to fuck and fight (1/2), cook/freddie (skins), nc-17
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. First time posting fic since AUGUST. Oddly enough, the last fic I posted was on the 17th too. And I started this almost exactly a year ago. WEIRD STUFF. This was really strange to write because I'm not like Cook at all, and he's not a very nice guy, but somehow writing in his mindset was FUN.
Title: to fuck and fight, part 1/2
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Cook/Freddie, Cook/everyone else ever
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Underage sex, violence, drug use, STDs, misogyny, occasional grossness in general...it's Cook-centric, what can I say?
Summary: A sexuality-based character study. Cook's sexual history, and what happens when it ends up including Freddie. Making people moan and writhe is kind of the only thing he knows how to do.
A/N: It's very long!! It's the first time I've had to split a fic in two in order to post it. The timeline starts pre-show and ends just before season 4.
You want to fuck and fight
In the basement
The kid wanna fuck and fight
In the basement
- 'Black Rooster' by The Kills
James Cook loses his virginity at the ripe young age of twelve. This is a fact that shocks most people, and one of which he is very proud.
It's actually his cousin who initiates him into the glorious world of sex, but she's like, his fifth cousin twice removed or something and both of them have decided they're as good as strangers. It's the first time they've ever met, anyway, at this god-awful wedding of his uncle's, and she's a year older and therefore infinitely wiser, and they go at it in the cloakroom.
It's actually the most awkward experience he's ever had, because she's clearly incredibly uncomfortable and not the experienced older woman he assumed she was. He'd thought he knew what he was doing, he'd always claimed to be intimately aquainted with what goes on between a girl's legs thanks to stolen magazines and videotapes. But in reality he has no fucking clue, and even though it feels good, that also means it only lasts about five seconds, and he's left feeling pretty dazed and lost and not knowing whether it's always going to be that way or not.
It's okay, though, because afterwards, they nick some of his Dad's cigarettes and a bottle of wine, and go through both while sitting outside the church and laughing together. He apologises for making her bleed and she says it's all right because they'll probably never see each other again anyway. He gives her the finger, and she kisses him sloppily on the mouth.
Besides, afterwards he tells people losing his virginity was the best thing that ever happened to him, and the looks on Freddie and JJ's faces when he relays the story make everything worth it.
**
By the time he's fourteen, he's done it with three girls from school, fingered two, and gotten more handjobs and blowjobs than he can count.
The older men in his life, anyone who's ever tried to be a mentor to him-father, uncles, slightly dodgy teachers-have always seemed to make such a big deal about sex, like it's what their lives revolve around. It's as though girls determine a man's self-worth, as though if you're not getting laid there's something wrong with you. That's what Cook picks up from it all, anyway.
The girls are the pretty, popular ones, the kind he and Freddie and JJ would never actually hang out with. But it's just so easy to be in the right place at the right time, to be there when one of them wants to make her boyfriend jealous or has just tried vodka for the first time or is feeling the peer pressure that they're always going on about in P.S.E.
It never occurs to him that there's anything about it that's not quite right.
He and JJ are sleeping over at Freddie's one night, in the shed, all bundled up in sleeping bags after trying their first spliff, and god, Cook feels good, all warm and sleepy and safe and like there's this dull, happy haze just drifting through his whole body. He wants this forever, wants things to stay this way. Everything else is unpredictable and dangerous and things are changing all the time at home, but as long as he can come to Freddie's shed and drink something, smoke something, and have company while he sleeps-well, it's all okay.
"Cook?" says Freddie's voice suddenly, quiet and a little hoarse in the dark.
Cook rolls over to face him. "Mm?"
"Did you-did you do it with Natalie last weekend?" Freddie asks, and he sounds kind of far away, kind of distant. Cook can see, in the dim light, that he's staring up at the ceiling as he speaks.
"Nah," Cook says, stretching. He thinks of Natalie, the girl Freddie's had a crush on since Year Five, and remembers how she refused to fuck him and then told everybody he'd tried to force her. "Frigid little bitch," he snorts, voice slightly muffled against his pillow. "She only gave me a handjob. Wasn't even that good at it."
Freddie laughs. "How can you-how could she not be good at it?"
Cook laughs, too, and answers, as honestly as he can. "Just...limp. I dunno, mate," he says, and yawns, and stares at Freddie's profile in the darkness. "She didn't hold my dick tight enough. You know what I mean," he pauses, remembering how Freddie told him he got his first handjob at that same party last week, "don't tell me Ashley was good, mate, because I've been there and done that and I've got the injuries from her fake nails to prove it."
There's a strained silence and then Freddie's voice comes back to him. "She didn't-I didn't do anything with Ashley."
Cook snorts. "Nah," he says, yawning. He feels like he's about to fall asleep. "Nah, you did. You said so."
"I know, I-" Cook can hear Freddie playing with the zipper of his sleeping bag. "I lied, okay?" he mutters. "No one's touched my dick. Ever. All right? You happy now?"
Cook's first instinct is to laugh, and all the weed in his system makes it hard not to. Instead he says, "That's tragic, mate," which probably isn't much better, but it's the first thing that comes to mind.
"JJ hasn't done anything either," Freddie mumbles, rolling over to face him.
"Yeah, but that's JJ," Cook says pointedly. JJ snores quietly over Freddie's shoulder and the two of them laugh. But then Freddie's statement sinks in, really sinks in, and Cook feels incredibly sorry for him. "You don't even know what it feels like to have someone else's hand round your cock? Jesus."
"No, Cook," says Freddie steadily, sounding more pissed off now, "I don't know what that feels like."
Cook looks at him, looks at the openness in his face and the honesty in his eyes. He says, "Do you want me to show you?" because he knows they can blame it on the spliff later, and because JJ's sound asleep, and because really, it is tragic if Freddie's never felt this.
He can't think about it too clearly. Freddie just sort of shrugs with one shoulder and then shucks his sleeping bag down to around his hips, and Cook can see the bulge beneath the fabric. It's sort of clinical at first, a fast up-and-down movement that mimics the way he gets himself off more than the girls who've done it for him. Freddie's cock is thick and slightly sticky in his hand, pulsing and foreign, but Cook just instinctively knows what to do, knows how to get Freddie squirming on the floor and having to bite down into the pillow to keep himself from waking JJ.
Making people moan and writhe is kind of the only thing he knows how to do, Cook thinks distantly, as he wipes his hand on Freddie's sleeping bag and gets back into his own. There's something sad about that, something odd, but he doesn't want to think about it, so he shuts his eyes and curls up, listening to JJ's noisy snoring continue on uninterrupted, and Freddie's breathing gradually return to its usual pace.
"Was that okay?" Freddie whispers a moment later.
"Yeah, think so," Cook says. He doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to go to sleep so tomorrow gets here faster. "Just get a girl to do it next time. Give Natalie a go, you've always liked her," he yawns. "She sucks, though."
"She sucks?" Freddie laughs, picking up on the unintended pun.
Cook laughs too, winks at him. "If you're lucky."
There's a pause, and then he hears the intake of breath that means Freddie's about to say something else, but nothing further happens. He rolls over, his back to Freddie, and goes on steadfastly ignoring the stiffy that's threatening to tear the seams of his boxers.
**
He wakes up at around 2pm the next day to see the two of them still passed out on the floor, and he gathers his stuff and leaves, not even sticking around for the fry-up that he knows Mr Mclair usually makes on a Saturday. He doesn't want to hang around eating bacon and beans with Freddie's family.
That night he turns up at a party he's not invited to, and smokes spliff with Natalie until she's all over him. She straddles him, rides him, on the floor of her stepdad's basement, and all he can think about is when Freddie's going to find out.
**
Freddie knows by Monday, through simple word of mouth, and throws punches during Maths before they've even spoken a word to each other since what happened in the shed.
"I don't know why you care, mate, I told you she wasn't good," Cook says when they're sitting outside the head's office with bloody noses and blossoming black eyes.
Freddie stares straight ahead, still fuming. "You told me to give her a go," he says simply.
They both get two weeks' worth of individual detentions and are forced to sit apart for the rest of the year, but time heals their wounds quickly and after Freddie loses his virginity to Natalie less than a month later, they start hanging out together again.
"I knew you'd make up," JJ beams at them, looking from one to the other in the shed as Freddie rolls a joint and Cook plays with his lighter. "You're never going to fight over a girl again, are you?"
He claps his hands on their backs and Freddie takes the lighter out of Cook's hand. "Right," he says, eyes cast downwards as he sparks the spliff.
"Right," Cook echoes, watching him.
Really, though, he's not sure if it's right. He's never been one to make promises, because there's never been enough in his life that he's sure of. All he knows is that he'll keep being friends with Freddie and JJ, and-
**
-he'll keep having sex.
Between the years of fourteen and seventeen, there are many, many more girls. Mostly, random ones in clubs and at parties whose names he can't remember afterwards. He never sleeps with the same girl twice, but there are a few that he remembers better than others, even if it's more about the circumstances than how good she was.
One of them he meets at a party not long after he and Freddie have reconciled. Freddie goes off to chat up some girl, and he tells Cook he wants him to stick with JJ in case he has a panic attack or something, but then Julie's there, all wide eyes and curly hair and talking a mile a minute, and Cook finds himself oddly charmed by her. She's their age, though she seems a little younger, and even though her constant chattering gets annoying, he decides he wants to get off with her tonight anyway. Maybe it's just because Freddie appears to be making headway with the blonde on the other side of the room, leaning in to her, murmuring something that makes her giggle, and Cook can't not pull tonight if Freddie does.
He takes Julie up to the bathroom, and he asks if she's too drunk, because he's starting to understand that 'taking advantage' is actually a pretty bad thing, but she shakes her head and brightly tells him this is how she's always wanted to pop her cherry. She still won't stop fucking talking even when he's finally got inside of her, and afterwards, she says she feels really, really sick.
When Freddie finds him, he's half-heartedly holding her hair back as she throws up in the toilet, and he stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised, the blonde girl nowhere in sight.
"Where's JJ?" he says. His voice is steady, but Cook can see the anger flaring up behind his eyes.
"He's not my responsibility, mate," Cook replies, as Julie hurls again into the toilet bowl.
"Well, he's not mine," Freddie snaps back.
"Aww," Cook says, stroking the back of Julie's head, "whose is he then?"
"Sounds like you have joint custody," Julie chokes out, voice echoing against the porcelain, and Cook tenses up.
Freddie kicks at the doorframe and leaves, disappearing off into the crowd of people in the hallway, and Cook lets go of Julie's hair and leaves her. JJ's more important than some puking girl, and when they find him freaking out in a corner downstairs, they forget about any impending argument and focus on getting him home.
**
Then, of course, there's the girl who stands out because of who she is.
That’s a pretty fucking huge mistake, that one. He's been drinking, as always, but he's still in his right mind, so really he's not got much of an excuse at all. She's drunk too, though he knows he's seen her more so, and he can't say she's the one who starts it because she's not. It's him. It's all him.
It happens at Freddie's house, which makes the connections even harder to shake, though his surroundings are the least of his worries. There's Karen's eyes, all dark and brooding like Freddie's, and her skin, the same smooth pale brown as his, soft and flawless. Even her mouth curves the same way Freddie's does; there's that same gentle dip of the upper lip, and Cook can feel it against his own mouth as he kisses her.
When he fucks her, she's all girlish moans and fake nails digging into his back, but still he fixates on the comparisons, the way she throws back her head like Freddie did when he wanked him off, the way her throat quivers as she gasps. When she squirms and shudders on the sofa beneath him, that night in the shed is so crystal clear in his mind that it's all he's thinking about, even as he comes.
"Don't tell him, all right?" he snaps at her gruffly as he's yanking on his jeans afterwards.
"I'm not retarded," she replies with a roll of her eyes, already dressed and smoothing down her hair.
Freddie comes home less than a minute later, in a mood about something, slamming the door. Cook turns on the TV, Freddie's none the wiser, and their friendship continues unhindered for a surprisingly long time.
**
And then, they meet Effy.
**
Effy's hot, and Cook can tell just by giving her a quick once-over that, no matter how unobtainable she tries to pretend she is, she's easy. He's learnt to recognise that, and it's something beyond the dress that flashes her arse and the way she swings her hips. There's something in her eyes, the way she looks at Freddie-it tells Cook more than she knows, more than he expects.
Anyway, turns out she is easy. Like, really easy. Like all you have to do is fill out some piece-of-piss form and she'll get with you in an out-of-use classroom.
The things on the list are, admittedly, a bit more than he was expecting to take on during his first day at college, but when he gives her a second glance, he's got this feeling she's going to be worth it. So he downs some vodka and sniffs some glue. He looks at some loser's abandoned porn and he sets a few things on fire.
And then, yeah, victory. He shares a spliff with her and practically fucks her through a desk.
All in a day's work, he thinks afterwards, proudly, as he heads to the pub with Freddie and JJ.
**
So then there's that girl Kayleigh who gives him, you know, the look, and if all he has to do to get her is score a bit more coke, that's really not a bad deal.
Freddie gets all uptight about it, but that's nothing new. If he had a quid for every time Freddie got all uptight about him wanting to get it on with some girl, well, he'd be a fucking millionaire by now.
Things don't go according to plan, anyway.
Freddie finds out what happened with Effy and he acts like such a bloody girl about it, like he's entitled to know about each and every one of Cook's dalliances, even though most of the time he gives the impression he'd rather hear about anything else than who was in Cook's bed last night. Cook knows Freddie likes Effy, but it's not like that makes much of a difference. He's already shagged her, so anyone else can do what they like about it. He's pretty sure she'll be making the rounds of the group just as quickly as he's planning to.
He doesn't get so much as a tiny glance of Kayleigh's tits, which is just fucking ridiculous, and then Freddie starts drunkenly yelling at him and storms off, so he drags JJ to that secret little place where he knows there'll be someone to get him off.
That's all he needs, right now, anyway. Just a girl's something around his cock, even if all he can afford is a pair of hands. Whatever.
He just-yeah, he just needs something.
**
Effy's brilliant in bed, she really is. A top dollar shag, as he told Freddie and JJ. He didn't think she'd be up for another go but she is, many more in fact, and he finds himself getting naked with her more than he has with anybody else.
It's fun, until something sort of snaps and she's not quite looking him in the eye anymore, and he catches her giving Freddie these longing glances all the time. She starts breaking away from him, seeming more and more detached every time they fuck, like he might as well be her fucking dildo or something. It's not okay.
He wants someone to appreciate him, maybe, just because sometimes a pair of hands, or a mouth, or a cunt, or an arse-they just aren't enough. It makes him feel pathetically sentimental, because he's not like that really-he doesn't like Effy, like-like her, like Freddie seems to. He doesn't feel the same way most people do when they're fucking, there's never any connection there beyond the physical one. He doesn't feel open or exposed or like he's sharing something real or honest or raw. It's just fun, and it feels necessary somehow. It's like an integral part of him, but, he supposes, that makes him just as detached from it all as Effy is.
And right now he's bored of the same old moans and groans coming from Effy's tobacco-tasting mouth, and the way she wraps her legs round him like she's done it to a million others.
So he fucks Pandora, because she's naïve and upset and really willing to learn, excited about 'surfing and turfing' or whatever she calls it. She's sweet, and so in awe of the new feelings, and it makes a nice change.
Still, it doesn't stop him going out to some club the next night and getting absolutely plastered, ending up getting a blowjob from some twenty-something in the toilets. She's too practised, too perfect at it, it's almost boring, and she leaves grotesque rings of waxy red lipstick around his dick.
**
Effy's got her thong all in a twist over that thing with Pandora, and refuses to fuck him again. He doesn't understand, like, at all, because he really had no idea they were supposed to be exclusive and he'd pretty much assumed she was shagging other people on the side too. Maybe it's a girly best friends loyalty thing, he doesn't know.
When Freddie finds out about Karen, at first he doesn't think it's that much of a big deal. Freddie knows what he's like, after all, and even though he was smart enough to know he should keep it secret, he never thought Freddie'd blow up like this if he found out.
When he gets everyone to vote for that Honey chick in the Sexxbombs competition instead of Karen, he tells himself he's doing Freddie a favour, doing everyone a fucking favour and making people happy. He thinks of all the times Freddie ranted about how disrespectful Karen was being, whoring herself out on television and looking into the camera with welled-up eyes afterwards and saying shit like I'm doing this for you, Mum. He tells himself Freddie'll be glad if Karen loses.
Deep down, though, he knows he's just doing it because if nothing happens, Freddie's going to keep on ignoring him, and he's not going to let Freddie make that much of a fuss over Cook having one night of passion with a girl Freddie already knows is a bit of a slut.
So yeah, he makes Karen lose.
And then Freddie lunges at him and Cook eggs him on until he feels the sharp crack of Freddie's forehead hitting his own. And then he knows it's all going to be okay, because even if they're fighting, Freddie's still here, in his life, and he'll pretty much do anything to keep it that way.
It's not really a part of the plan to kiss him, he just wants some way of communicating this whole thing to his best friend so that Freddie knows they're not really in a row, and, well, it's the only real type of communication he knows.
He just wants to say "I fuckin' love you," like he has many times before, but then the words turn into feelings and before he can stop them, they're boiling over and he's grabbing Freddie by the face and pressing their mouths together, hard. He tries to recover by saying the words afterwards, throws in an insult, but the look on Freddie's face is scaring him. He pushes Freddie's head to the side, partly just to stop himself looking at him, and heads for the hallway. He needs to get out of here and he needs someone to come with him.
"JJ, we're leaving," he says, and he hears how unsteady his voice is, how it wavers, and fuck he needs to get out of here.
Out in the hallway, he can hear Freddie saying something to JJ and, impatient, blood thrumming through his veins and his heart threatening to pound out of his chest, he yells JJ's name and punches that fucking cheesy family photo the Mclairs have had on their wall ever since Freddie's Mum died, shattering the glass in its frame.
He's still with JJ, and halfway to JJ's house, when he changes his mind and goes in the other direction instead.
Effy looks kind of drained and weary when he gets there, and her breath smells like she's been drinking vodka with her dinner, but he doesn't care, because she's willing and right now that's all that fucking matters.
She leads him up to her room and they fuck, still mostly-clothed, on her bed even though her Mum's right downstairs.
The doorbell rings only seconds after they're done and she sits up and goes stock-still, listening out as her Mum answers the door and shushing him when he tries to ask her what's up. Her Mum's response tells them both who's dropped by and she slides out of bed the second they hear the door shut again.
Cook looks at her, silhouetted against the window, and heaves a sigh, going up to join her. Of course Freddie's there, looking up at them, wistful and pathetic and fuck, Cook doesn't understand why he hasn't managed to at least kiss her yet if he's so head over heels. He doesn't peg Effy at the type who plays hard to get. He looks down at Freddie on the pavement, opens the curtains wider to give him a better look.
It's like swinging the votes in the competition. It's a way to keep Freddie there. If Freddie loves Effy as much as he seems to, he's not going to give up on her, and as long as Cook keeps himself between the two of them-well, Freddie won't give up on him either.
He grins at Freddie's stunned face, smoothes his hand down Effy's arm and kisses her ear. She's motionless, but when he nudges his erection against her thigh and says, "Another go then, yeah?" she nods, and he fucks her slowly up against the cool glass of the window, watching Freddie retreating all the way down the road back home.
**
The thing is, Effy's not really a challenge anymore, and he could do with one of those because everything else is getting boring. He fucks another nameless girl in a club, goes back for another handjob from that Welsh whore, and has sex with Effy countless times, but it's just-he needs something that's going to make him prove himself. Anyone can get laid at a club full of drunken ravers, anyone can pay a prostitute to wank them off, and anyone-barring Freddie, apparently-can fuck Effy.
He wants something that has more to it, so he picks Naomi, mainly because he figures that if she rejects him, she'll at least look hilariously pissed off and offended while doing so.
She makes some weird analogy about her lady parts and cement that he doesn't quite get, and then says something that sounds an awful lot like she's promising to fuck him if he manages to get elected student president.
So he signs up.
Because there's really nothing better to do, and he likes to think about whether he can make her let her hair down and break her composure.
And he wins the election.
Because you can never underestimate the desire teenagers have for anarchy, and you can never expect them to really care about the way their school's run.
Turns out, though, that Naomi's not like those lesbians you see in porn, the ones who are all about flicking their tongues against each other up until the bloke with the big dick enters the room. No, she's one of those actual lesbians, or at least she's pretty serious about this thing with Emily, because she stops him, and steps back.
And then she tries to tell him he's nice, so he says "Fuck you," and she says "Fuck you right back," only still, they don’t.
But it's okay. He's not interested in trying to convince her, and he's not even that interested full stop.
He wanted a challenge, and more than that he just wanted to feel a girl's warm soft breasts under his hands, and he wanted to sink into the wet heat between a girl's thighs, and he wanted to smell perfume and fiddle with bra clasps and slip his hand into lacy knickers.
He'd even settle for smeared lipstick on his dick, right now, or Karen's manicured nails scraping against his back, and his fingers itch at the thought. JJ's talked to him about sex addictions before, about people who literally can't do anything with their lives but fuck, and Cook'd just scoffed at him.
"That's just an excuse, mate," he'd said, blowing smoke in JJ's face. "Those people are living their lives, man, they're fuckin' doing it right."
He tries to imagine himself sitting opposite some bespectacled psychiatrist at JJ's loony bin or wherever, tries to imagine himself recounting all his sexual escapades in explicit detail. He'd probably shock the old bird.
Probably end up fucking her on her desk.
**
He fucks Pandora that evening. He invites her round and she turns up right away, but she sort of hovers in the hallway, saying stuff like "Actually Cookie, I don't know if I should, I mean, Thomas is back, and-" until he kisses her to shut her up, and then she's like putty in his hands.
It's easy. God, it's so easy.
**
He's not so dumb that he doesn't know it's wrong. He knows it's got to be kept secret, but in a way, that's kind of exciting. It's new. They have sex all the time now, and maybe it's that excitement of it being secret that keeps him from getting bored. He likes how she has to sneak out to his room, slip away from Thomas in order to see him.
One day, JJ nearly finds out, or he thinks he does. He turns up only seconds after Panda's left and he's all twitchy and shifty and actually flips out and yells at Cook, leaving Cook to try and calm him down. It's a close call. And Cook wants to tell him, he really does, but-he doesn't know what would happen if he did.
So then they go out, and JJ gives him some of his own personal stash of crazy pills, and god, okay, Cook's never felt quite like this when he's been fucked up before-it's a different feeling, a totally different feeling, not necessarily good but a hell of a lot of fun nonetheless. Emily's dancing with him, and he doesn't even care if she's a lesbian, she's hot and fluid and buzzed against him, her arse against his crotch, her tits beneath his hands. He wonders if she'll be up for a shag tonight, wonders if she's the same type of lesbo as Naomi or if she'll be up for a bit of-
And then Katie's dragging her away from him, and he briefly considers a threesome, but ends up getting the shit kicked out of him by some gang of guys instead.
It doesn't hurt, somehow. It's just fists flying at his face, and even as he can feel the blood trickling from his nose, it doesn't hurt. It's just there, this weird distant throbbing that feels like it belongs to somebody else. All he knows is he has to keep moving, let the beat of the music do whatever it wants to his body, even as he's thrashing, crashing into the people around him.
There's flashing red lights, streaming into a bright blue, and then there's a hand in his hair and a body wrapped around him and he clutches at it, fingers grabbing and holding on tightly.
And then he's slumped against a wall and Freddie's trying to feed him fucking water or something and slapping his face and swearing, and JJ's face comes into focus too and all he can do is just fucking laugh.
"Top pills, man," he grins, feeling the way his head rests against the wall behind.
He's half-aware of Freddie standing up, like he's going to leave, and Effy's the first thing to come to mind so he starts talking about her, rambling, not even knowing what he's saying.
He says, "She loves you," and Freddie stops still, and turns around. It works.
It all seems so fucking clear now, crystal, blindingly obvious. He doesn't even know how Freddie can't see it himself. He explains, it makes perfect sense-but Freddie's still staring at him like he's spouting nonsense, and he can't make it any fucking clearer than it is. He thinks about Effy and how unresponsive she's been lately and how she looks at Freddie that way. He's not jealous, he doesn't want her to look at him like that. But something about it pisses him off anyway.
"It's hurting me," he hears himself saying, and, well, what the fuck, "'cause Cook needs the love too."
The words are coming out of his mouth anyway like JJ's pills are a fucking truth serum and he can't stop talking. He doesn't want the complications of being with Effy, it's too much, it's not worth it. Pandora's easy. It's easy to keep secrets.
"It's all the same, great tits Panda, great tits Effy, that's all I get, 'cause I'm shit." The words are just spilling out now, and it feels like some fucking revelation to him but he can't even see the people around him, can't see if they care. "I'm pure shit."
There's a flurry of motion; someone calls him a cunt.
All he can do is laugh.
The world goes in and out of focus around him and he can feel the wall hard and sturdy against his skull, against his spine. He can feel bass inside him, in his muscles. He hears female voices and his surroundings shut down, black seeping into his vision, his head dropping.
Top pills, JJ, he thinks as he passes out. Top fucking pills.
**
They leave.
He sees Effy briefly, her pale face hovering over him, skin coloured red and blue under the lights.
"I'm sorry, Cook," she says. "I'm not-it's not my fucking responsibilty, all right? You're not mine."
He agrees wholeheartedly, so it's no wonder she walks away, stomping off through the crowd with Naomi tailing after, rolling her eyes.
That's all girls do, really, he supposes. Leave. Fucking roll their eyes at him. He's good for a fuck when they're trying to distract themselves, when they want something easy, quick and painless. And after that, they're out.
He cares about the principle, not the people. He doesn't want Naomi heaving him off the floor and taking him home with her. Doesn't want Effy crouching beside him, wiping his sweaty brow and professing her love. He doesn't care about them. It goes both ways.
But there's something about them that he can recognise is different. The way Naomi stopped him, even when it would've just been a quick meaningless shag, all because she feels so strongly about Emily. The way Effy's just not all there because of her feelings for Freddie.
He manages to drag himself through the club, anyway, dazed and dizzy after who knows how long. He can't find any of the others. Someone thrusts a drink at him, someone else offers him coke when he stumbles his way to the bathroom, and he takes it, takes it all, because he doesn't know what else he's supposed to do.
He dances, shoves his hand down the trousers of some girl who's got a boyfriend but doesn't act like it until he's there, beside her, yelling and throwing punches until Cook's black and blue and lying on a cold damp pavement outside.
**
And yeah, that's how he finds himself chucking gravel at Freddie's bedroom window at nearly three in the morning.
He knows he shouldn't expect a response, but when the curtains are dragged aside and he sees Freddie looking down at him, clad only in the boxers he sleeps in and Cook can see the slight sheen of sweat over his skinny chest, he's not surprised. Not at all.
"I need someone to fuck," he coughs out, shaking his head, when Freddie lets him in.
Freddie laughs. "You don't want to fuck me," he says, and it's-well, it's one of those things that comes out as a joke, a half-arsed comment that's not properly thought through, but then it hangs in the air, considered on both sides, and changes. Ends up differently than it was intended.
"I just want-" Cook says, mostly to fill the silence, because he doesn't know what the hell else to say. Doesn’t know what he wants in the first place. "I just-fucking-I don't fucking know."
He throws himself down on Freddie's bed, feels the mattress sink down under his weight, feels the feather duvet, the smooth soft cotton.
"What're you on?" Freddie asks him, perching on the edge of the bed beside him.
"What? I don't-" Cook says, then laughs. He doesn't even know why. "I need-no, man, I'm serious, I need to fuck-I need to fuck someone-have you got-I need to fuck a girl."
Freddie laughs, too, but it's sort of hollow. "I don't have any girls here, Cook."
"Katie not hiding in your wardrobe?"
Freddie tenses up slighly beside him. "You heard about that?"
"Yeah," Cook chuckles, "nice one, man. I never even gave her a go. Should've."
"You gave everyone else a go," Freddie retorts. "Maybe you should go find Effy," he sneers after a moment, "I'm sure she'd be up for a quick shag. Seeing as you really need it."
"Fuck Effy, man," Cook says, rolling the words round his tongue. He tilts his head so it's on its side, and looks at Freddie, follows his long skinny torso up to his neck (remembers the way it looked all stretched and long as he brought him off, so long ago), up to his face. Freddie's staring straight ahead, at the wall.
"Never really gave me a chance to, did you," Freddie spits out, bitter, and Cook snorts.
"Good thing, too," he says. "Fucking...she's just not...you know." He's mumbling into the duvet now; tired, drunk, useless. "Not worth it, really. Shit."
"Not worth it?" Freddie looks practically scandalised at the thought. Like Effy's worth ten times as much as Cook is. "Fuck. Go home. Sleep in your own fucking bed."
Cook rolls over, feels the cool soft sheets against his cheek. He inhales, and he can smell Freddie; the soap-shampoo-spliff smell of him he's so used to, the comfortable warmth of the sheets his best friend's just been curled up under. He shuffles along the bed until his head meets a pillow, and he settles against it. It feels good. He inhales again. It feels so good.
"Maybe I wanna sleep here," he mumbles into the fabric.
"Fuck you. Go home."
Cook lets the words ring out in the air. He feels like he can feel the vibration of them around the room, can feel the way they leave Freddie's lips and enter his ears. He listens.
"She's-fuck-we shouldn't," he says eventually, because they're the only words that come to mind and some part of him thinks Freddie will understand, thinks Freddie'll get every single thought that's come into his head since he entered the room, just through those few words. God, Jesus fuck, he's so tired.
"Shouldn't what, Cook, Christ," Freddie snaps back at him, impatient.
"Shouldn't let her get in the fucking way," Cook replies, words coming back practically garbled, "shouldn't-fucking-we're, we're mates, all right? We've always been mates." He pauses. "Always gonna be mates. She's just some fucking-she's just some fucking psycho whore." He pauses again, turns to look at Freddie, but Freddie's still staring at the wall. "You know that. You do. You know it. She's fucking mental, mate, I don't know why you bother."
"Same reason you do," Freddie retorts, shrugging with one shoulder.
"What, 'cause she's easy? There?" Cook laughs again, but the laugh tears itself out of his lungs and leaves him breathless and uneasy. "'Cause she's fucking up for it and 'cause she's got a fucking pussy?" He presses his face into Freddie's duvet for a minute, letting the scent overtake his nostrils, letting the material cover his nose and mouth. "That's why I fucking fuck her. And 'cause you want her. You fucking-you want her. You've never wanted anyone like this. Never seen you like this."
Cook practically muffles his own mouth against the bed like he's trying to get himself to shut up, and he presses against the pillow. The room's kind of spinning around him and he finds it oddly comforting; he doesn't want anything to stay still or to stop.
"Go to sleep, Cook," Freddie tells him after a careful minute, and Cook's already halfway there, drifting off, the room losing focus around him.
"Fucking...fucking. Jesus. Fucking twat," is the last thing he hears, Freddie muttering under his breath as he pulls the duvet over himself, settling down into bed beside him.
**
Cook wakes up briefly at some ungodly hour, feeling far too hot. He yanks off all his clothes but his boxers, hardly bothering to open his eyes, only catching sight of the sun coming up through a crack in curtains. He snuggles down under the duvet, cool and comfortable now. Beside him, he senses warmth and presence, and he reaches out to feel hot soft skin against his fingertips. He strokes, feels steady breathing, and curves his hand around a waist.
He falls back to sleep almost instantly.
**
It takes him a long time to wake up properly, several hours later. When he does, he feels like his head's exploding, and he groans into the pillow beneath his head, squinting at the sunlight streaming in through the windows. He's disoriented, sick and sore, and he stretches, reaching out for whoever's next to him.
But there's no one.
There's rarely no one.
He sits up straight, blinking, clutching at his aching head.
"Go home," a voice spits from across the room, and a balled-up pair of jeans hit him square in the chest.
It's Freddie, and it's only then that Cook realises where he is. He hasn't slept in Freddie's room for years, not since they were maybe ten or eleven. The shed became their home after that, and he's always slept on the sofas in there, or with his limbs slung haphazardly over an armchair, or just splayed out on the floor. Used to sleep top-to-toe with Freddie in this bed, he remembers, usually with JJ on the floor beside them.
He looks around.
"I haven't slept here for fuckin' ages, man," he says, just because it feels like the sort of thing that should be said out loud. His voice comes out all scratchy and his throat feels like it's clogged with cotton wool. He can't remember last night at all. At all. That's unusual, too. It must've been pretty fucking good.
"Yeah, and you won't be again any time soon," Freddie snaps back, chucks a t-shirt across the room at him.
Cook glances down at it, sees that it's stained with beer and blood and fuck knows what else. "What?" is all he can muster.
Freddie sinks his head into his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. It's some signal that he's exasperated; Cook knows it well. Even if he doesn't understand it.
"What? What'd I do last night?" Cook laughs. "C'mon mate, it can't have been that bad. Remind me and we can both have a little chuckle and then get some breakfast-oh, shit, I would fucking murder a fry-up right now, fuck that sounds good, does your Dad still-"
"I'm serious, Cook, get out."
"What?" Cook holds out his hands, palms upturned, clueless. "What, did I try and fuckin', touch you up, or something, because-"
"No," Freddie snorts, "Jesus. Just fuck off."
And Cook does, because whatever, he's not hanging around where he's not wanted, and he doesn't need to be there in the first place. He's got other places to go, people to see. He makes a big show of getting dressed, taking his time, drawing out the awkward silence they lapse into as Freddie just sits and waits and Cook pulls his sweaty, dirty clothes on.
**
He washes crusty dried blood off his face with blisteringly hot water, changes his clothes, and eats three Pot Noodles, but he still doesn't feel any better.
That night he finds himself outside Freddie's again, throwing stones until his arm's too sore, and Freddie doesn't answer.
**
He buys a whole fucking dinner-for-two at Marks & Spencers, blows all the money he's got, only to be turned away by Effy's Mum, told everyone's gone off for some party in the woods. He assumes that the fact his invitation got lost in the post is Freddie's doing-whatever Effy may think of him now, he knows she still wants him around. Everyone always wants him around.
He doesn't even know why he spent so much on her, made an honest-to-God effort, like he never has before. At some point, this has become more than just a fuck. It means more to him, being with her. But not Effy herself-she's as meaningless to him as she was when he first laid eyes on her.
Later, running through the wet black woods as fast as his feet can carry him, the bright blaze of a campfire his target, something begins to dawn on him.
He's got something to prove.
He just doesn't know what.
**
He fucks everything up, because that's all he knows. He scares the shit out of all of them, partly for revenge and partly for pure amusement. And Freddie goes mental, fingers tight at the collar of Cook's shirt, face so close Cook can feel the cold sweat of his nose against his own. Yet still, he doesn't hit him, doesn't headbutt him, doesn't kick him in the balls-nothing. And Cook feels himself longing for it, aching for it, for something. Something's swelling in his gut, anticipation tying his stomach into angry, impatient knots.
"What d'you want, my fuckin' blood?" he snarls. Freddie's eyes are too close to his own for him to see any change in expression. "'Cause you've fucking taken everything else, you've taken fucking JJ and now you're taking her off me as well."
That, that's when he sees a reaction. Freddie's eyes dart to Effy and then back to him, and Cook grins. Even when he gets Effy to tell the truth-hears her say she doesn't want him, not anymore-he wants to smile. He wants everyone to know about all the shit that's been going on, so he talks, and talks, and keeps talking, even when they're all sneering in his face for him to go home or storming off into the trees or just begging him, begging him to shut up.
Thomas should be the one to hurt him, really, but he won't. It's Panda, with a slap harder than he expects, that brings the sweet sting of blood from his nose and the burning pain to the surface of his skin.
It's not Freddie's knuckles connecting sharply with the bridge of his nose, but-it's enough.
He laughs, relief spreading warmth right through him.
**
Effy runs off into the dark, tripping, seeing shapes and shadows and bugs that aren't there. Cook doesn't know where everyone else has gone but he can hear the sounds of argument in the trees that crowd him.
"You happy now?" Freddie snaps, dropping onto his knees with a crackle of leaves. "Now you've ruined everybody's fucking night?"
"Not yours," Cook grins, wiping blood from his face with the heel of his hand, "you've got everything you want, right? Effy wants you."
In the dim light Cook can see Freddie clench his teeth. A moment passes.
"So what're we doing here? Toasting marshmallows, singing songs round the fire?" he taunts.
His face is still throbbing painfully. Freddie doesn't answer. He glances round to look at him, and then before he knows what's happening he's being pushed down onto the ground, Freddie straddling him, a hot heavy weight at his hips. He's half-wrestling him, clutching at his shoulders and his waist, fingers briefly grabbing at his throat. Cook can tell he's on something-has always been able to tell when Freddie's on something, interpret the extra twitches and shudders of his body, and he knows this time it's a hallucinogen, acid or shrooms, maybe.
He doesn't fight back, just lies there, feeling the crunch and shift of the leaves beneath him, waiting for the injury, his whole body thrumming with impatience. Freddie's lips are pressed tightly together, his eyes fierce, his fingers grabbing and snatching but never doing any harm.
"Would you fucking hit me, you-"
His words are cut off by Freddie's lips being smashed against his own, open and dry, panting into his mouth. It's hard and sudden and painful, feeling like a bruise, and he can taste his own blood and something foul on Freddie's breath. Freddie goes still, a dead weight, and then grips Cook's shoulders so tightly it hurts like hell and thrusts his tongue into his mouth. Cook's whole body tenses and jerks and Freddie snaps back and hauls himself off him. Cook only catches a glimpse of his face-lit eerily grey by the moonlight, a smear of Cook's blood and his own spit across his left cheek-and then he's vanishing, his silhouette merging with those of the surrounding trees as Cook lies stunned and sore in the mud.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, trying to think but hitting mental blocks everywhere his mind goes. Eventually he gets shakily to his feet, grabs a torch off the ground and stumbles off the way he came.
**
"Nine fucking stitches," Freddie hisses out, long harsh plumes of spliff smoke streaming from his nostrils and lips.
"I told you she was mental, mate," Cook shrugs.
It's a genuine response, no cover-ups, because he's honestly not surprised, not even a little. He never doubted that Effy could do damage, split a bitch's head open if she needed to. It's no shock. All that surprises him is Freddie's disbelief, disappointment, like all this time Effy's been an angel to him.
And, of course, the fact that Freddie's here at all, turning up at his door ranting and raving about the party and hospitals and the police, and acting like they're still friends.
"Didn't think you meant," Freddie pauses, inhales from the spliff sharply, "like this."
"What, you love Katie then?" Cook asks, laughing. "That why you're so heartbroken? She's gonna get better. It's like a fucking papercut, nine stitches is nothing, mate."
"Shut up."
Freddie's pacing, back and forth across the narrow room, from one wall to the other. Cook watches him from where he's slumped on his bed.
"Didn't think she was-I guess I just didn't think she was capable," Freddie says, and his voice is low, sad, pathetic. Slighted. It's the same tone Cook hears when Freddie finds out he's been drinking from dusk til dawn, the same tone he hears when he takes pills without asking what they are first or gets caught nicking vodka from the corner shop.
"You don't even fucking know her, man," Cook bursts out, his own anger and frustration surprising him. "'Course you don't know what she's capable of. I still don't know why you fucking bother."
Freddie swears, the dying spliff burning his fingers. He tosses it into the bin. "I'm not the only one who fucking bothers, all right?" he spits onto the carpet, and Cook sits up straight. The blood flows heavier through his veins, he's ready for something. "We both-we both care about her, yeah?"
Cook snorts. Maybe he cares about Effy more than he does about other girls, but in the grand scheme of things, he really doesn't give a shit-doesn't get all weepy when she's wanting someone else, doesn't get all high and mighty when she knocks somebody out.
Freddie doesn't seem to care about his answer, anyway. He runs his hand through his hair, aggravated, and Cook watches him. Freddie's fingers are electric, moving constantly. He reaches into his pocket, fumbling for another spliff, finds the tin empty, and swears again. The cogs start to turn and something clicks in Cook's brain.
"You fucked her," Cook says.
"What?"
"Effy. You fucked her."
Freddie doesn't respond, and Cook knows, just knows. He feels a stab of anger in his chest and stands up.
"You did. You fucked her. Say it."
Freddie's still fidgeting, one hand reaching for his pocket and the other one pulling at the hem of his t-shirt and Cook grabs both of them, frustrated. His eyes flicker upwards and the kiss comes immediately.
Their mouths meet harshly, painfully, lips forced against each other and falling open. Their teeth clash, and Freddie bites, hard and sharp, and Cook jolts, thrusting his tongue into Freddie's mouth. And then Freddie goes limp against him, passive and helpless, openly sobbing, his cheeks hot against Cook's skin. When Cook pulls back, pushing Freddie away, he sees the tears pricking at the corners of Freddie's reddened eyes and he pushes him harder, watches his back hit the wall. He hasn't seen Freddie cry since his Mum died.
"I'm going to the hospital," Freddie says hoarsely, looking at the floor, wiping angrily at his lips with the back of his hand. "Katie-she needs me."
Cook laughs, hard and cruel and hysterical. "Right," he grins. "I'm sure she fucking does."
Freddie clenches his fists and sets his jaw and comes so close Cook can once again smell the weed on his heavy breath, but nothing comes, no hit, no kiss, just a quick retreat and the loud slam of the door.
**
Minutes later, Cook finds himself achingly hard, and he wanks off to the nastiest porn he can find, eyes fixed on the tanned blonde bimbo with her fake tits and fake moans. He feels sick as he comes, tasting bile in his throat.
He tries the doors of six cars parked nearby before he finds one unlocked, and he follows Freddie to the hospital. He asks for Katie Fitch, and finds Effy in a sobbing heap on the floor outside the room. He carries her limp body outside, shouting away offers of help, tucks her into the back seat, and starts to drive.
She cries brokenly for a little while longer and then falls asleep. Cook's mapless, finding motorways by mistake and spiralling round roundabouts, but he plans his route the best he can.
Sometimes, he thinks, lighting a cigarette, there's nothing left to do but run away.
(Part 2/2 here.)
Title: to fuck and fight, part 1/2
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Cook/Freddie, Cook/everyone else ever
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Underage sex, violence, drug use, STDs, misogyny, occasional grossness in general...it's Cook-centric, what can I say?
Summary: A sexuality-based character study. Cook's sexual history, and what happens when it ends up including Freddie. Making people moan and writhe is kind of the only thing he knows how to do.
A/N: It's very long!! It's the first time I've had to split a fic in two in order to post it. The timeline starts pre-show and ends just before season 4.
You want to fuck and fight
In the basement
The kid wanna fuck and fight
In the basement
- 'Black Rooster' by The Kills
James Cook loses his virginity at the ripe young age of twelve. This is a fact that shocks most people, and one of which he is very proud.
It's actually his cousin who initiates him into the glorious world of sex, but she's like, his fifth cousin twice removed or something and both of them have decided they're as good as strangers. It's the first time they've ever met, anyway, at this god-awful wedding of his uncle's, and she's a year older and therefore infinitely wiser, and they go at it in the cloakroom.
It's actually the most awkward experience he's ever had, because she's clearly incredibly uncomfortable and not the experienced older woman he assumed she was. He'd thought he knew what he was doing, he'd always claimed to be intimately aquainted with what goes on between a girl's legs thanks to stolen magazines and videotapes. But in reality he has no fucking clue, and even though it feels good, that also means it only lasts about five seconds, and he's left feeling pretty dazed and lost and not knowing whether it's always going to be that way or not.
It's okay, though, because afterwards, they nick some of his Dad's cigarettes and a bottle of wine, and go through both while sitting outside the church and laughing together. He apologises for making her bleed and she says it's all right because they'll probably never see each other again anyway. He gives her the finger, and she kisses him sloppily on the mouth.
Besides, afterwards he tells people losing his virginity was the best thing that ever happened to him, and the looks on Freddie and JJ's faces when he relays the story make everything worth it.
**
By the time he's fourteen, he's done it with three girls from school, fingered two, and gotten more handjobs and blowjobs than he can count.
The older men in his life, anyone who's ever tried to be a mentor to him-father, uncles, slightly dodgy teachers-have always seemed to make such a big deal about sex, like it's what their lives revolve around. It's as though girls determine a man's self-worth, as though if you're not getting laid there's something wrong with you. That's what Cook picks up from it all, anyway.
The girls are the pretty, popular ones, the kind he and Freddie and JJ would never actually hang out with. But it's just so easy to be in the right place at the right time, to be there when one of them wants to make her boyfriend jealous or has just tried vodka for the first time or is feeling the peer pressure that they're always going on about in P.S.E.
It never occurs to him that there's anything about it that's not quite right.
He and JJ are sleeping over at Freddie's one night, in the shed, all bundled up in sleeping bags after trying their first spliff, and god, Cook feels good, all warm and sleepy and safe and like there's this dull, happy haze just drifting through his whole body. He wants this forever, wants things to stay this way. Everything else is unpredictable and dangerous and things are changing all the time at home, but as long as he can come to Freddie's shed and drink something, smoke something, and have company while he sleeps-well, it's all okay.
"Cook?" says Freddie's voice suddenly, quiet and a little hoarse in the dark.
Cook rolls over to face him. "Mm?"
"Did you-did you do it with Natalie last weekend?" Freddie asks, and he sounds kind of far away, kind of distant. Cook can see, in the dim light, that he's staring up at the ceiling as he speaks.
"Nah," Cook says, stretching. He thinks of Natalie, the girl Freddie's had a crush on since Year Five, and remembers how she refused to fuck him and then told everybody he'd tried to force her. "Frigid little bitch," he snorts, voice slightly muffled against his pillow. "She only gave me a handjob. Wasn't even that good at it."
Freddie laughs. "How can you-how could she not be good at it?"
Cook laughs, too, and answers, as honestly as he can. "Just...limp. I dunno, mate," he says, and yawns, and stares at Freddie's profile in the darkness. "She didn't hold my dick tight enough. You know what I mean," he pauses, remembering how Freddie told him he got his first handjob at that same party last week, "don't tell me Ashley was good, mate, because I've been there and done that and I've got the injuries from her fake nails to prove it."
There's a strained silence and then Freddie's voice comes back to him. "She didn't-I didn't do anything with Ashley."
Cook snorts. "Nah," he says, yawning. He feels like he's about to fall asleep. "Nah, you did. You said so."
"I know, I-" Cook can hear Freddie playing with the zipper of his sleeping bag. "I lied, okay?" he mutters. "No one's touched my dick. Ever. All right? You happy now?"
Cook's first instinct is to laugh, and all the weed in his system makes it hard not to. Instead he says, "That's tragic, mate," which probably isn't much better, but it's the first thing that comes to mind.
"JJ hasn't done anything either," Freddie mumbles, rolling over to face him.
"Yeah, but that's JJ," Cook says pointedly. JJ snores quietly over Freddie's shoulder and the two of them laugh. But then Freddie's statement sinks in, really sinks in, and Cook feels incredibly sorry for him. "You don't even know what it feels like to have someone else's hand round your cock? Jesus."
"No, Cook," says Freddie steadily, sounding more pissed off now, "I don't know what that feels like."
Cook looks at him, looks at the openness in his face and the honesty in his eyes. He says, "Do you want me to show you?" because he knows they can blame it on the spliff later, and because JJ's sound asleep, and because really, it is tragic if Freddie's never felt this.
He can't think about it too clearly. Freddie just sort of shrugs with one shoulder and then shucks his sleeping bag down to around his hips, and Cook can see the bulge beneath the fabric. It's sort of clinical at first, a fast up-and-down movement that mimics the way he gets himself off more than the girls who've done it for him. Freddie's cock is thick and slightly sticky in his hand, pulsing and foreign, but Cook just instinctively knows what to do, knows how to get Freddie squirming on the floor and having to bite down into the pillow to keep himself from waking JJ.
Making people moan and writhe is kind of the only thing he knows how to do, Cook thinks distantly, as he wipes his hand on Freddie's sleeping bag and gets back into his own. There's something sad about that, something odd, but he doesn't want to think about it, so he shuts his eyes and curls up, listening to JJ's noisy snoring continue on uninterrupted, and Freddie's breathing gradually return to its usual pace.
"Was that okay?" Freddie whispers a moment later.
"Yeah, think so," Cook says. He doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to go to sleep so tomorrow gets here faster. "Just get a girl to do it next time. Give Natalie a go, you've always liked her," he yawns. "She sucks, though."
"She sucks?" Freddie laughs, picking up on the unintended pun.
Cook laughs too, winks at him. "If you're lucky."
There's a pause, and then he hears the intake of breath that means Freddie's about to say something else, but nothing further happens. He rolls over, his back to Freddie, and goes on steadfastly ignoring the stiffy that's threatening to tear the seams of his boxers.
**
He wakes up at around 2pm the next day to see the two of them still passed out on the floor, and he gathers his stuff and leaves, not even sticking around for the fry-up that he knows Mr Mclair usually makes on a Saturday. He doesn't want to hang around eating bacon and beans with Freddie's family.
That night he turns up at a party he's not invited to, and smokes spliff with Natalie until she's all over him. She straddles him, rides him, on the floor of her stepdad's basement, and all he can think about is when Freddie's going to find out.
**
Freddie knows by Monday, through simple word of mouth, and throws punches during Maths before they've even spoken a word to each other since what happened in the shed.
"I don't know why you care, mate, I told you she wasn't good," Cook says when they're sitting outside the head's office with bloody noses and blossoming black eyes.
Freddie stares straight ahead, still fuming. "You told me to give her a go," he says simply.
They both get two weeks' worth of individual detentions and are forced to sit apart for the rest of the year, but time heals their wounds quickly and after Freddie loses his virginity to Natalie less than a month later, they start hanging out together again.
"I knew you'd make up," JJ beams at them, looking from one to the other in the shed as Freddie rolls a joint and Cook plays with his lighter. "You're never going to fight over a girl again, are you?"
He claps his hands on their backs and Freddie takes the lighter out of Cook's hand. "Right," he says, eyes cast downwards as he sparks the spliff.
"Right," Cook echoes, watching him.
Really, though, he's not sure if it's right. He's never been one to make promises, because there's never been enough in his life that he's sure of. All he knows is that he'll keep being friends with Freddie and JJ, and-
**
-he'll keep having sex.
Between the years of fourteen and seventeen, there are many, many more girls. Mostly, random ones in clubs and at parties whose names he can't remember afterwards. He never sleeps with the same girl twice, but there are a few that he remembers better than others, even if it's more about the circumstances than how good she was.
One of them he meets at a party not long after he and Freddie have reconciled. Freddie goes off to chat up some girl, and he tells Cook he wants him to stick with JJ in case he has a panic attack or something, but then Julie's there, all wide eyes and curly hair and talking a mile a minute, and Cook finds himself oddly charmed by her. She's their age, though she seems a little younger, and even though her constant chattering gets annoying, he decides he wants to get off with her tonight anyway. Maybe it's just because Freddie appears to be making headway with the blonde on the other side of the room, leaning in to her, murmuring something that makes her giggle, and Cook can't not pull tonight if Freddie does.
He takes Julie up to the bathroom, and he asks if she's too drunk, because he's starting to understand that 'taking advantage' is actually a pretty bad thing, but she shakes her head and brightly tells him this is how she's always wanted to pop her cherry. She still won't stop fucking talking even when he's finally got inside of her, and afterwards, she says she feels really, really sick.
When Freddie finds him, he's half-heartedly holding her hair back as she throws up in the toilet, and he stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised, the blonde girl nowhere in sight.
"Where's JJ?" he says. His voice is steady, but Cook can see the anger flaring up behind his eyes.
"He's not my responsibility, mate," Cook replies, as Julie hurls again into the toilet bowl.
"Well, he's not mine," Freddie snaps back.
"Aww," Cook says, stroking the back of Julie's head, "whose is he then?"
"Sounds like you have joint custody," Julie chokes out, voice echoing against the porcelain, and Cook tenses up.
Freddie kicks at the doorframe and leaves, disappearing off into the crowd of people in the hallway, and Cook lets go of Julie's hair and leaves her. JJ's more important than some puking girl, and when they find him freaking out in a corner downstairs, they forget about any impending argument and focus on getting him home.
**
Then, of course, there's the girl who stands out because of who she is.
That’s a pretty fucking huge mistake, that one. He's been drinking, as always, but he's still in his right mind, so really he's not got much of an excuse at all. She's drunk too, though he knows he's seen her more so, and he can't say she's the one who starts it because she's not. It's him. It's all him.
It happens at Freddie's house, which makes the connections even harder to shake, though his surroundings are the least of his worries. There's Karen's eyes, all dark and brooding like Freddie's, and her skin, the same smooth pale brown as his, soft and flawless. Even her mouth curves the same way Freddie's does; there's that same gentle dip of the upper lip, and Cook can feel it against his own mouth as he kisses her.
When he fucks her, she's all girlish moans and fake nails digging into his back, but still he fixates on the comparisons, the way she throws back her head like Freddie did when he wanked him off, the way her throat quivers as she gasps. When she squirms and shudders on the sofa beneath him, that night in the shed is so crystal clear in his mind that it's all he's thinking about, even as he comes.
"Don't tell him, all right?" he snaps at her gruffly as he's yanking on his jeans afterwards.
"I'm not retarded," she replies with a roll of her eyes, already dressed and smoothing down her hair.
Freddie comes home less than a minute later, in a mood about something, slamming the door. Cook turns on the TV, Freddie's none the wiser, and their friendship continues unhindered for a surprisingly long time.
**
And then, they meet Effy.
**
Effy's hot, and Cook can tell just by giving her a quick once-over that, no matter how unobtainable she tries to pretend she is, she's easy. He's learnt to recognise that, and it's something beyond the dress that flashes her arse and the way she swings her hips. There's something in her eyes, the way she looks at Freddie-it tells Cook more than she knows, more than he expects.
Anyway, turns out she is easy. Like, really easy. Like all you have to do is fill out some piece-of-piss form and she'll get with you in an out-of-use classroom.
The things on the list are, admittedly, a bit more than he was expecting to take on during his first day at college, but when he gives her a second glance, he's got this feeling she's going to be worth it. So he downs some vodka and sniffs some glue. He looks at some loser's abandoned porn and he sets a few things on fire.
And then, yeah, victory. He shares a spliff with her and practically fucks her through a desk.
All in a day's work, he thinks afterwards, proudly, as he heads to the pub with Freddie and JJ.
**
So then there's that girl Kayleigh who gives him, you know, the look, and if all he has to do to get her is score a bit more coke, that's really not a bad deal.
Freddie gets all uptight about it, but that's nothing new. If he had a quid for every time Freddie got all uptight about him wanting to get it on with some girl, well, he'd be a fucking millionaire by now.
Things don't go according to plan, anyway.
Freddie finds out what happened with Effy and he acts like such a bloody girl about it, like he's entitled to know about each and every one of Cook's dalliances, even though most of the time he gives the impression he'd rather hear about anything else than who was in Cook's bed last night. Cook knows Freddie likes Effy, but it's not like that makes much of a difference. He's already shagged her, so anyone else can do what they like about it. He's pretty sure she'll be making the rounds of the group just as quickly as he's planning to.
He doesn't get so much as a tiny glance of Kayleigh's tits, which is just fucking ridiculous, and then Freddie starts drunkenly yelling at him and storms off, so he drags JJ to that secret little place where he knows there'll be someone to get him off.
That's all he needs, right now, anyway. Just a girl's something around his cock, even if all he can afford is a pair of hands. Whatever.
He just-yeah, he just needs something.
**
Effy's brilliant in bed, she really is. A top dollar shag, as he told Freddie and JJ. He didn't think she'd be up for another go but she is, many more in fact, and he finds himself getting naked with her more than he has with anybody else.
It's fun, until something sort of snaps and she's not quite looking him in the eye anymore, and he catches her giving Freddie these longing glances all the time. She starts breaking away from him, seeming more and more detached every time they fuck, like he might as well be her fucking dildo or something. It's not okay.
He wants someone to appreciate him, maybe, just because sometimes a pair of hands, or a mouth, or a cunt, or an arse-they just aren't enough. It makes him feel pathetically sentimental, because he's not like that really-he doesn't like Effy, like-like her, like Freddie seems to. He doesn't feel the same way most people do when they're fucking, there's never any connection there beyond the physical one. He doesn't feel open or exposed or like he's sharing something real or honest or raw. It's just fun, and it feels necessary somehow. It's like an integral part of him, but, he supposes, that makes him just as detached from it all as Effy is.
And right now he's bored of the same old moans and groans coming from Effy's tobacco-tasting mouth, and the way she wraps her legs round him like she's done it to a million others.
So he fucks Pandora, because she's naïve and upset and really willing to learn, excited about 'surfing and turfing' or whatever she calls it. She's sweet, and so in awe of the new feelings, and it makes a nice change.
Still, it doesn't stop him going out to some club the next night and getting absolutely plastered, ending up getting a blowjob from some twenty-something in the toilets. She's too practised, too perfect at it, it's almost boring, and she leaves grotesque rings of waxy red lipstick around his dick.
**
Effy's got her thong all in a twist over that thing with Pandora, and refuses to fuck him again. He doesn't understand, like, at all, because he really had no idea they were supposed to be exclusive and he'd pretty much assumed she was shagging other people on the side too. Maybe it's a girly best friends loyalty thing, he doesn't know.
When Freddie finds out about Karen, at first he doesn't think it's that much of a big deal. Freddie knows what he's like, after all, and even though he was smart enough to know he should keep it secret, he never thought Freddie'd blow up like this if he found out.
When he gets everyone to vote for that Honey chick in the Sexxbombs competition instead of Karen, he tells himself he's doing Freddie a favour, doing everyone a fucking favour and making people happy. He thinks of all the times Freddie ranted about how disrespectful Karen was being, whoring herself out on television and looking into the camera with welled-up eyes afterwards and saying shit like I'm doing this for you, Mum. He tells himself Freddie'll be glad if Karen loses.
Deep down, though, he knows he's just doing it because if nothing happens, Freddie's going to keep on ignoring him, and he's not going to let Freddie make that much of a fuss over Cook having one night of passion with a girl Freddie already knows is a bit of a slut.
So yeah, he makes Karen lose.
And then Freddie lunges at him and Cook eggs him on until he feels the sharp crack of Freddie's forehead hitting his own. And then he knows it's all going to be okay, because even if they're fighting, Freddie's still here, in his life, and he'll pretty much do anything to keep it that way.
It's not really a part of the plan to kiss him, he just wants some way of communicating this whole thing to his best friend so that Freddie knows they're not really in a row, and, well, it's the only real type of communication he knows.
He just wants to say "I fuckin' love you," like he has many times before, but then the words turn into feelings and before he can stop them, they're boiling over and he's grabbing Freddie by the face and pressing their mouths together, hard. He tries to recover by saying the words afterwards, throws in an insult, but the look on Freddie's face is scaring him. He pushes Freddie's head to the side, partly just to stop himself looking at him, and heads for the hallway. He needs to get out of here and he needs someone to come with him.
"JJ, we're leaving," he says, and he hears how unsteady his voice is, how it wavers, and fuck he needs to get out of here.
Out in the hallway, he can hear Freddie saying something to JJ and, impatient, blood thrumming through his veins and his heart threatening to pound out of his chest, he yells JJ's name and punches that fucking cheesy family photo the Mclairs have had on their wall ever since Freddie's Mum died, shattering the glass in its frame.
He's still with JJ, and halfway to JJ's house, when he changes his mind and goes in the other direction instead.
Effy looks kind of drained and weary when he gets there, and her breath smells like she's been drinking vodka with her dinner, but he doesn't care, because she's willing and right now that's all that fucking matters.
She leads him up to her room and they fuck, still mostly-clothed, on her bed even though her Mum's right downstairs.
The doorbell rings only seconds after they're done and she sits up and goes stock-still, listening out as her Mum answers the door and shushing him when he tries to ask her what's up. Her Mum's response tells them both who's dropped by and she slides out of bed the second they hear the door shut again.
Cook looks at her, silhouetted against the window, and heaves a sigh, going up to join her. Of course Freddie's there, looking up at them, wistful and pathetic and fuck, Cook doesn't understand why he hasn't managed to at least kiss her yet if he's so head over heels. He doesn't peg Effy at the type who plays hard to get. He looks down at Freddie on the pavement, opens the curtains wider to give him a better look.
It's like swinging the votes in the competition. It's a way to keep Freddie there. If Freddie loves Effy as much as he seems to, he's not going to give up on her, and as long as Cook keeps himself between the two of them-well, Freddie won't give up on him either.
He grins at Freddie's stunned face, smoothes his hand down Effy's arm and kisses her ear. She's motionless, but when he nudges his erection against her thigh and says, "Another go then, yeah?" she nods, and he fucks her slowly up against the cool glass of the window, watching Freddie retreating all the way down the road back home.
**
The thing is, Effy's not really a challenge anymore, and he could do with one of those because everything else is getting boring. He fucks another nameless girl in a club, goes back for another handjob from that Welsh whore, and has sex with Effy countless times, but it's just-he needs something that's going to make him prove himself. Anyone can get laid at a club full of drunken ravers, anyone can pay a prostitute to wank them off, and anyone-barring Freddie, apparently-can fuck Effy.
He wants something that has more to it, so he picks Naomi, mainly because he figures that if she rejects him, she'll at least look hilariously pissed off and offended while doing so.
She makes some weird analogy about her lady parts and cement that he doesn't quite get, and then says something that sounds an awful lot like she's promising to fuck him if he manages to get elected student president.
So he signs up.
Because there's really nothing better to do, and he likes to think about whether he can make her let her hair down and break her composure.
And he wins the election.
Because you can never underestimate the desire teenagers have for anarchy, and you can never expect them to really care about the way their school's run.
Turns out, though, that Naomi's not like those lesbians you see in porn, the ones who are all about flicking their tongues against each other up until the bloke with the big dick enters the room. No, she's one of those actual lesbians, or at least she's pretty serious about this thing with Emily, because she stops him, and steps back.
And then she tries to tell him he's nice, so he says "Fuck you," and she says "Fuck you right back," only still, they don’t.
But it's okay. He's not interested in trying to convince her, and he's not even that interested full stop.
He wanted a challenge, and more than that he just wanted to feel a girl's warm soft breasts under his hands, and he wanted to sink into the wet heat between a girl's thighs, and he wanted to smell perfume and fiddle with bra clasps and slip his hand into lacy knickers.
He'd even settle for smeared lipstick on his dick, right now, or Karen's manicured nails scraping against his back, and his fingers itch at the thought. JJ's talked to him about sex addictions before, about people who literally can't do anything with their lives but fuck, and Cook'd just scoffed at him.
"That's just an excuse, mate," he'd said, blowing smoke in JJ's face. "Those people are living their lives, man, they're fuckin' doing it right."
He tries to imagine himself sitting opposite some bespectacled psychiatrist at JJ's loony bin or wherever, tries to imagine himself recounting all his sexual escapades in explicit detail. He'd probably shock the old bird.
Probably end up fucking her on her desk.
**
He fucks Pandora that evening. He invites her round and she turns up right away, but she sort of hovers in the hallway, saying stuff like "Actually Cookie, I don't know if I should, I mean, Thomas is back, and-" until he kisses her to shut her up, and then she's like putty in his hands.
It's easy. God, it's so easy.
**
He's not so dumb that he doesn't know it's wrong. He knows it's got to be kept secret, but in a way, that's kind of exciting. It's new. They have sex all the time now, and maybe it's that excitement of it being secret that keeps him from getting bored. He likes how she has to sneak out to his room, slip away from Thomas in order to see him.
One day, JJ nearly finds out, or he thinks he does. He turns up only seconds after Panda's left and he's all twitchy and shifty and actually flips out and yells at Cook, leaving Cook to try and calm him down. It's a close call. And Cook wants to tell him, he really does, but-he doesn't know what would happen if he did.
So then they go out, and JJ gives him some of his own personal stash of crazy pills, and god, okay, Cook's never felt quite like this when he's been fucked up before-it's a different feeling, a totally different feeling, not necessarily good but a hell of a lot of fun nonetheless. Emily's dancing with him, and he doesn't even care if she's a lesbian, she's hot and fluid and buzzed against him, her arse against his crotch, her tits beneath his hands. He wonders if she'll be up for a shag tonight, wonders if she's the same type of lesbo as Naomi or if she'll be up for a bit of-
And then Katie's dragging her away from him, and he briefly considers a threesome, but ends up getting the shit kicked out of him by some gang of guys instead.
It doesn't hurt, somehow. It's just fists flying at his face, and even as he can feel the blood trickling from his nose, it doesn't hurt. It's just there, this weird distant throbbing that feels like it belongs to somebody else. All he knows is he has to keep moving, let the beat of the music do whatever it wants to his body, even as he's thrashing, crashing into the people around him.
There's flashing red lights, streaming into a bright blue, and then there's a hand in his hair and a body wrapped around him and he clutches at it, fingers grabbing and holding on tightly.
And then he's slumped against a wall and Freddie's trying to feed him fucking water or something and slapping his face and swearing, and JJ's face comes into focus too and all he can do is just fucking laugh.
"Top pills, man," he grins, feeling the way his head rests against the wall behind.
He's half-aware of Freddie standing up, like he's going to leave, and Effy's the first thing to come to mind so he starts talking about her, rambling, not even knowing what he's saying.
He says, "She loves you," and Freddie stops still, and turns around. It works.
It all seems so fucking clear now, crystal, blindingly obvious. He doesn't even know how Freddie can't see it himself. He explains, it makes perfect sense-but Freddie's still staring at him like he's spouting nonsense, and he can't make it any fucking clearer than it is. He thinks about Effy and how unresponsive she's been lately and how she looks at Freddie that way. He's not jealous, he doesn't want her to look at him like that. But something about it pisses him off anyway.
"It's hurting me," he hears himself saying, and, well, what the fuck, "'cause Cook needs the love too."
The words are coming out of his mouth anyway like JJ's pills are a fucking truth serum and he can't stop talking. He doesn't want the complications of being with Effy, it's too much, it's not worth it. Pandora's easy. It's easy to keep secrets.
"It's all the same, great tits Panda, great tits Effy, that's all I get, 'cause I'm shit." The words are just spilling out now, and it feels like some fucking revelation to him but he can't even see the people around him, can't see if they care. "I'm pure shit."
There's a flurry of motion; someone calls him a cunt.
All he can do is laugh.
The world goes in and out of focus around him and he can feel the wall hard and sturdy against his skull, against his spine. He can feel bass inside him, in his muscles. He hears female voices and his surroundings shut down, black seeping into his vision, his head dropping.
Top pills, JJ, he thinks as he passes out. Top fucking pills.
**
They leave.
He sees Effy briefly, her pale face hovering over him, skin coloured red and blue under the lights.
"I'm sorry, Cook," she says. "I'm not-it's not my fucking responsibilty, all right? You're not mine."
He agrees wholeheartedly, so it's no wonder she walks away, stomping off through the crowd with Naomi tailing after, rolling her eyes.
That's all girls do, really, he supposes. Leave. Fucking roll their eyes at him. He's good for a fuck when they're trying to distract themselves, when they want something easy, quick and painless. And after that, they're out.
He cares about the principle, not the people. He doesn't want Naomi heaving him off the floor and taking him home with her. Doesn't want Effy crouching beside him, wiping his sweaty brow and professing her love. He doesn't care about them. It goes both ways.
But there's something about them that he can recognise is different. The way Naomi stopped him, even when it would've just been a quick meaningless shag, all because she feels so strongly about Emily. The way Effy's just not all there because of her feelings for Freddie.
He manages to drag himself through the club, anyway, dazed and dizzy after who knows how long. He can't find any of the others. Someone thrusts a drink at him, someone else offers him coke when he stumbles his way to the bathroom, and he takes it, takes it all, because he doesn't know what else he's supposed to do.
He dances, shoves his hand down the trousers of some girl who's got a boyfriend but doesn't act like it until he's there, beside her, yelling and throwing punches until Cook's black and blue and lying on a cold damp pavement outside.
**
And yeah, that's how he finds himself chucking gravel at Freddie's bedroom window at nearly three in the morning.
He knows he shouldn't expect a response, but when the curtains are dragged aside and he sees Freddie looking down at him, clad only in the boxers he sleeps in and Cook can see the slight sheen of sweat over his skinny chest, he's not surprised. Not at all.
"I need someone to fuck," he coughs out, shaking his head, when Freddie lets him in.
Freddie laughs. "You don't want to fuck me," he says, and it's-well, it's one of those things that comes out as a joke, a half-arsed comment that's not properly thought through, but then it hangs in the air, considered on both sides, and changes. Ends up differently than it was intended.
"I just want-" Cook says, mostly to fill the silence, because he doesn't know what the hell else to say. Doesn’t know what he wants in the first place. "I just-fucking-I don't fucking know."
He throws himself down on Freddie's bed, feels the mattress sink down under his weight, feels the feather duvet, the smooth soft cotton.
"What're you on?" Freddie asks him, perching on the edge of the bed beside him.
"What? I don't-" Cook says, then laughs. He doesn't even know why. "I need-no, man, I'm serious, I need to fuck-I need to fuck someone-have you got-I need to fuck a girl."
Freddie laughs, too, but it's sort of hollow. "I don't have any girls here, Cook."
"Katie not hiding in your wardrobe?"
Freddie tenses up slighly beside him. "You heard about that?"
"Yeah," Cook chuckles, "nice one, man. I never even gave her a go. Should've."
"You gave everyone else a go," Freddie retorts. "Maybe you should go find Effy," he sneers after a moment, "I'm sure she'd be up for a quick shag. Seeing as you really need it."
"Fuck Effy, man," Cook says, rolling the words round his tongue. He tilts his head so it's on its side, and looks at Freddie, follows his long skinny torso up to his neck (remembers the way it looked all stretched and long as he brought him off, so long ago), up to his face. Freddie's staring straight ahead, at the wall.
"Never really gave me a chance to, did you," Freddie spits out, bitter, and Cook snorts.
"Good thing, too," he says. "Fucking...she's just not...you know." He's mumbling into the duvet now; tired, drunk, useless. "Not worth it, really. Shit."
"Not worth it?" Freddie looks practically scandalised at the thought. Like Effy's worth ten times as much as Cook is. "Fuck. Go home. Sleep in your own fucking bed."
Cook rolls over, feels the cool soft sheets against his cheek. He inhales, and he can smell Freddie; the soap-shampoo-spliff smell of him he's so used to, the comfortable warmth of the sheets his best friend's just been curled up under. He shuffles along the bed until his head meets a pillow, and he settles against it. It feels good. He inhales again. It feels so good.
"Maybe I wanna sleep here," he mumbles into the fabric.
"Fuck you. Go home."
Cook lets the words ring out in the air. He feels like he can feel the vibration of them around the room, can feel the way they leave Freddie's lips and enter his ears. He listens.
"She's-fuck-we shouldn't," he says eventually, because they're the only words that come to mind and some part of him thinks Freddie will understand, thinks Freddie'll get every single thought that's come into his head since he entered the room, just through those few words. God, Jesus fuck, he's so tired.
"Shouldn't what, Cook, Christ," Freddie snaps back at him, impatient.
"Shouldn't let her get in the fucking way," Cook replies, words coming back practically garbled, "shouldn't-fucking-we're, we're mates, all right? We've always been mates." He pauses. "Always gonna be mates. She's just some fucking-she's just some fucking psycho whore." He pauses again, turns to look at Freddie, but Freddie's still staring at the wall. "You know that. You do. You know it. She's fucking mental, mate, I don't know why you bother."
"Same reason you do," Freddie retorts, shrugging with one shoulder.
"What, 'cause she's easy? There?" Cook laughs again, but the laugh tears itself out of his lungs and leaves him breathless and uneasy. "'Cause she's fucking up for it and 'cause she's got a fucking pussy?" He presses his face into Freddie's duvet for a minute, letting the scent overtake his nostrils, letting the material cover his nose and mouth. "That's why I fucking fuck her. And 'cause you want her. You fucking-you want her. You've never wanted anyone like this. Never seen you like this."
Cook practically muffles his own mouth against the bed like he's trying to get himself to shut up, and he presses against the pillow. The room's kind of spinning around him and he finds it oddly comforting; he doesn't want anything to stay still or to stop.
"Go to sleep, Cook," Freddie tells him after a careful minute, and Cook's already halfway there, drifting off, the room losing focus around him.
"Fucking...fucking. Jesus. Fucking twat," is the last thing he hears, Freddie muttering under his breath as he pulls the duvet over himself, settling down into bed beside him.
**
Cook wakes up briefly at some ungodly hour, feeling far too hot. He yanks off all his clothes but his boxers, hardly bothering to open his eyes, only catching sight of the sun coming up through a crack in curtains. He snuggles down under the duvet, cool and comfortable now. Beside him, he senses warmth and presence, and he reaches out to feel hot soft skin against his fingertips. He strokes, feels steady breathing, and curves his hand around a waist.
He falls back to sleep almost instantly.
**
It takes him a long time to wake up properly, several hours later. When he does, he feels like his head's exploding, and he groans into the pillow beneath his head, squinting at the sunlight streaming in through the windows. He's disoriented, sick and sore, and he stretches, reaching out for whoever's next to him.
But there's no one.
There's rarely no one.
He sits up straight, blinking, clutching at his aching head.
"Go home," a voice spits from across the room, and a balled-up pair of jeans hit him square in the chest.
It's Freddie, and it's only then that Cook realises where he is. He hasn't slept in Freddie's room for years, not since they were maybe ten or eleven. The shed became their home after that, and he's always slept on the sofas in there, or with his limbs slung haphazardly over an armchair, or just splayed out on the floor. Used to sleep top-to-toe with Freddie in this bed, he remembers, usually with JJ on the floor beside them.
He looks around.
"I haven't slept here for fuckin' ages, man," he says, just because it feels like the sort of thing that should be said out loud. His voice comes out all scratchy and his throat feels like it's clogged with cotton wool. He can't remember last night at all. At all. That's unusual, too. It must've been pretty fucking good.
"Yeah, and you won't be again any time soon," Freddie snaps back, chucks a t-shirt across the room at him.
Cook glances down at it, sees that it's stained with beer and blood and fuck knows what else. "What?" is all he can muster.
Freddie sinks his head into his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. It's some signal that he's exasperated; Cook knows it well. Even if he doesn't understand it.
"What? What'd I do last night?" Cook laughs. "C'mon mate, it can't have been that bad. Remind me and we can both have a little chuckle and then get some breakfast-oh, shit, I would fucking murder a fry-up right now, fuck that sounds good, does your Dad still-"
"I'm serious, Cook, get out."
"What?" Cook holds out his hands, palms upturned, clueless. "What, did I try and fuckin', touch you up, or something, because-"
"No," Freddie snorts, "Jesus. Just fuck off."
And Cook does, because whatever, he's not hanging around where he's not wanted, and he doesn't need to be there in the first place. He's got other places to go, people to see. He makes a big show of getting dressed, taking his time, drawing out the awkward silence they lapse into as Freddie just sits and waits and Cook pulls his sweaty, dirty clothes on.
**
He washes crusty dried blood off his face with blisteringly hot water, changes his clothes, and eats three Pot Noodles, but he still doesn't feel any better.
That night he finds himself outside Freddie's again, throwing stones until his arm's too sore, and Freddie doesn't answer.
**
He buys a whole fucking dinner-for-two at Marks & Spencers, blows all the money he's got, only to be turned away by Effy's Mum, told everyone's gone off for some party in the woods. He assumes that the fact his invitation got lost in the post is Freddie's doing-whatever Effy may think of him now, he knows she still wants him around. Everyone always wants him around.
He doesn't even know why he spent so much on her, made an honest-to-God effort, like he never has before. At some point, this has become more than just a fuck. It means more to him, being with her. But not Effy herself-she's as meaningless to him as she was when he first laid eyes on her.
Later, running through the wet black woods as fast as his feet can carry him, the bright blaze of a campfire his target, something begins to dawn on him.
He's got something to prove.
He just doesn't know what.
**
He fucks everything up, because that's all he knows. He scares the shit out of all of them, partly for revenge and partly for pure amusement. And Freddie goes mental, fingers tight at the collar of Cook's shirt, face so close Cook can feel the cold sweat of his nose against his own. Yet still, he doesn't hit him, doesn't headbutt him, doesn't kick him in the balls-nothing. And Cook feels himself longing for it, aching for it, for something. Something's swelling in his gut, anticipation tying his stomach into angry, impatient knots.
"What d'you want, my fuckin' blood?" he snarls. Freddie's eyes are too close to his own for him to see any change in expression. "'Cause you've fucking taken everything else, you've taken fucking JJ and now you're taking her off me as well."
That, that's when he sees a reaction. Freddie's eyes dart to Effy and then back to him, and Cook grins. Even when he gets Effy to tell the truth-hears her say she doesn't want him, not anymore-he wants to smile. He wants everyone to know about all the shit that's been going on, so he talks, and talks, and keeps talking, even when they're all sneering in his face for him to go home or storming off into the trees or just begging him, begging him to shut up.
Thomas should be the one to hurt him, really, but he won't. It's Panda, with a slap harder than he expects, that brings the sweet sting of blood from his nose and the burning pain to the surface of his skin.
It's not Freddie's knuckles connecting sharply with the bridge of his nose, but-it's enough.
He laughs, relief spreading warmth right through him.
**
Effy runs off into the dark, tripping, seeing shapes and shadows and bugs that aren't there. Cook doesn't know where everyone else has gone but he can hear the sounds of argument in the trees that crowd him.
"You happy now?" Freddie snaps, dropping onto his knees with a crackle of leaves. "Now you've ruined everybody's fucking night?"
"Not yours," Cook grins, wiping blood from his face with the heel of his hand, "you've got everything you want, right? Effy wants you."
In the dim light Cook can see Freddie clench his teeth. A moment passes.
"So what're we doing here? Toasting marshmallows, singing songs round the fire?" he taunts.
His face is still throbbing painfully. Freddie doesn't answer. He glances round to look at him, and then before he knows what's happening he's being pushed down onto the ground, Freddie straddling him, a hot heavy weight at his hips. He's half-wrestling him, clutching at his shoulders and his waist, fingers briefly grabbing at his throat. Cook can tell he's on something-has always been able to tell when Freddie's on something, interpret the extra twitches and shudders of his body, and he knows this time it's a hallucinogen, acid or shrooms, maybe.
He doesn't fight back, just lies there, feeling the crunch and shift of the leaves beneath him, waiting for the injury, his whole body thrumming with impatience. Freddie's lips are pressed tightly together, his eyes fierce, his fingers grabbing and snatching but never doing any harm.
"Would you fucking hit me, you-"
His words are cut off by Freddie's lips being smashed against his own, open and dry, panting into his mouth. It's hard and sudden and painful, feeling like a bruise, and he can taste his own blood and something foul on Freddie's breath. Freddie goes still, a dead weight, and then grips Cook's shoulders so tightly it hurts like hell and thrusts his tongue into his mouth. Cook's whole body tenses and jerks and Freddie snaps back and hauls himself off him. Cook only catches a glimpse of his face-lit eerily grey by the moonlight, a smear of Cook's blood and his own spit across his left cheek-and then he's vanishing, his silhouette merging with those of the surrounding trees as Cook lies stunned and sore in the mud.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, trying to think but hitting mental blocks everywhere his mind goes. Eventually he gets shakily to his feet, grabs a torch off the ground and stumbles off the way he came.
**
"Nine fucking stitches," Freddie hisses out, long harsh plumes of spliff smoke streaming from his nostrils and lips.
"I told you she was mental, mate," Cook shrugs.
It's a genuine response, no cover-ups, because he's honestly not surprised, not even a little. He never doubted that Effy could do damage, split a bitch's head open if she needed to. It's no shock. All that surprises him is Freddie's disbelief, disappointment, like all this time Effy's been an angel to him.
And, of course, the fact that Freddie's here at all, turning up at his door ranting and raving about the party and hospitals and the police, and acting like they're still friends.
"Didn't think you meant," Freddie pauses, inhales from the spliff sharply, "like this."
"What, you love Katie then?" Cook asks, laughing. "That why you're so heartbroken? She's gonna get better. It's like a fucking papercut, nine stitches is nothing, mate."
"Shut up."
Freddie's pacing, back and forth across the narrow room, from one wall to the other. Cook watches him from where he's slumped on his bed.
"Didn't think she was-I guess I just didn't think she was capable," Freddie says, and his voice is low, sad, pathetic. Slighted. It's the same tone Cook hears when Freddie finds out he's been drinking from dusk til dawn, the same tone he hears when he takes pills without asking what they are first or gets caught nicking vodka from the corner shop.
"You don't even fucking know her, man," Cook bursts out, his own anger and frustration surprising him. "'Course you don't know what she's capable of. I still don't know why you fucking bother."
Freddie swears, the dying spliff burning his fingers. He tosses it into the bin. "I'm not the only one who fucking bothers, all right?" he spits onto the carpet, and Cook sits up straight. The blood flows heavier through his veins, he's ready for something. "We both-we both care about her, yeah?"
Cook snorts. Maybe he cares about Effy more than he does about other girls, but in the grand scheme of things, he really doesn't give a shit-doesn't get all weepy when she's wanting someone else, doesn't get all high and mighty when she knocks somebody out.
Freddie doesn't seem to care about his answer, anyway. He runs his hand through his hair, aggravated, and Cook watches him. Freddie's fingers are electric, moving constantly. He reaches into his pocket, fumbling for another spliff, finds the tin empty, and swears again. The cogs start to turn and something clicks in Cook's brain.
"You fucked her," Cook says.
"What?"
"Effy. You fucked her."
Freddie doesn't respond, and Cook knows, just knows. He feels a stab of anger in his chest and stands up.
"You did. You fucked her. Say it."
Freddie's still fidgeting, one hand reaching for his pocket and the other one pulling at the hem of his t-shirt and Cook grabs both of them, frustrated. His eyes flicker upwards and the kiss comes immediately.
Their mouths meet harshly, painfully, lips forced against each other and falling open. Their teeth clash, and Freddie bites, hard and sharp, and Cook jolts, thrusting his tongue into Freddie's mouth. And then Freddie goes limp against him, passive and helpless, openly sobbing, his cheeks hot against Cook's skin. When Cook pulls back, pushing Freddie away, he sees the tears pricking at the corners of Freddie's reddened eyes and he pushes him harder, watches his back hit the wall. He hasn't seen Freddie cry since his Mum died.
"I'm going to the hospital," Freddie says hoarsely, looking at the floor, wiping angrily at his lips with the back of his hand. "Katie-she needs me."
Cook laughs, hard and cruel and hysterical. "Right," he grins. "I'm sure she fucking does."
Freddie clenches his fists and sets his jaw and comes so close Cook can once again smell the weed on his heavy breath, but nothing comes, no hit, no kiss, just a quick retreat and the loud slam of the door.
**
Minutes later, Cook finds himself achingly hard, and he wanks off to the nastiest porn he can find, eyes fixed on the tanned blonde bimbo with her fake tits and fake moans. He feels sick as he comes, tasting bile in his throat.
He tries the doors of six cars parked nearby before he finds one unlocked, and he follows Freddie to the hospital. He asks for Katie Fitch, and finds Effy in a sobbing heap on the floor outside the room. He carries her limp body outside, shouting away offers of help, tucks her into the back seat, and starts to drive.
She cries brokenly for a little while longer and then falls asleep. Cook's mapless, finding motorways by mistake and spiralling round roundabouts, but he plans his route the best he can.
Sometimes, he thinks, lighting a cigarette, there's nothing left to do but run away.
(Part 2/2 here.)