FIC: variations on an ending: love will tear us apart. again. [2/3] (Effy, Cook)
Author: eskimo_jo
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission. Do not archive without permission.
Rating: R.
Warnings: Excessive swearing/drug use/adult themes/character death/possibly a few triggering references (self-harm, animal testing). You name it, it's in here.
Full notes available in Part 1.
EFFY - Lost Cause
Deception
It wasn't really that difficult if you really thought about it, doing what she did. Effy was so bloody sick of people - Sid, Tony, JJ, whoever - marvelling at her supposed magnificent talent of getting in people's heads, to read their thoughts, so to speak. God, it was fucking simple really. The process was fairly easy, just time consuming.
If people just stopped talking once in a while and took a second to actually look at other people instead of suffocating in their own ego, she was sure anyone could do it. If you're always running your mouth or thinking about yourself, it's far more difficult to see others. And honestly? It wasn't like she was doing it because she was some good Samaritan and could pass on this wealth of knowledge she earned. It made her feel better to watch people miss cues, fuck up, and never figure out what the fuck just happened because the entire past was just a blur of self-obsessive memories. It was also just nice to watch other people flail around. She figured that if she just watched long enough, she'd eventually find someone as miserable as she was, and by not saying anything to help, it increased those chances exponentially.
A cryptic smile, a few choice words, or a mischievous glint was often more than enough to send someone barreling at first down the right path, then to stumble back in the wrong direction as they recalled her expression with self-doubt. Hilarious, in a way. Pathetic in another.
She wasn't sure she could help anyone if she even wanted to anymore, even with a fucking map and step-by-step instructions, especially since everyone around her was so set on massive and permanent destruction. So why bother? Who was she to be more than a hitch in the plan? It was such a waste of time to attempt to fix things that were obviously meant to be broken. Frustrating and toying with the ultimate outcome was so much more satisfying. If it's all going to shit anyway, why rush it?
It wasn't always like this, her general apathy and almost misanthropic motivation. She had genuinely tried to fix things once or twice. In fact, she went out of her way. But people either completely misunderstood, ignored her or just wrote of her attempts as futile. She gave up trying to change things for better. If everyone wanted to be miserable, she'd damn well let them be. At least she'd have some company.
But sitting here she's not sure anymore if everyone she knows is meant to be so undeniably hopeless. She looks at the girls, asleep and completely unaware that anyone else is sharing their small room. She unwraps a stick of chewing gum rather loudly and her only response is a slight shuffle of bedsheets from the redhead in front of her. She chews it with her mouth open, snapping it between her teeth, until her jaw begins to ache. Even trying to make people miserable seemed impossible for her now.
Emily breathes loudly in her sleep as she squirms around, burrowing a little deeper against the naked shoulders in front of her and twisting a bare leg out from the tangle below. The duvet slips down with the movement, a testament to the obliviousness of her presence. Effy doesn't move, nor attempts to look away. She doesn't really give a fuck to be honest. The blonde beside her was the opposite however and Effy watches the pronounced goosebumps rise on her arms and the subsequent unconscious grasp for the blankets, pulling them up over her shoulders, and as a result, over Emily's head.
Effy would laugh if she didn't see the utter tragedy of it all. She's good at that, it's kind of her thing: seeing the most depressing pieces of the puzzle. She doesn't really know that much about the two girls together but what she is aware of is enough. They're on separate pages of the same pathetic book of how to love in the most painful and stubborn way possible. Naomi's too cold, and Emily's too hot. They've always been and neither wants to change. Same as now, with their unconscious struggle over the goddamn duvet. With a groan, Emily incoherently mumbles something at Naomi and pushes it down, away from her face. As per usual, there's no response from Naomi. It figures. But not to be denied a reaction, Emily perseveres of course. Effy decides it's a good thing that they're both facing the other wall. She's enjoying this opportunity to watch them, and likely Emily's half-awake at the moment, at least just enough to notice a figure in the room had she been in her blurred line of sight. Effy stops chewing and breathes quieter as Emily reaches over the blonde, and Effy can't quite see what's going on, but it looks like she closes her hand over Naomi's cheek. She can imagine that hot, damp hand against her own cheek and represses an uncomfortable shudder. Like second nature, Naomi swats at it and muffles out something vaguely like “Sorry Ems”. Apparently satisfied, Emily settles again, the same hand weaving around the body in front of her as her breathing deepens.
It's such a familiar, practiced movement that bile almost rises in Effy's throat. She swallows her own jealousy, and chews harder on her gum, a scowl suddenly breaking out across her normally impassive face.
She glances at the digital clock on the nightstand. 9:47 AM. Naomi was supposed to be out of her bloody bed by now. In fact, they were supposed to be on their way to Bath in her petrol-powered shitmobile. But here she was glaring rather pointlessly at Emily and Naomi snuggling in the early morning sunshine. Effy was pretty sure that at any moment puppies, rainbows and butterflies would burst through the windows, singing. It was just that lovely a picture, when you ignored everything else under the surface.
And for Christ's sake, Emily hadn't even been invited. However, Effy had conceded long before now that the redhead would likely be unable to be pried away from her prize, especially if her girlfriend was supposed to be spending the day with the college dropout who put her sister in hospital. She hadn't told Naomi that she was okay with Emily tagging along and Naomi had never even asked. Maybe it was because she just assumes now that everyone knows they are a packaged deal.
Whatever the reason, it's still fucking annoying. She spits her gum vaguely in the direction of the bin. She doesn't look to see if it actually goes in.
She's giving them 4 more minutes before she takes things into her own hands. As the countdown begins, she takes another look around the unfamiliar bedroom. On the floor lies Emily's watermelon-coloured bag, various university prospectus' spilling out onto the floor. She picks them up and flips uninterestedly through their glossy covers, each one looking as bland and pompous as the last. All top-notch Russell Group wanker breeding grounds. Nottingham, Manchester, Newcastle, Leeds, and fucking Belfast. She couldn't get much further away from Bristol if she tried. Not to mention the ERASMUS flyer. But the most interesting thing to Effy is that she knows where Naomi is headed: London. Didn't seem to matter which school in London, apparently. She wonders if her blonde friend and Emily had even discussed this. It didn't seem like something that wouldn't cause a row to end all rows, if she knew Emily at all. In the end, despite the protests, Emily became just a slower-blossoming, more gay version of her insufferable yet fascinating twin. It wasn't that she disliked Emily (not enough to wallop her over the head with a rock at least), and her languid transformation was curious, but she didn't like doormats, especially if those same doormats were able to do what she wasn't, and be brave...
Carelessly tossing the brochures back onto the floor, she taps a cigarette from the pack and lights up. She blows smoke directly at the sleeping girls. No reaction. She takes another deep drag and exhales, stronger this time, the dirty grey smoke lingering over the bed. She knows well enough how much Emily dislikes smoking, except when pissed. A sputtering sort of cough erupts weakly from the redhead and Effy smirks. It's Naomi who starts first and sits up abruptly, clutching the duvet against her chest as if it's something Effy would really care to see. The blonde's glare is softened by the bleary way she squints and the amusing way her hair is sticking out at odd angles.
Effy cocks an eyebrow, her smirk spreading further, challenging Naomi to protest but the bait fails. Instead the miniature spitfire beside her growls.
“What the fuck, Effy.”
It's not as much a question as a statement. She glances back at Naomi, then again to Effy. She has no idea what Effy is doing here, which says more than Effy needs to know. Naomi is still keeping secrets, and ones that were pretty inconsequential in contrast to, let's say, future university choices which were now obviously yet to be discussed. An almost hurt look passes from Emily to Naomi, and the response from the blonde looks like forced and reluctant apology, like she doesn't think she needs to apologise. Some things never fucking change.
It is like watching the slowest train crash ever. Emily's expression shifts from hurt to something akin to disbelief. She huffs, grabs a top from somewhere in the tangle of bedsheets and glares at Naomi momentarily. Pointedly. And Naomi for her part drops the false apology and just resorts to looking typically bored and exasperated. Still neither actually speaks, and as Emily angrily swings her feet to the floor, Naomi watches, a new and peculiar concerned look on her face. But it only lasts a brief moment before she looks to Effy, who merely offers the smallest, most practiced blasé shrug of her shoulders. The blonde tucks the duvet up under her chin and looks sullenly defeated before she rolls over, picks up a tee shirt of her own and refuses to meet Emily's gaze.
Her glimmer of hope she had for her supposed friends extinguishes at that exact moment. Love is just a fucking lost cause. She once mused inadvertently to Tony about why people even bothered with caring about people. He had thought he'd seen through her facade, calling her on her bullshit, implying she did in fact care. And he wasn't wrong of course. (When was Tony ever wrong? The stupid wanker.) She obviously cared about things, even if she still hadn't figured out how to love anything properly, or even keep them around long enough to learn the basics. But still, the whole thing seemed so damn pointless. A waste of effort in the end cause it all goes to shit no matter what you do or how much you feel.
She was too lost, wandering aimlessly through the darkness to see chaos stalking her, laying claim not just to her own pathetic life but unravelling everyone around her as well. Love (especially love) never worked if she was anywhere nearby. It was like her failure was inevitably contagious, as people around her fell in and then out of it, hard, ending up just as lonely and miserable as she always has been.
Looking at the expressions of the girls in front of her, her memory recoils to the picturesque way they were ten minutes ago and she almost wishes she she'd never met them at all.
Almost.
COOK - My Memory Escaped Me
Misery
It's the last place he ever expects to see Naomi Campbell by herself. His local lacked a lot of what she normally seemed to look for in pub, most notably the presence of her gal pal Emily. Not to mention she looked well rough. Cook knows what rough looks like and Naomi's teetering on the edge of bloody fucking miserable. Catching her gaze he motions for her to join him at the bar. She does so with no hesitation whatsoever and immediately orders a scotch, on the rocks, which would have surprised Cook (and also inevitably impressed him) had she seemed not quite so desperate. She says nothing to him specifically. For once, he can't figure out what he's supposed to say to her. He resorts to ordering a drink for himself.
“Not right for a fit girl to drink alone, yeah,” he tries.
She snorts a response and merely fiddles with the condensation on her glass. “Right.”
He tries again. “Where's the missus?”
For a moment, Cook is incredibly afraid she's going to burst into tears and he has no blinkin' idea how to deal with that insanity. Her eyes water but she quickly squashes that by taking an impressive gulp of her drink. She shakes her head, as if clearing away the sadness. She forces the fakest smile he thinks he's ever seen from her and that's saying a lot considering her regular attitude towards him. It's also when he knows something is actually wrong. Bad news is that she's come to the wrong person. He doesn't do talking. He doesn't do cheering up and he certainly doesn't do girly dramas. For some reason, he's 90% sure that's the reason she came to him. (She doesn't do the talking thing either.) But more importantly, unlike Effy, another person who doesn't do the talking thing, he doesn't silently judge and scheme. Fuck it, he'll give it a shot anyway.
“So Blondie, you wanna talk about it?” He says it in such a way that it's clear he'd be of no help at all. Predictably she shakes her head and swirls the ice-cubes around what's left of her drink. Her gaze is completely fixed on that task alone. He's curious what's happening with Emily but not enough to push it, especially if it leads to tears. Usually girls crying is hilarious, most of the time because of something he's done but this time he's sure it wouldn't be funny. The last time he had made Naomi cry, it was amusing, until the guilt set in later just after she had given up her chance for school president for him. (Even if she was just --as she said to him much later-- “doing the right thing. Don't get any ideas.” He had responded then with the obvious jibe about her (at the time) hypothetical muff-diving tendencies.)
He just didn't want to make her cry again. She was possibly the only person who had said out loud that he was a good person. Well, close enough to.
Out of nowhere, her voice croaks out, “Got any pills?”
For a second, he's confused, then surprised, then he laughs.
“A bit of mandy? That all I'm good for?” He hopes it sounds like a joke, but he honestly wants the answer. Up until about 2 seconds ago, he was pleased that someone had actively chosen his company. She shakes her head adamantly and he's momentarily relieved... until she fixes her blue eyes on him. There is the slightest hint of tears pooling again. Shit.
“I want either pills or a hug and you're too keen on affection it seems.” Her tone lacks both bite and humour so he's not exactly sure how to interpret it. A challenge sounds closest.
“Babe, I'm not giving you any drugs.” Hoping it comes off as concerned, he smiles. The gesture isn't reciprocated however and a frown is set on her face and her eyes narrow. It looks dangerous. That's much more desirable than 'depressed' in his opinion.
“Stupid tosser,” she growls.
He laughs loudly. “Now that's more like it!” There is a flicker of a smile on her face, apparently amused at his audacity. Tilting back and finishing off his drink, he claps the glass down on the wood counter making her jump a little as a grin sneaks across her lips. He tosses a tenner on the bar.
“Now stop being such a lazy cow and finish your drink so we can go have a fag, yeah?” His demand is not even close to reproachful and she takes a long swig of alcohol and slides off the barstool a little too quickly. She stumbles slightly until he catches her arm.
“Fucking mint,” he exclaims in appreciation of her less than sober performance. She flips him off as they walk outside the pub, a smirk etched on to her face. A few steps away, she pauses and yanks a pack of cigarettes from her disgustingly large bag. Bloody girls and their shit. She lights up quickly and takes an incredibly long drag, one which would put Freddie to shame, if the fucker ever did anything fun anymore. This is more like the Naomi he's grown to know. She exhales directly at his face in a peculiar attempt to get a reaction, and he's struck with the memory of Effy doing something similar. He snatches the cigarette from her lips and tries to pull longer and deeper, and ends up coughing before he can complete the challenge. The resulting laugh cheers him up. He wasn't totally useless at being a friend. There is one girl in the would who can appreciate his attempts; just too bad she's a lezzer. It figured really.
His mobile rings loudly against the darkened residential road. He answers quickly. Speak of the devil...or something. “Hey babe,” he answers. The voice on the other side rambles for a minute and he watches Naomi root around in that stupid bag like a badger, finally producing a tallboy of Carlsberg triumphantly.
“No can do, munchkin,” he states. “Bit busy at the moment.”
The second he says “munchkin” Naomi's face whitens noticeably and she stares at him, her eyes boring into him so hard it actually makes him uncomfortable. She knows the only person he ever calls that is her fucking girlfriend. It's the first time that evening that he realises whatever is going on between the two girls wasn't their usual drama. The blonde's regular reaction was more along the lines of an exaggerated eye roll, a snort, or a heavy sigh, some form of annoyance really. She never went ashen. It makes him nervous and he ends the call quicker than usual.
“What'd she want?”
He waffles between telling the truth and lying. He doesn't see how it even matters. “Same as you.”
The answer satisfies her and a small amount of colour returns. However her smirk doesn't. Stuffing the device back in his packet, he shuffles over to her and takes the can of lager, helping himself. He leans back against the wall and studies her for a moment.
“She sounded like shit.”
Naomi has no immediate reaction. She reaches for the can instead. Finally she snarls, “Good”. It comes out so coldly that Cook is taken aback. It reminds him of JJ that night in the woods, or Freddie or Effy or any number of people in his life. So full of anger and resentment towards someone else (normally him). Since he had met Naomi, he's never heard that tone, not even directed to him. Not even to Emily when the twin was practically stalking her. Impatience, yeah. Frustration, yeah. Confusion, yeah. But never hate. He wondered if now is a better time to ask about her problems. She seems less likely to burst into tears and more likely to just put her fist through a nearby windshield.
“Lover's quarrel, eh?”
The accompanying glare makes it completely clear that she isn't pleased by his flippancy on the subject. She doesn't even need to tell him to fuck off this time. Grabbing the lager back he swallows huge gulps before tossing it onto the sidewalk. There's nothing more he can think to do and she's not making it any easier. Fucking girls. He has no bloody clue how to deal with them. Never had been a strong point, unless they need a fucking good shag. He guesses that isn't even close to what she wants, even if it would do her some good.
“Oh come on, princess.” He opens his arms. “Give us a hug then. Cookie Monster'll make the bad go away.” There is the comfortably familiar roll of her eyes but she moves towards him anyway and he's not sure if it's because she's drunk and miserable or because they are actual mates now. As he sees her holding back the smallest smile, he's pretty sure it's the second one. He hopes for once that he's wearing a moderately clean shirt.
It isn't until they're standing there a good minute that he realises that her shoulders are shaking slightly and her hands are tightly clenching at the fabric of his t-shirt. She's crying. Like really crying. It's so fucking different than the last time he saw her breakdown at the student election, and he's positive even that Naomi would never have shown this kind of weakness in front of him (or anyone else). She's different and softer and sort of falling apart everywhere. The only thing he can think to do is hold her tighter. It seems like the right thing though he's not sure when she starts absolutely bawling into his shoulder.
“Fucking hell,” he murmurs. “She fucked you over good, yeah?”
It surprises him when she shakes her head. Girls make no goddamn sense.
“I'm all alone now,” she manages to sputter out between sobs and she sounds completely broken. It reverberates deep inside him, reminding him how similar they've always been. It's hard not to think about Effy being a stupid slag, or Freddie being the worst fucking friend in the world, not to mention his own dad fucking off and being a complete asshole. For once he could empathize with her. It is fucking shit to be feeling what she is, or being ambushed by every single friend you have in the span of a minute. It didn't matter who did the leaving; it all felt the same. Utter loneliness. He wants to blame her flood of tears on the alcohol but he knows full well that it doesn't make a fucking difference. All she needs is a good mate to cushion the fall. For some reason that person had been Freddie for him after his dad turned into the world's biggest cunt and buggered off again. Great fucking choice that was considering it was Freddie and his indestructible lust for Effy that had got them all into the situation in the first place. Now, it's his turn to return the favour (The being a friend part, not the ruining everyone's lives by salivating like a dog with two dicks over Effy part). He figures Naomi's pretty damn lucky that he's not after Emily, and he had nothing to do with their obviously fucked relationship.
He pulls back, shimmying out of her grip. He takes an old balled up tissue from his pocket and timidly hands it to her. She dabs at her eyes, not once looking him in the face. 'Course she wouldn't. She needs a distraction. He claps loudly and it obviously startles her.
“Well, Blondie, fuck them! You're alone, I'm alone. Let's forget those wankers and get well fucked up, yeah?”
She finally meets his eyes, accompanied by a terse smile. “Alone together? How poetic of you, Cook.”
He grins widely, letting out a huge laugh. Grabbing her and locking an arm around her neck, he plants a sloppy kiss on her temple, that any other day she would have slapped him for. She pushes him off instead, but there's a smile on her face and she marches back towards the pub door. He's right behind her.
“So, this mean I get a blowjob then?”
He narrowly dodges her fist and grins at the solitary finger waving in the air behind her as she continues inside.
--- part 3: here
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission. Do not archive without permission.
Rating: R.
Warnings: Excessive swearing/drug use/adult themes/character death/possibly a few triggering references (self-harm, animal testing). You name it, it's in here.
Full notes available in Part 1.
EFFY - Lost Cause
Deception
It wasn't really that difficult if you really thought about it, doing what she did. Effy was so bloody sick of people - Sid, Tony, JJ, whoever - marvelling at her supposed magnificent talent of getting in people's heads, to read their thoughts, so to speak. God, it was fucking simple really. The process was fairly easy, just time consuming.
Shut up.
Observe.
Draw conclusions.
If people just stopped talking once in a while and took a second to actually look at other people instead of suffocating in their own ego, she was sure anyone could do it. If you're always running your mouth or thinking about yourself, it's far more difficult to see others. And honestly? It wasn't like she was doing it because she was some good Samaritan and could pass on this wealth of knowledge she earned. It made her feel better to watch people miss cues, fuck up, and never figure out what the fuck just happened because the entire past was just a blur of self-obsessive memories. It was also just nice to watch other people flail around. She figured that if she just watched long enough, she'd eventually find someone as miserable as she was, and by not saying anything to help, it increased those chances exponentially.
A cryptic smile, a few choice words, or a mischievous glint was often more than enough to send someone barreling at first down the right path, then to stumble back in the wrong direction as they recalled her expression with self-doubt. Hilarious, in a way. Pathetic in another.
She wasn't sure she could help anyone if she even wanted to anymore, even with a fucking map and step-by-step instructions, especially since everyone around her was so set on massive and permanent destruction. So why bother? Who was she to be more than a hitch in the plan? It was such a waste of time to attempt to fix things that were obviously meant to be broken. Frustrating and toying with the ultimate outcome was so much more satisfying. If it's all going to shit anyway, why rush it?
It wasn't always like this, her general apathy and almost misanthropic motivation. She had genuinely tried to fix things once or twice. In fact, she went out of her way. But people either completely misunderstood, ignored her or just wrote of her attempts as futile. She gave up trying to change things for better. If everyone wanted to be miserable, she'd damn well let them be. At least she'd have some company.
But sitting here she's not sure anymore if everyone she knows is meant to be so undeniably hopeless. She looks at the girls, asleep and completely unaware that anyone else is sharing their small room. She unwraps a stick of chewing gum rather loudly and her only response is a slight shuffle of bedsheets from the redhead in front of her. She chews it with her mouth open, snapping it between her teeth, until her jaw begins to ache. Even trying to make people miserable seemed impossible for her now.
Emily breathes loudly in her sleep as she squirms around, burrowing a little deeper against the naked shoulders in front of her and twisting a bare leg out from the tangle below. The duvet slips down with the movement, a testament to the obliviousness of her presence. Effy doesn't move, nor attempts to look away. She doesn't really give a fuck to be honest. The blonde beside her was the opposite however and Effy watches the pronounced goosebumps rise on her arms and the subsequent unconscious grasp for the blankets, pulling them up over her shoulders, and as a result, over Emily's head.
Effy would laugh if she didn't see the utter tragedy of it all. She's good at that, it's kind of her thing: seeing the most depressing pieces of the puzzle. She doesn't really know that much about the two girls together but what she is aware of is enough. They're on separate pages of the same pathetic book of how to love in the most painful and stubborn way possible. Naomi's too cold, and Emily's too hot. They've always been and neither wants to change. Same as now, with their unconscious struggle over the goddamn duvet. With a groan, Emily incoherently mumbles something at Naomi and pushes it down, away from her face. As per usual, there's no response from Naomi. It figures. But not to be denied a reaction, Emily perseveres of course. Effy decides it's a good thing that they're both facing the other wall. She's enjoying this opportunity to watch them, and likely Emily's half-awake at the moment, at least just enough to notice a figure in the room had she been in her blurred line of sight. Effy stops chewing and breathes quieter as Emily reaches over the blonde, and Effy can't quite see what's going on, but it looks like she closes her hand over Naomi's cheek. She can imagine that hot, damp hand against her own cheek and represses an uncomfortable shudder. Like second nature, Naomi swats at it and muffles out something vaguely like “Sorry Ems”. Apparently satisfied, Emily settles again, the same hand weaving around the body in front of her as her breathing deepens.
It's such a familiar, practiced movement that bile almost rises in Effy's throat. She swallows her own jealousy, and chews harder on her gum, a scowl suddenly breaking out across her normally impassive face.
She glances at the digital clock on the nightstand. 9:47 AM. Naomi was supposed to be out of her bloody bed by now. In fact, they were supposed to be on their way to Bath in her petrol-powered shitmobile. But here she was glaring rather pointlessly at Emily and Naomi snuggling in the early morning sunshine. Effy was pretty sure that at any moment puppies, rainbows and butterflies would burst through the windows, singing. It was just that lovely a picture, when you ignored everything else under the surface.
And for Christ's sake, Emily hadn't even been invited. However, Effy had conceded long before now that the redhead would likely be unable to be pried away from her prize, especially if her girlfriend was supposed to be spending the day with the college dropout who put her sister in hospital. She hadn't told Naomi that she was okay with Emily tagging along and Naomi had never even asked. Maybe it was because she just assumes now that everyone knows they are a packaged deal.
Whatever the reason, it's still fucking annoying. She spits her gum vaguely in the direction of the bin. She doesn't look to see if it actually goes in.
She's giving them 4 more minutes before she takes things into her own hands. As the countdown begins, she takes another look around the unfamiliar bedroom. On the floor lies Emily's watermelon-coloured bag, various university prospectus' spilling out onto the floor. She picks them up and flips uninterestedly through their glossy covers, each one looking as bland and pompous as the last. All top-notch Russell Group wanker breeding grounds. Nottingham, Manchester, Newcastle, Leeds, and fucking Belfast. She couldn't get much further away from Bristol if she tried. Not to mention the ERASMUS flyer. But the most interesting thing to Effy is that she knows where Naomi is headed: London. Didn't seem to matter which school in London, apparently. She wonders if her blonde friend and Emily had even discussed this. It didn't seem like something that wouldn't cause a row to end all rows, if she knew Emily at all. In the end, despite the protests, Emily became just a slower-blossoming, more gay version of her insufferable yet fascinating twin. It wasn't that she disliked Emily (not enough to wallop her over the head with a rock at least), and her languid transformation was curious, but she didn't like doormats, especially if those same doormats were able to do what she wasn't, and be brave...
Carelessly tossing the brochures back onto the floor, she taps a cigarette from the pack and lights up. She blows smoke directly at the sleeping girls. No reaction. She takes another deep drag and exhales, stronger this time, the dirty grey smoke lingering over the bed. She knows well enough how much Emily dislikes smoking, except when pissed. A sputtering sort of cough erupts weakly from the redhead and Effy smirks. It's Naomi who starts first and sits up abruptly, clutching the duvet against her chest as if it's something Effy would really care to see. The blonde's glare is softened by the bleary way she squints and the amusing way her hair is sticking out at odd angles.
Effy cocks an eyebrow, her smirk spreading further, challenging Naomi to protest but the bait fails. Instead the miniature spitfire beside her growls.
“What the fuck, Effy.”
It's not as much a question as a statement. She glances back at Naomi, then again to Effy. She has no idea what Effy is doing here, which says more than Effy needs to know. Naomi is still keeping secrets, and ones that were pretty inconsequential in contrast to, let's say, future university choices which were now obviously yet to be discussed. An almost hurt look passes from Emily to Naomi, and the response from the blonde looks like forced and reluctant apology, like she doesn't think she needs to apologise. Some things never fucking change.
It is like watching the slowest train crash ever. Emily's expression shifts from hurt to something akin to disbelief. She huffs, grabs a top from somewhere in the tangle of bedsheets and glares at Naomi momentarily. Pointedly. And Naomi for her part drops the false apology and just resorts to looking typically bored and exasperated. Still neither actually speaks, and as Emily angrily swings her feet to the floor, Naomi watches, a new and peculiar concerned look on her face. But it only lasts a brief moment before she looks to Effy, who merely offers the smallest, most practiced blasé shrug of her shoulders. The blonde tucks the duvet up under her chin and looks sullenly defeated before she rolls over, picks up a tee shirt of her own and refuses to meet Emily's gaze.
Her glimmer of hope she had for her supposed friends extinguishes at that exact moment. Love is just a fucking lost cause. She once mused inadvertently to Tony about why people even bothered with caring about people. He had thought he'd seen through her facade, calling her on her bullshit, implying she did in fact care. And he wasn't wrong of course. (When was Tony ever wrong? The stupid wanker.) She obviously cared about things, even if she still hadn't figured out how to love anything properly, or even keep them around long enough to learn the basics. But still, the whole thing seemed so damn pointless. A waste of effort in the end cause it all goes to shit no matter what you do or how much you feel.
She was too lost, wandering aimlessly through the darkness to see chaos stalking her, laying claim not just to her own pathetic life but unravelling everyone around her as well. Love (especially love) never worked if she was anywhere nearby. It was like her failure was inevitably contagious, as people around her fell in and then out of it, hard, ending up just as lonely and miserable as she always has been.
Looking at the expressions of the girls in front of her, her memory recoils to the picturesque way they were ten minutes ago and she almost wishes she she'd never met them at all.
Almost.
COOK - My Memory Escaped Me
Misery
It's the last place he ever expects to see Naomi Campbell by herself. His local lacked a lot of what she normally seemed to look for in pub, most notably the presence of her gal pal Emily. Not to mention she looked well rough. Cook knows what rough looks like and Naomi's teetering on the edge of bloody fucking miserable. Catching her gaze he motions for her to join him at the bar. She does so with no hesitation whatsoever and immediately orders a scotch, on the rocks, which would have surprised Cook (and also inevitably impressed him) had she seemed not quite so desperate. She says nothing to him specifically. For once, he can't figure out what he's supposed to say to her. He resorts to ordering a drink for himself.
“Not right for a fit girl to drink alone, yeah,” he tries.
She snorts a response and merely fiddles with the condensation on her glass. “Right.”
He tries again. “Where's the missus?”
For a moment, Cook is incredibly afraid she's going to burst into tears and he has no blinkin' idea how to deal with that insanity. Her eyes water but she quickly squashes that by taking an impressive gulp of her drink. She shakes her head, as if clearing away the sadness. She forces the fakest smile he thinks he's ever seen from her and that's saying a lot considering her regular attitude towards him. It's also when he knows something is actually wrong. Bad news is that she's come to the wrong person. He doesn't do talking. He doesn't do cheering up and he certainly doesn't do girly dramas. For some reason, he's 90% sure that's the reason she came to him. (She doesn't do the talking thing either.) But more importantly, unlike Effy, another person who doesn't do the talking thing, he doesn't silently judge and scheme. Fuck it, he'll give it a shot anyway.
“So Blondie, you wanna talk about it?” He says it in such a way that it's clear he'd be of no help at all. Predictably she shakes her head and swirls the ice-cubes around what's left of her drink. Her gaze is completely fixed on that task alone. He's curious what's happening with Emily but not enough to push it, especially if it leads to tears. Usually girls crying is hilarious, most of the time because of something he's done but this time he's sure it wouldn't be funny. The last time he had made Naomi cry, it was amusing, until the guilt set in later just after she had given up her chance for school president for him. (Even if she was just --as she said to him much later-- “doing the right thing. Don't get any ideas.” He had responded then with the obvious jibe about her (at the time) hypothetical muff-diving tendencies.)
He just didn't want to make her cry again. She was possibly the only person who had said out loud that he was a good person. Well, close enough to.
Out of nowhere, her voice croaks out, “Got any pills?”
For a second, he's confused, then surprised, then he laughs.
“A bit of mandy? That all I'm good for?” He hopes it sounds like a joke, but he honestly wants the answer. Up until about 2 seconds ago, he was pleased that someone had actively chosen his company. She shakes her head adamantly and he's momentarily relieved... until she fixes her blue eyes on him. There is the slightest hint of tears pooling again. Shit.
“I want either pills or a hug and you're too keen on affection it seems.” Her tone lacks both bite and humour so he's not exactly sure how to interpret it. A challenge sounds closest.
“Babe, I'm not giving you any drugs.” Hoping it comes off as concerned, he smiles. The gesture isn't reciprocated however and a frown is set on her face and her eyes narrow. It looks dangerous. That's much more desirable than 'depressed' in his opinion.
“Stupid tosser,” she growls.
He laughs loudly. “Now that's more like it!” There is a flicker of a smile on her face, apparently amused at his audacity. Tilting back and finishing off his drink, he claps the glass down on the wood counter making her jump a little as a grin sneaks across her lips. He tosses a tenner on the bar.
“Now stop being such a lazy cow and finish your drink so we can go have a fag, yeah?” His demand is not even close to reproachful and she takes a long swig of alcohol and slides off the barstool a little too quickly. She stumbles slightly until he catches her arm.
“Fucking mint,” he exclaims in appreciation of her less than sober performance. She flips him off as they walk outside the pub, a smirk etched on to her face. A few steps away, she pauses and yanks a pack of cigarettes from her disgustingly large bag. Bloody girls and their shit. She lights up quickly and takes an incredibly long drag, one which would put Freddie to shame, if the fucker ever did anything fun anymore. This is more like the Naomi he's grown to know. She exhales directly at his face in a peculiar attempt to get a reaction, and he's struck with the memory of Effy doing something similar. He snatches the cigarette from her lips and tries to pull longer and deeper, and ends up coughing before he can complete the challenge. The resulting laugh cheers him up. He wasn't totally useless at being a friend. There is one girl in the would who can appreciate his attempts; just too bad she's a lezzer. It figured really.
His mobile rings loudly against the darkened residential road. He answers quickly. Speak of the devil...or something. “Hey babe,” he answers. The voice on the other side rambles for a minute and he watches Naomi root around in that stupid bag like a badger, finally producing a tallboy of Carlsberg triumphantly.
“No can do, munchkin,” he states. “Bit busy at the moment.”
The second he says “munchkin” Naomi's face whitens noticeably and she stares at him, her eyes boring into him so hard it actually makes him uncomfortable. She knows the only person he ever calls that is her fucking girlfriend. It's the first time that evening that he realises whatever is going on between the two girls wasn't their usual drama. The blonde's regular reaction was more along the lines of an exaggerated eye roll, a snort, or a heavy sigh, some form of annoyance really. She never went ashen. It makes him nervous and he ends the call quicker than usual.
“What'd she want?”
He waffles between telling the truth and lying. He doesn't see how it even matters. “Same as you.”
The answer satisfies her and a small amount of colour returns. However her smirk doesn't. Stuffing the device back in his packet, he shuffles over to her and takes the can of lager, helping himself. He leans back against the wall and studies her for a moment.
“She sounded like shit.”
Naomi has no immediate reaction. She reaches for the can instead. Finally she snarls, “Good”. It comes out so coldly that Cook is taken aback. It reminds him of JJ that night in the woods, or Freddie or Effy or any number of people in his life. So full of anger and resentment towards someone else (normally him). Since he had met Naomi, he's never heard that tone, not even directed to him. Not even to Emily when the twin was practically stalking her. Impatience, yeah. Frustration, yeah. Confusion, yeah. But never hate. He wondered if now is a better time to ask about her problems. She seems less likely to burst into tears and more likely to just put her fist through a nearby windshield.
“Lover's quarrel, eh?”
The accompanying glare makes it completely clear that she isn't pleased by his flippancy on the subject. She doesn't even need to tell him to fuck off this time. Grabbing the lager back he swallows huge gulps before tossing it onto the sidewalk. There's nothing more he can think to do and she's not making it any easier. Fucking girls. He has no bloody clue how to deal with them. Never had been a strong point, unless they need a fucking good shag. He guesses that isn't even close to what she wants, even if it would do her some good.
“Oh come on, princess.” He opens his arms. “Give us a hug then. Cookie Monster'll make the bad go away.” There is the comfortably familiar roll of her eyes but she moves towards him anyway and he's not sure if it's because she's drunk and miserable or because they are actual mates now. As he sees her holding back the smallest smile, he's pretty sure it's the second one. He hopes for once that he's wearing a moderately clean shirt.
It isn't until they're standing there a good minute that he realises that her shoulders are shaking slightly and her hands are tightly clenching at the fabric of his t-shirt. She's crying. Like really crying. It's so fucking different than the last time he saw her breakdown at the student election, and he's positive even that Naomi would never have shown this kind of weakness in front of him (or anyone else). She's different and softer and sort of falling apart everywhere. The only thing he can think to do is hold her tighter. It seems like the right thing though he's not sure when she starts absolutely bawling into his shoulder.
“Fucking hell,” he murmurs. “She fucked you over good, yeah?”
It surprises him when she shakes her head. Girls make no goddamn sense.
“I'm all alone now,” she manages to sputter out between sobs and she sounds completely broken. It reverberates deep inside him, reminding him how similar they've always been. It's hard not to think about Effy being a stupid slag, or Freddie being the worst fucking friend in the world, not to mention his own dad fucking off and being a complete asshole. For once he could empathize with her. It is fucking shit to be feeling what she is, or being ambushed by every single friend you have in the span of a minute. It didn't matter who did the leaving; it all felt the same. Utter loneliness. He wants to blame her flood of tears on the alcohol but he knows full well that it doesn't make a fucking difference. All she needs is a good mate to cushion the fall. For some reason that person had been Freddie for him after his dad turned into the world's biggest cunt and buggered off again. Great fucking choice that was considering it was Freddie and his indestructible lust for Effy that had got them all into the situation in the first place. Now, it's his turn to return the favour (The being a friend part, not the ruining everyone's lives by salivating like a dog with two dicks over Effy part). He figures Naomi's pretty damn lucky that he's not after Emily, and he had nothing to do with their obviously fucked relationship.
He pulls back, shimmying out of her grip. He takes an old balled up tissue from his pocket and timidly hands it to her. She dabs at her eyes, not once looking him in the face. 'Course she wouldn't. She needs a distraction. He claps loudly and it obviously startles her.
“Well, Blondie, fuck them! You're alone, I'm alone. Let's forget those wankers and get well fucked up, yeah?”
She finally meets his eyes, accompanied by a terse smile. “Alone together? How poetic of you, Cook.”
He grins widely, letting out a huge laugh. Grabbing her and locking an arm around her neck, he plants a sloppy kiss on her temple, that any other day she would have slapped him for. She pushes him off instead, but there's a smile on her face and she marches back towards the pub door. He's right behind her.
“So, this mean I get a blowjob then?”
He narrowly dodges her fist and grins at the solitary finger waving in the air behind her as she continues inside.
--- part 3: here