the corner of his eye. It doesn’t go unnoticed.
“I thought you weren’t interested,” Kris asks smugly, mouth curling up in a smirk.
Cook suddenly has the urge to feel the curve of his lips beneath his fingers. Instead he just shoves his thumbs into his pockets to keep his hands rooted to his side. “I said I couldn’t do this right now,” he states, “not that I didn’t want to.”
Kris’ smirk turns into a full-fledged grin. “So you are interested then?”
“Despite myself,” Cook mumbles, under his breath.
Kris doesn’t say anything, just reaches his hand over, pulling Cook’s hand out of his pocket and slipping his fingers in between Cook’s. Cook’s hand twitches, unsure of what to do at first after so long without such a simple kind of touch, but he doesn’t pull away. Eventually his fingers curl on instinct. “Hmm,” he says.
“Hmm,” Kris repeats, smile very much still in place.
“Are you always this persistent?” Cook asks as they enter through the double doors of the building.
“No,” Kris admits. “That’s kind of the problem usually.”
They ride the elevator up together, silent aside from the clicking of the motor, hands still tangled together. Three bells and they’re at Kris’ floor already. He pulls away from Cook’s hand slowly getting ready to part as the doors open in front of them. “See you?” he says, half question, half promise.
“See you,” Cook affirms, and he does mean it as a promise.
Kris nods and starts to walk away, but just before the elevator door closes he turns back and catches it. “Screw it,” he says. Cook furrows his eyebrows, but before he can ask, Kris is in front of him, up on his toes and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Cook doesn’t respond, doesn’t even realize what just happened until the elevator door is closed for real and Kris is already gone. “Hmm,” he says again into the empty elevator, and this time it’s his lips that curl up in a smile.
As soon as Cook enters his apartment he thinks about Kris’ advice. He sees the journal on the coffee table and knows that eventually he will have to get rid of it. If he wants to be himself again he can’t keep things around that take so much from him. But he also realizes that he has to read the rest of it before he can get rid of it. He’s never been one to leave things unfinished.
He leaves the journal where it lays and heads to the kitchen to make himself some coffee instead. The journal will still be there when he’s ready again, but today was actually almost a good day and he’s not quite ready to let go of it. Soon enough the night will come, along with all of his normal thoughts, so for now he just wants to pretend he’s okay for a little while. And in the morning, he will read and let himself be reminded that he’s not.
----------
The picnic was your idea. As long as I could remember, I had never really liked them much. I always tried - I wanted to enjoy them - but the flies got in everything and there were always too many people around for it to be personal and the sun always got too hot and ruined the food once you took it out of the basket. Picnics just never worked like I thought they should. But you had an idea, so we drove 90 miles outside of town in the middle of the night and stopped at a field that a friend had told you about. You said she had done a photo shoot there earlier in the month and that the field was full of orange poppies so that when the sun was setting just over the horizon, it glowed like it was on fire. I told you that you were crazy, bringing us out in the middle of nowhere at 1 in the morning when we couldn’t even see the field. I shook my head and told you we needed the sun for this, but you just laid the blanket out and lit some candles without a word. When you were done you reached for my hand and pulled me down to sit on the blanket. “It would be too hot,” you said, obviously mocking me, but before I could call you on it you added, “Besides, you’re the only sun I need.” It should have been cheesy, but it wasn’t because you actually meant it, so I gave in and kissed you on the cheek as I tucked myself in against your side. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drank sparkling cider, and you laughed at me when the bubbles made me hiccup.
Afterwards you wanted to lie out in the field and look up at the sky. It was the middle of June, so the air was just warm enough that we didn’t need jackets, but the ground was still damp underneath us from the night. We lay there on our backs facing the cloudless night and the blanket of stars. The field felt lush beneath us and the blades of grass tickled the backs of our necks while the moisture seeped through the thin cotton of our clothes. It was wet and cold in the breeze, but not unpleasant and I felt as though I was sinking into the soil, merging with the earth and with you next to me.
We didn’t talk, but then again, we didn’t need to. We just held hands, our fingers locked tight around each other’s like an unspoken promise. My thoughts were bright and many, like the stars above us. Silent but visible, and clearer than ever. The stars that night were tangible, audible - like they were singing just for us, a melody full of hope and future and yes. I could tell you heard it too, just from the twitch of your fingers next to mine and the heat that passed between our skin.
It was the perfect night, but as connected as we felt to the shimmering lights above, I wasn’t a constellation and neither were you. Neither of us knew it then, but ours wasn’t a problem you could just read like the stars, map out and solve like a puzzle. Even in those moments where everything seemed so right, it was lurking over our heads like the night sky. Our problem was deep and dark like the universe - and eventually it just swallowed us whole.
----------
The image of that night is vivid as ever in Cook’s mind, and he takes a deep breath, letting it wash over him like the memory. He wants to shout, to cry, but more than that, he wants to talk to Kris about it. He huffs out a breath, half laugh and half fear, not sure what to make of that urge. It’s still early, the sun barely raised over the horizon and the air cool and calm, but he knows one person who will be awake already.
He throws on a jacket and sneakers, not bothering to look in the mirror and assess how bad he must look, and heads to the coffee shop, journal tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. The door jingles as he walks in and Tommy looks up from behind the counter, obviously surprised to see him at this hour.
“You were right,” Cook sighs, coming to lean against the front counter.
“Of course I was,” Tommy replies with an eye roll and a yawn. “About what though?”
“Kris,” Cook says, “We had lunch and it was actually really nice.”
Tommy looks at Cook with wide eyes. “Wait, dude, you actually listened to me?” he asks, cursing under his breath as he spills some of the coffee he forgot he was pouring. “About fucking time.”
“Tommy,” Cook frowns, trying to get him to be serious.
“Sorry, sorry,” Tommy apologizes, wiping at his mess. “I don’t really understand what the problem is though.”
“I had a bad morning and all I could think was that I wished he were there,” Cook says, following Tommy towards a table as he comes out from behind the counter.
“And?” Tommy draws out.
“Don’t you think that’s a little weird?” Cook asks. “I’ve talked to him like once.”
Tommy slumps into the chair and laughs. “Well you always did do that fast and hard thing.”
“This isn’t funny,” Cook groans.
Tommy’s face grows serious and he shakes his head. “I’m not laughing,” he says. “You know I just want you to be happy. You’ve been through enough shit, you deserve it.”
“Do I though?” Cook asks, voice small.
“Man, you already know the answer to that,” Tommy says, pushing the hair out of his face. “If you’re looking for a pity party, you’re talking to the wrong person. You do that enough on your own.”
Cook should call him out on being an asshole, but he’s not entirely wrong, so he just says, “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“He’s not coming back,” Tommy states, straight and to the point as always.
Cook flinches at the reminder. He doesn’t even need to ask who he is to know exactly what Tommy is trying to say. “I know,” he mutters.
“Then you need to stop waiting for him to,” Tommy says, poking at Cook’s hand on the table. “Do you like him?”
“Kris?” Cook asks, slightly confused by the sudden change in subject. “Yeah, I think I do.”
“So let yourself,” Tommy shrugs, giving Cook’s shoulder a quick squeeze. He stands up and motions towards the counter. “Gotta get back to work man.”
“Of course,” Cook nods, waving to Tommy as he walks away. That’s the thing he’s always appreciated most about Tommy - he can take any situation and point out the easiest and most obvious solution and tell you it like it’s the simplest thing in the entire world to see. Half the time it’s actually helpful, and the other half it’s just annoying.
He’s not sure how he feels in this case, but he can’t deny that Tommy isn’t completely off base. It doesn’t make the situation any easier in reality or any less confusing for Cook though. He settles his elbows on the table, leaning forward to rest his head on his hands, when he feels the sharp corner of the journal stabbing him in the side. He pulls it out and opens it to the next entry. Maybe there are a lot of things he can’t figure out right now, but this is at least something he can do.
----------
My favorite memory is probably the first time we met. I was leaving Whole Foods and I stepped out of the automatic doors, immediately feeling the heat wrap around my body. It was suffocating and miserable and I squinted against the harsh summer sun, gripping my grocery bag tightly with one arm as I searched in my pocket for sunglasses with my free hand. I was fumbling to pull them out and not paying attention to where I was going when I ran right into you. I guess you weren’t paying attention either because we both jumped back, matching startled sounds escaping our mouths. The grocery bag slipped from my arm, landing sideways on the ground with a dull thud and I looked on helplessly as two apples and a bottle of shampoo rolled out. I yelped a “sorry” and knelt down, scrambling to save the rest of my mangled groceries. When I looked back up, I was greeted by your apologetic smile.
“Sorry about your produce…” you said, offering me the now bruised apple in your hand with a shrug and that smirk that I’d soon know so well.
I mumbled a thank you, too embarrassed by my clumsiness to look directly at you while I tried desperately to rearrange the items back in my bag. You waited patiently until I was done and held out your hand to help me up. “David Cook,” you said, squeezing my hand and smiling. I remember that even though your palm was so much warmer than the heat around us, it felt nothing but comfortable and perfect against mine.
I gave you my name back and you laughed at the fact that it was the same. I decided then that I never wanted to go without hearing the sound of your laughter again. It was like the sound of the rain - light and raw. I felt five again, mouth open to catch the drops as I splish-splashed through the street. I wanted to play in that sound all day; it saturated my soul and pulled me under. (Even when all my memories are gone, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find my way back to the surface.)
You apologized again and told me to take care, and my heart plummeted when I realized you were walking away. I thought I’d missed my chance and I cursed myself for not having the courage to say something to stop you. But I only got three steps towards the parking lot before you came jogging back and asking me if I needed help carrying my groceries to the car. I looked at my single bag, confused, and you laughed again and admitted that you mostly just wanted to ask me to dinner. I told you that I already had dinner plans and added quickly that I was free now for fear that you’d change your mind.
You just nodded your head towards the coffee shop next door and I agreed without hesitation. It didn’t matter that I hated coffee; I just wasn’t ready to leave your side yet. I knew I would never want to if I had the choice.
(Part 2)
(Master Post)