FIC: Entre Les Overdoses d'Amour (Between Overdoses of Love) [3a/3]
Title: Entre Les Overdoses d'Amour (Between Overdoses of Love) [3a/3]
Author: eskimo_jo
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
For more information, please see Part 1 & Part 2.
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KATIE
The day had been one of multiple surprises and Katie just couldn't believe some of the shit Naomi had brought up. She couldn't believe that they actually had two massive rows and managed not to stab each other repeatedly with forks. And now, they had some sort of agreement, or something. Katie wasn't sure but she really wasn't interested in fighting any longer. The blonde bitch could bite as well as she barked, and fuck, it hurt like hell. But she was a Fitch, and for the most part she knew Naomi was venting. That was also a surprise, her ability to allow Naomi this privilege without socking her in her thick skull with a well-trained fist. Sometimes she believes that Naomi actually gets her. Like, they have a mutual understanding about some things.
Then other times, she's sure they live on completely different planets. Different fucking galaxies maybe.
When Naomi comes out of her bedroom wearing the Kookai top she had bought with a smart pair of dark jeans, there is a little surge of pride. Firstly, she convinced the plonker to wear it. Secondly, she was fucking right. It looks perfect. For the first time, possibly ever, Katie concludes that Naomi can be quite fit when she tries. She retracts the thought instantly. She rises to meet Naomi and motions for her to come closer.
“I told you it would be well peng,” she trills, trying to keep the pride out of her voice for being so brilliant as she makes a few small adjustments to how Naomi is wearing it. She sees the pinkish colour rising in the blonde's cheeks. “She's gonna love it.”
Naomi smirks. “What about me?”
“Yeah, well, I guess since you're in it she'll love you too, that's like a packaged deal.”
It all happens kind of suddenly, even though it likely spanned a good 20 minutes.
One minute she's fiddling with the way the cowl neck hangs over Naomi's so-called tits (which she has effectively managed to make look perfect as well), the next she hears the door burst open. Naomi jumps back in surprise.
“Jesus, Ems. You and Katie should copyright that entrance. Scared the shit out of me.”
Katie looks nonplussed at the entire situation, and feels that way too. As if she's just anticipating the next minute ahead of time. Waiting for time to move. She sees her sister's gaze shift from her in joggers and a tee, to Naomi dressed to impress. She appears nothing short of utterly bewildered as she drops her rucksack in the corner with a thud.
“What's going on?” she asks, to Katie, which seems a little odd to her since it's really Naomi who is the strange one.
It's only when she sees Naomi visibly searching for an explanation like a choking fish that she steps in. As always. “Surprise, Ems. Campbell wanted to make me jealous of you.” She grins.
The dumb cow opens her mouth, obviously to tell Emily how it's all Katie's idea so she swiftly interrupts with a lie. “We went shopping!”
Now, Emily no longer looks confused. She looks downright incredulous, suspicious even. Naomi's so flushed that she's pretty sure she's single-handedly created a new shade of red. For the first time in her life, Katie feels sympathy for Naomi's obvious lack of both a real spine and any semblance self-confidence. Her mouthiness is just compensation. Thankfully, instead of adding to the lie and making it worse, Naomi smiles. “It's for you. Like it?”
Finally, her sister loosens up and gives the blonde minger a hard look over. Twice. And then there is that glint in her eye that Katie knows all too well. It's her signal that she should leave them alone because any second they're going to be all over each other.
“Well done, Katie,” Emily grins appreciatively without her stare leaving Naomi, as they practically fuck with their eyes. It should be sweet, she knows, but she can't help thinking how sick it is to be that in love with someone. That is, until Naomi quickly moves over to her girlfriend and kisses her so soundly that Emily looks just a tiny bit dazed when it ends. Katie's not sure she's ever been kissed like that. She wonders if it's something that takes time and experience, and builds to that point or if it had been like that since middle-school. It's hard to separate her jealousy from her depression now so she turns to retreat into Cook's room, which has kind of become hers when Naomi's not sleeping there.
Then without warning, there's another knock on the door. Very loud and unnecessary for the small flat and all the girls share similar looks of apprehension, Naomi's by far the worse she thinks.... until she sees Emily watching Naomi, and her heart plummets for them both. Katie moves towards the door, but a hand on her arm holds her back. It's Naomi, and she's shaking, but she her face looks hard as stone. She puts her hand on the knob and sighs far too loudly. She was always so dramatic.
There's so much movement and noise in such a short period of time that Katie's not really sure what's happening at first. Her only thought, and yeah, it's not the best one, is that if it's Cook, she really doesn't want to have to sleep on the fucking sofa again. Poxy piece of crap. Her fears about sleeping arrangements are confirmed however, as Naomi continues to let out this weird-as-fuck wailing kind of sound and Cook's doing some grumbling or something and she's all over him. Like, all over. And the soppy minger is actually crying. It's when the ignorant fucking cow snogs him that Katie feels like vomiting in place. Fuck this bloody hideous carpet anyway. Any inconsequential fears she had about spending another night on the uncomfortable sofa are vastly overshadowed by the pure terror about what happens now, from this moment on.
The kiss, though brief by all standards, was frantic. And it's not like there was any tongue or whatever but it just looked meaningful. And that's what terrifies her. She sneaks a glance at Emily, who has gone from a blissfully aroused state to ashen white, and looking just as nauseated as Katie feels.
There is something ending right now, she can feel it. Naomi manages to back off slightly and it's only then that the twins can really see the state of Cook. He looks far worse than she had ever seen anyone, (except maybe for the bloke in Trainspotting). He's bruised, and bloody, and just covered in what looks like a week's worth of dirt, grime and stale sick. He can barely stand, his eyes seem vacant in this light and the blonde cunt is there immediately to pull an arm over her shoulders and help him inside. In a few seconds, he turns his head slightly and gets sick over Naomi's new top.
“Help me, Ems,” she says. It comes out probably more demanding than she intended as she struggles to hold up Cook's weight. Katie doesn't feel even remotely like she should help. There's something incredibly strong rooting her to her place by her sister's side. And Emily doesn't even flinch. There is no attempt to help Naomi or Cook, and Katie can tell by that sort of far away look that Emily is just caught re-watching slutty Naomi kiss that stupid fucking tosser, over and over.
“Emily!”
Naomi's voice sounds ear-achingly shrill but still, neither girl moves. Eventually, she gives up imploring them to assist her and shouts a string of obscenities at Emily mostly that make Katie want to give her a proper kick to the face.
“Piss off then! Guess being useless fucking tits runs in the family!” she shouts as she slams the bathroom door behind her and Cook.
Christ, she hates Naomi Campbell.
Emily doesn't appear to blink, let alone move, for a good 5 minutes and Katie pushes aside the notion that people can go catatonic that randomly. She gently takes her sister's cool hand and tugs. The trance is broken and Emily looks at her, her eyes so sad that Katie for once doesn't feel that bland pity rising, but a sort of connectedness; empathy. She knows what that's like now. Katie's fairly certain she can literally feel Emily's heart breaking through their connected palms.
“I need...” Emily starts softly, almost as if she doesn't know she's even speaking. “To not...” She never finishes the sentence and Katie is confused if that is the whole of it. She watches her sister move towards the bedroom and close the door behind herself, shutting her out and shutting down. Right. That's fucking it. She warned that stupid slag what would happen if she did this, and miraculously it only took less than a day for her to totally ignore the threat. She thinks Naomi actually might be retarded. Or have some type of fucked up saddo's death wish. Because, honest to God, Katie will fuck shit up good and proper if she has to.
With this in mind, she marches towards the bathroom and throws open the door. The first thing her eye is drawn to is Naomi's new top in a pile of water and sick on the floor tile, along with Naomi's trousers and a bunch of Cook's clothes. It turns her stomach because she knows what she's going to see next. She narrows her eyes and manages to suck in a breath of surprise at the scene in front of her. It's not really what she expected.
Cook is slumped in the cramped space of the shower stall, completely naked and almost unconscious as streams of water pummel him. Naomi, crouched in the shower as well with a washcloth in one hand and soap in the other. She's in her bra and knickers, still looking as scared as she has the entire week. He feebly groans in protest every so often as she brushes over a purple bruise or an open wound. Katie realises that this situation isn't all that much better than before, there's still uncertainty and fear. Water is pooling on the floor outside the stall as Naomi has left it open for more space. A thin layer of steam is coating everything and Katie decides it must be the reason she feels so suffocated. She closes the bathroom door to keep in the heat.
It's only as the blonde scrubs away the grime that she sees the nasty red track marks lining his arm. Naomi pretends not to notice but Katie gasps a little. She follows the trail up his arms, down his chest which is battered in bruises, some fresh and some healing, until her gaze settles on what appears to be an infected gaping wound on his thigh. It's so red, and a greenish pus is dribbling out of it every so often. The caked blood around it has been there so long that even the flow of water has dislodged very little of it. It looks like he needs stitches. She thinks that they should take him to hospital. This is not right.
When Cook heaves again and lets what's left of his stomach contents escape down his chest, she finally looks at his face. Angry blackened bruises line his jaw, one eye is slightly swollen and his lip is split. She can't help but wonder how much it must hurt to have that acidic bile seeping into open sores and she's actually thankful when Naomi wipes it away from his mouth.
With a sorrowful kind of shock, Katie realises that Cook now just looks as broken on the outside as he is on the inside. And guesses that's what her insides look like as well. She feels immediately guilty for being so self-absorbed with where she was going to sleep and whatever issues Emily and Naomi are having, because, unfortunately, this time the hippie div might actually be right. There are bigger problems. He is dying, right here in this flat.
For the first time since she's entered, she attempts to move. “We should call 999,” she offers hesitantly.
It seems like Naomi's voice echoes in the small room. “No. He'll be fine.” There is a ferocity in her tone, like she needs to convince herself of the truth and Katie is taken aback at how adamant she sounds for once. She puts down the toilet lid and takes a seat, watching Naomi's meticulous cleaning. The same quiet determination is obvious in her actions.
A diluted stream of blood flows from somewhere on Cook's head and Naomi is running her hands through his soapy hair, searching desperately for the source. It's only when she's hovering above him that Cook looks Katie's way. Her eyes catch his there is a spark of recognition and she feels warm. But a wince and a groan are enough to distract him as Naomi finds the source of the bleed. Katie knows that's not the same way Cook looks at Naomi and feels stupid for even guessing otherwise. And as she watches Naomi too, she realises that Emily's fears are unfounded. Naomi is as fiercely loyal to her friends, and over-protective of them, as one of those mother lions on the telly is. This isn't sexual, and it's not love. Well, it's love, but a different kind. It's the kind she loves Emily with, and it's the reason Naomi made than comparison earlier.
Why does the fucking tit have to be right all the time?
“Head wounds always look worse than they are,” Katie states, trying for some semblance of calm. Naomi doesn't say anything in response, but she nods, before looking down at the dirty washcloth and then back where her hand is cupping the side of Cook's skull.
“I need to get another facecloth,” she says distantly as she steps out of the stall, completely unconcerned with modesty or the fact Katie can see right through her wet white knickers. She's on a different plane at the moment. Katie tosses a towel in her direction.
“Cover up. You'll catch cold,” she chides as Naomi wraps it round herself. Katie wonders when she started to care about these two twats, but as the taller girl leaves the room in search of clean washcloths, Katie strips off her joggers and steps into the shower, ignoring the fact her t-shirt is getting soaked and feeling the cool water against her back. She twists the knob further and hot water once again spurts out. She crouches down across from the boy who seemed so invincible in college. Picking up the soiled washcloth, she lathers it up starts scrubbing away dirt from his abdomen. She considers letting Naomi do it all, but somehow she thinks it will be best if she tackles this part, especially in light of her sister's insecurities. She had no doubt Naomi regarded Cook in a purely clinical sense at the moment, but Emily likely wouldn't understand that. That girl just cared too much about everything, which forced her to see meaning where there wasn't any. She moves the washcloth to Cook's groin and begins to clean away what is undoubtedly stale, caked-on piss and spunk, mixed with other substances she probably wouldn't want to identify. She's careful not to aggravate any cuts and bruises he has, and apologises quietly when he flinches as the soap stings a sore.
“Miss'd you,” he slurs, almost unintelligibly, but his eyes are strangely clear. She's sure he hasn't said as much to even Naomi yet. She chuckles slightly.
“You're just saying that cos my hand is on your cock again,” she volleys back.
Suddenly the shower sounds incredibly loud because she can't quite make out what he said but she's pretty certain it was something along the lines of “You're more than that, Kate.” It strikes her that having such tender feelings for him, especially given their current state, is weird but at the same time oddly right. She ignores the blush rising to her face, and moves to wash around his terrible looking leg wound. His muscles visibly react when she gets near to the inflamed skin. She opts instead to work on his other leg until it's clean down to his toes. Rocking back on her heels, she merely stares at him through the spray of water and steam. “You should come back to Bristol with me,” she suggests, taken aback just as much as he undoubtedly is at her request. She changes the subject completely to hide any rejection she may face.
“Why did you do this?” she asks softly because she really wants to know what pushes a person to this edge. He shakes his head wordlessly, groaning a little with the serious turn in conversation. With his reluctance obvious, she grabs hold of his scarred arm and pokes at the track marks. He flinches again. “Why did you do this?” she demands, less forgiving than the last time.
For a moment, she thinks she sees fear. Then shame. Then just pain. “Effy.”
It's the first time anyone's mentioned her in quite a while, even though she knows that fucked up girl has been on everyone's mind lately.
“I saw her,” he whispers, just above the crashing of the water. “I just...”
Katie's not sure she understands, not yet anyway. “What did you do?” She is honestly afraid of the answer.
“Everything,” he states plainly, his head lolling back against the tile as a dry heave racks his body. “Almost worked too,” he adds sadly and the awareness of exactly what he means feels like a slap across Katie's face. She really doesn't want the answer but knows that she has to ask.
“How many times?”
He holds up two fingers, and that alone seems like far too much effort for him. She wants to have a proper conversation about this, about how he tried to kill himself - twice - with drugs, and god knows what else by the looks of him. She knows it was the drugs that made him feel like he could escape, like he could actually see fucking Effy Stonem in all her anorexic, depressing glory. She knows how lucky it is to overdose to the extent that it was obvious he went to, and not die, especially twice within a week. He should be fucking ecstatic to be alive, but here he was, a pathetic shriveled mess, bleeding out in a shitty East London flat with a girl who, up until about a week ago was repulsed by him. She's irrationally angry suddenly. Like, who the fuck does he think he is? Putting her sister and that huge blonde monster through all this. Making her kind of fucking fall for him a little bit and then just trying to off himself like all of it means absolutely fucking shit. She's boiling with barely contained rage.
“What made you give up and come back here?” Her tone is unforgiving because right now, she doesn't feel he deserves pity. “Quitter.”
He rolls his head again, and there's that insufferable hint of a grin. “She doesn't want me anymore.”
It takes her a few moments to piece together his story and realises he's been talking to imaginary ghosts for a whole week, ghosts that told him not to go. That makes her feel the sorrow seeping into her bones. “Yeah, well, there are people who do. Like, real living people.”
As if waiting for the perfect moment to return, Naomi comes back into the bathroom with a pile of facecloths, drops her towel and tosses a bunch of tea towels over the small flood on the floor. She studies Katie for a few seconds, taking in not only her lack of trousers, but her still adorned wet t-shirt (and wicked tiger-striped hot pants), squatting in the shower with Cook. For once, she actually keeps her gob shut and stands aside as Katie steps out, pulling a free towel around her shoulders. Naomi's back by his side in an instant, pressing dry cloths rather fruitlessly to his head wound. Katie gathers all the discarded clothes into a nearby washing basket and carries them out, kicking the door closed behind her.
Both she and Naomi eventually help Cook to his bed, which she has graciously stripped and remade for him while Naomi was finishing cleaning him. Emily still hasn't come out of her room and the stress of the day has made itself entirely too evident on the blonde's face. She looks like death herself as she mutely leaves the bedroom, surprisingly not crawling into bed beside her best mate. Katie finds her on the sofa, where she has been for the last week. It's like nothing has actually changed, and part of that, Katie guesses, is because Naomi sort of wishes it hadn't. Because then Emily wouldn't have closed herself off in the bedroom and her life wouldn't suddenly be falling apart at her feet. Katie sinks down on the other end.
“You really need to get him to hospital, you know. His leg -.”
The blonde cuts her off. “I know.”
Katie chews on her lip for a moment, contemplating her next sentence. “It's going to be fine, yeah.” And Naomi snorts and shakes her head as if that is a ridiculous notion. She glances at the closed room she shares with Emily.
“It hasn't been for a while,” she muses sadly and it bewilders Katie that Naomi's known the whole time that her relationship is cracking, and yet did nothing to try to fix things. It's with an odd sense of camaraderie that Katie feels slightly upset with her sister for not being out here. First of all, it's not Katie's place to be comforting the stubborn prat, and secondly, Naomi looks like she could really, really use her right now. It's never been so obvious how much Naomi needs Emily.
“So fix it.”
Naomi reacts as if Katie has just said that the Prime Minister has bought a gas-guzzling, environmentally-murderous SUV for everyone in England and passed a law that they all must be driven. It's the same kind of abject horror at the thought. Katie feels annoyed by the response.
“Or don't. And throw away the only person who will ever love your cowardly, colour-blind arse, I don't care. She fucking loves you, and unless you're some sort of brilliant pathological liar, you love her too. We've all gone through this shit before and it got fixed in the end. But I really don't think Ems is going to be quite the same this time.” And she honestly doesn't. Something about everything feels final. And Naomi may be a raging bitch 99% of the time and a master of hiding the affection she feels in public, but Katie has no doubt that she's full on in love with her sister.
The other girl sighs, defeated and nods almost imperceptibly. Katie honestly can't believe she's giving good relationship advice to one of the banes of her existence. It's so bloody backwards.
Almost in an attempt to prove her wrong, Emily emerges from the bedroom with red, puffy eyes but a hard, cold look on her face. She's toting two large bags. Katie recognises one as her own and thinks it's rather ludicrous to be kicking her out now.
“Come on, Katie.” Emily's voice is distant, as if she's completely disassociated herself from her body.
“What?” She's just as baffled as Naomi appears, though less terrified. “Sit down, Ems.”
“No, Katie. I packed your stuff. We can get the rest later. We need to go.” She pauses and looks directly at her girlfriend. “Now.”
Emily makes it almost all the way to the door by the time Naomi summons the courage to stand up. Katie's not sure what's happening right now, but Emily's her sister so she looks around for her jacket and trainers in the piles of mess that have been building up over the past few days.
“Emily.”
The voice makes both girls pause and turn towards the blonde.
“What are you doing?” Her voice trembles noticeably with the question, and if Katie thought Naomi was bad when Cook was missing, she takes it back now because she knows this is going to get a million times worse.
“Leaving,” comes Emily's curt answer, wiggling into her shoes. “Not that you would care.”
That comment flicks Naomi's bitch switch apparently. “What the fuck, Emily?!” Naomi's glaring at her sister with such contempt that Katie is amazed that she can push down her emotions that easily. “What's your problem this time?”
It's going to be a blow out, Katie senses and she really doesn't want to be party to it. She's not sure she can watch three lives crumble to dust in one day.
“It doesn't matter now,” Emily states and a chill runs down Katie's spine. She's never seen her sister be quite as callous as she is at the moment.
“Like fuck it doesn't matter,” Naomi snarls back, losing the battle of who can be the most apathetic, by a long shot. It's only a small gain for Emily however, because in an almost instantaneous way, she screams back, breaking her ice-queen resolve.
“You kissed him!” Her voice breaks painfully.
The sound silences Naomi for a minute. “So what?” She seems utterly confused at the issue, until her irritation comes to the forefront. “Are you shitting me?”
Emily doesn't respond but crosses her arms across her chest defiantly, challenging Naomi to explain herself. Katie knows her twin however, and there is a barrage of tears built up behind her brown eyes that are reaching a critical point. Naomi doesn't seem to notice, not really a surprise there. She's too absorbed in her own anger and disbelief.
“You really think I would snog him the same way I do you? You're being fucking absurd.” Her tone is far too acerbic to be any kind of hidden apology, or explanation even.
Katie's attention flicks back to her sister and the constant back and forth is doing her head in. It's like watching the most horrible tennis match ever, and she's certain there isn't going to be a winner either. Though, maybe that's for the best. At least it would finally break this cycle of mistrust and hurt. Emily can be free. When there's still no verbal response from Emily, her girlfriend snaps.
“You know I bloody love you!”
And before Naomi's even finished the sentence, Emily begins to shake her head sadly. “Don't you see, Nae? That's not enough. Not anymore.” She holds her composure magnificently, Katie muses. Naomi just scoffs at Emily's words so she continues. “You can't do this. I can't do this with you anymore.”
Cook appears in the doorframe of his bedroom, scratching at his scalp and squinting around.
“He's a drug dealer, okay?” Emily finally shouts and pokes two fingers at Cook, who looks completely lost as to why he's being dragged into something like this. “He doesn't have a fucking job. And you just let it slide, like you let everything fucking slide now, Naomi. You just don't care. So you can love me all you want, but if you don't care about me - about anything other than saving him - it's worthless. He's not your dad. You can't just cling to him and keep safe knowing he'll never leave you, cos he's too bloody dependent on you. It's just manipulative and wrong.”
It's hard to tell exactly what piece of that Naomi is reacting to at the moment but she looks briefly at Cook, who is now rooting around for what Katie can only assume is leftover weed, and then back to Emily with this kind of unreadable expression. Something between shock and disappointment, with a little fear mixed in. In fact, she looks betrayed. Cook shuffles back to his bedroom but not without Katie catching the guilt all over his bruised face.
“Goodbye, Naomi.”
Naomi doesn't respond to Emily. Doesn't even attempt to, so the younger girl bends down, lifts her bag over her shoulder, and nods for Katie to follow. She's out the door before even Katie has time to protest.
At that moment she sees Naomi collapse slowly to the carpet in a dazed kind of shock. Katie hovers a moment as watches the scene unfold. It's so surreal to see sodding Naomi Campbell of all people in this state. Forlorn, painfully vulnerable and completely shattered. There is a heave of the blonde's shoulders as a huge sob finally breaks free and she buries her face in her hands. The picture of Naomi, broken beyond belief and sobbing in a heap on the floor, is the last thing she sees. The sounds of her choked cries are the last thing she hears as she closes the door.
COOK
Recovery was slow. The hospital queue even longer it seemed but within a few days, about 20 staples, and some very helpful “medicinal” (if slightly illegal) marijuana he was able to ignore the throbbing pain in his extremities and focus instead on making soup and bringing it to Blondie in bed, who spent a great deal of her time wallowing. She was in much the same state he was, just utterly defeated. She hadn't really done much of anything since Emily walked out on her, and as ironic as Emily's statements were, he is actually the one taking care of his best mate. Not the other way around. Plus, he feels ridiculously shit about the whole situation.
They had spoken, he and Naomi. About the night he saw, or rather hallucinated, Effy standing in the rain. It had been a difficult conversation, bringing up old demons that they had both thought were gone and buried. He told her about getting hit by the car, and making his way not to casualty, but a mate's place who offered pills and IV morphine instead. He doesn't remember very much after that, except the constant injections and the substantial mixture of every Class A he could procure in that disgusting squat. And hell, every B and C as well. He wasn't picky. His mobile had been crushed in the accident.
She hadn't looked upset at his admissions, just lost. Helpless. So he told her about seeing Effy again in the haze of opiates and hallucinogens, wanting to be with her so desperately and doing line after line of whatever powder he found until his heart felt like it was being shredded and crunched and he vomited up blood before passing out for what he could only assume was at least a day. It had felt like a failure, like Effy would not be proud of that. So he had tried again. Somewhere in the blur, he was offered an opportunity for speedballing, which, well, fuck it, why not? The smack was top notch, and the high fucking indescribable. But he hadn't seen Effy then. He's still not sure how many days he spent fluctuating back and forth from the skag and various other drugs to borderline sobriety. As the comedowns got worse, he decided in one particular rut between episodes of being sick, to go for it again. Packing his rig for the speedball of his fucking life (and his second of day, he supposed), he had made a decision.
Naomi had begun to cry at this point in his narrative and he had to pause, but had no idea what to say to her. Comfort just wasn't possible. He had needed to continue so she let him.
After sitting and staring at the syringe, he doesn't remember much, monging out to a magnificent state. He knows that needle poked his vein. He knows the crisp buzz, followed by a sublime brown rush. And he knows for certain that Effy was there. Somewhere. Possibly even before he decided that the mushrooms and infinitely more lines of coke would be a brilliant idea. He couldn't make her leave and he couldn't make her stay. It had been like a constant tug-of-war. There was the best feeling of his life, followed only shortly thereafter by the worst. Convinced he was slowly dying, he swore he had seen his life flowing out through his fingertips. And he had heard voices sometime later in that ephemeral dreamstate. One, he was certain, had been Eff telling him to fuck off and stop being a shithead, that they were over now. Apparently there had been more seizures, that horrible feeling of a strangled heart and blood in his mouth. And that's how he ended up banging down the flat door.
After the conversation had ended, Naomi said very little. She had just stared and said she was glad he made it home. Until she asked if he had been trying to kill himself. The answer was harder to admit to her than to Katie, from what he remembers of their shower conversation. It was just better in that blissful place, close to God, Effy, whatever. It was better than the fucked up shit life he had been living. Yeah, ODing would be the easiest way. The pained look that had taken over Naomi's features was enough to immediately regret telling her the truth.
And now he lies down next to her, pulling the duvet over them both and settling into yet another evening of dull silence.
“You need to get tested,” she finally mumbles into the darkness.
He sighs. “Not really an issue.”
“Like fuck it's not,” she hisses, although only halfheartedly. “You're pumping shit into yourself in a squat, Cook.”
He laughs. “Babe, they may be addicts, but they're not complete mongs. It was all clean.”
“Debatable,” she growls. “You'd better go. I need to know. You bled everywhere.” There is definitely fear in the tremble of her voice and he decides to give in even though he is certain there is nothing to worry about. Absolutely 100%. But it couldn't hurt if it sets her mind at ease.
“Fine, Blondie. We'll do it your way, like always,” he says with a chuckle, feeling in better spirits than he has been for a while, since well, since little Katie Fitch had one of the most massive, flailing orgasms he'd ever had the pleasure of giving another person. Yeah, he was a sodding oral rockstar.
They fall into another period of silence. And he's not sure if it's the right time, if there ever will be a right time for this, but it needs to be done.
“I'm going home,” he whispers to the air, barely audible.
He can feel Naomi shift around until he knows she's staring the best she can in the dark, trying to figure out how to react. The least likely of his predicted outcomes happens.
“But, you are home.” She sounds like a child, lost and confused. He shakes his head, grimacing as his healing head wound rubs a little to hard against the pillow.
“Bristol home.”
“For how long?”
The question sends sparks of guilt and regret throughout his body and he knows he has to answer truthfully. “Indefinitely.” He reaches over and grasps for her hand, finding it easily, like it's second-nature. He's going to miss that. He knows that as much as he thinks he's going to miss her now, when the first night back in Bristol comes, that pain is only going to pale in comparison. No one in his life has ever believed, trusted in him the way she does and he feels like he's somehow betraying that now, which only adds to guilt of the feeling he broke up her relationship with the munchkin. Resisting the urge to just take it all back, he grips her hand harder. “I love you, you know that, Blondie. You're my best mate. I wouldn't go if I didn't have to.”
“You don't,” she interrupts. “If it's about the drugs, we can get help here.”
He sighs, feeling himself unravelling in light of her desperation. “It's not the drugs, babes. You just gotta take care of shit sometimes.”
It's amazing how he can predict the coming moments, the way her body tenses with indignation and she begins to protest. “No. You don't get to leave me too. No, James, you bloody don't,” she pleads, her voice breaking. He reaches for her but she pulls away, a firm hand pushing against his sore chest. It's a warning.
He wants to explain it all too her. Katie's offer, the need to get away from this hole and his dead end in London, the way he believes answers wait in the murky harbour water, in the colourful houses of Totterdown and in the freedom of standing in the middle of Clifton bridge. But that all sounds fucking cheesy and gay so he doesn't say it out loud. “I'm not leaving you, I'm going home.”
“Did you have a thought about what happens to me? I'm completely alone, and soon to be fucking homeless cos my savings can't pay for this flat alone.”
He wants to ask if he was merely a source of income but knows better. If she were more angry than just scared, he probably would have done. “Of course I thought about you, you twat. I'm doing this for you. I'm just holding you back here.”
The tremble in her voice is far more pronounced now. “No, you're not. You don't...” But they both know better, have for a while, and hearing it spoken aloud has just made it all the more real. He can tell Naomi's mind is whirling with objections, arguments to prove him wrong. But as a testament to his truths, she never actually voices any of them. They know they became mates because of pain and heartbreak, then they rallied together as best mates, chaining their souls together, when Effy left, if only because it was harder for her to drag both of them with her at the same time. But she's really gone now, she doesn't want to tear them from this world, and he's not afraid anymore. Blondie has yet to realise this herself. He just wants her to be happy, and the one person who makes her genuinely blissful has walked out because of him.
He hopes this olive branch will help. “Kate's coming round tomorrow, with your Ems, yeah? Sort it.”
There's an intake of breath on from the girl. “How do you know?” She's suspicious. It's better than angry, and much better than crying.
“I nicked your mobile when you were sleeping,” he admits and watches her snatch it from the beside and scroll through the call history, her face illuminated in a blue glow. She frowns harder, then shoves it in his face.
He tries to focus on what she's showing him but can't since she won't stop waving it at him. “You spoke for 34 minutes to Katie?! You're buying me more credit.” She pauses for a moment. “Such a tosser.”
Her insults are common enough behaviour so he takes them in stride and curls up around her, ignoring her feeble attempts to ward him off. He knows she's relieved that Emily's coming round. “Just so you know, I know I'm not your substitute dad. Ems is talking bollocks. I'd never leave you if you weren't ready to let go.” When he feels her relax, and then nod off, he allows himself to sleep as well.
The afternoon arrives without much fuss but he can tell Blondie's so nervous she's going to piss herself in a minute. Offering her a spliff, which she obviously declines, he sits back in his chair and tries to concentrate on the programme about horses. He doesn't even like horses particularly but Naomi has some sort of coursework about animal cruelty to work on and decided a more fruitful (and rapid) approach to research would be watching documentaries instead of reading. He can tell she's barely registering what's happening on the TV screen. The way she's chewing on her bottom lip is a telltale sign. It figures that as soon as she gets up to put on the kettle, a key turns in the lock and the Fitches step into the room. He only affords Emily a short glance because he's still a little pissed off at her for going off on Naomi yesterday, and for her obvious lack of concern for him. It's peevish but he can't help it. Katie, however, looks well buff and he has an honest moment of confusion about how he never really noticed before. She was always a set of great tits, but he could see all over her now and while she doesn't present the manipulative air of challenge Eff had, she is still a complete and proper stunner. They both stand somewhat awkwardly in on the other side of the room, waiting for Cook to say something welcoming. He looks back to Emily, fidgeting in place. He recognises, with some resignation, that she hasn't brought her overnight bag with her. It's a sign that they don't plan on staying. He shrugs at her.
“What do you want, Emsy, an invitation? It's your place an' all, mate,” he says carefully, making sure no more callousness comes out than necessary. She huffs in irritation at his attitude and makes her way to the kitchen, somehow knowing Naomi is hiding in there. Katie takes a seat on the sofa and winces.
They can hear the sound of talking above the drone of the television, which at this point is showing kill pens and horse slaughterhouses. Not the best choice of entertainment. He listens for Naomi's voice. At least they're not screaming at each other. Yet. He takes a long look at Katie and she catches him.
She smirks. “If you're wondering, I talked some sense into her last night. I told her about you coming back with me as well. Don't worry so hard about Naomi. She's in good hands.”
He's not sure if she means Emily's or her own. He wonders if Katie Fitch is magic because despite Effy (and himself) pulling everything apart, she's kind of brilliant at putting it all back together again. Like it doesn't take any effort at all.
“Safe,” he says absently, trying to figure out how to move over to the sofa without looking like a desperate pillock. Fuck it. That's never stopped him before. But he doesn't get the chance to make a move. A loud crash is heard from the kitchen and his stomach drops and Katie's eyes widen in confusion. She jumps up from the sofa with her back ramrod straight, shoulders squared for a confrontation. But there's no screaming. Cook grins and stands slowly, and waves at Katie to sit back down.
“Unless you want nightmares, sit your fit arse down. I'll check on them.” He moves carefully towards the other room, like it's all some sort of spy game. Poking his head around the doorway, he sees what he expected: Ems, her back to him, is propped up on the kitchen table with her knickers dangling around an ankle and her skirt hiked up around her waist, and his best mate with her top lost somewhere as they snog languidly. That much is a relief. It isn't the frenzied fuck of regretful mistakes. More like the slow, dedicated act of redemption. He watches as Naomi pulls back and whispers something intently, cupping her face with both hands. Emily barely nods but he can hear her say “You really scared me, Nae,” before she pulls Naomi's lips towards her again. The pot of leftover pasta has rolled across the floor, and some of the hardened noodles have spilled out.
“Cook!” Katie calls loudly and he stops his contemplation of the pasta pot. “Stop perving then.” He slinks back over to the sitting area and slouches down next to her. It's almost like a week earlier, except he feels possibly even more lonely now knowing what he has to do in the coming days. This time Katie reaches over and links their fingers together.
“I guess this means you want to call me 'James' now, yeah? Or some other soppy crap name.”
She chuckles. “We're not there yet, babes.”
He thinks that's as good as a promise.
It takes a week and a half to tie up all loose ends in London, and pack what little of his shit he's bringing home to Bristol. He knows tonight and tomorrow morning are going to be the hardest hours of this new adventure. He's decided no drugs, no excessive drink; not tonight. He wants a clear mind and a clear memory, even if there was nothing quite like the brand of hilarity that ensued when Naomi and Katie got pissed and started yipping at each other. Things have calmed down substantially in the wake of the past few weeks, and he's thankful to see the smile back on Blondie's face, and the way she can evoke that crinkle in Little Fitch's nose when she giggles. He's not stupid though, and there's still tension deep down but he honestly thinks they are possibly in an even better place than before Katie visited, because there's something she does that slaps bandages over everything, helping it heal. Literally and figuratively, obviously because Blondie's been little to no help in that department since she's been so preoccupied with uni again, and shagging her girlfriend during all her free time. And good on her for that, because he doesn't think he has ever - even in college - seen Ems look quite so bloody satisfied. They're moving to a smaller flat soon, something that is completely theirs and free from haunting memories of this one. And he thinks of the secret trip he and Naomi made to Hatton Garden and wonders what will come of that.
With a clang, he dumps a handful of cutlery onto the kitchen table, sliding it all around to bracket the plates. Katie is beside him setting up rather nice and delicate wine glasses he can swear never existed in this flat before. He knows. He would have taken great joy in hurling them around. They're silent, as they tend to be often in the last few days and he knows it's because they've both stepped into an area of life that was previously blurry and unimaginable. Tomorrow is the start of something, and that's enough to scare them both into silence.
It's pretty lucky that they have Naomi to constantly prattle on about some boring-arse issue of the day. The girl likes to go on... as she is at the moment while she checks on the boiling potatoes. It is possibly about the success of Malawi in implementing fertilizer subsidiaries despite IMF restrictions, or maybe about the Japanese poaching of whales for human consumption in the Antarctic under the guise of scientific research, or even the effect of burning petrol on climate change in the fucking highlands of bloody Scotland and how it makes all the sheep cry. He has no clue, but it doesn't really matter because it's the same kind of thing she always rants about. It's almost the same as putting on talk radio, but at least that has advert breaks. Meanwhile, Ems is just sitting in a chair, staring at her blathering on and on and on, her eyes sparkling.
“Careful there Ems, swoon much harder and you'll fall off your seat,” he comments with a wink, and a blush rises to her cheeks.
Almost immediately, he feels a hot, wet chunk hit his head and hears it drop with a plop to the tile. Looking down, he sees a potato and glares at Naomi, who has a rather large serving spoon in her hand and a smug grin on her face. “Oi, wanker, if she wants to swoon at my feet, she can,” she states simply, glancing at her girlfriend. “I'm very swoon-worthy.”
Katie makes a gross snort-like sound beside him, and he laughs. Naomi's just narrowed her eyes at the brunette and Emily's flushed darker, suddenly finding the placemat incredibly interesting.
“Aw, look, you guys, stop it. You're embarrassing my little sister,” Katie says with mock sweetness, refraining from letting go of the chuckle that's in her throat.
“Just shut up,” Emily growls under her breath. Blondie takes the opportunity to start up about something else completely unrelated and probably important for the well-being of the planet until the meal is ready and on the table. Then she just begins what he assumes to a hippie would be a tremendously exciting and informative one-sided conversation about the profitability of organic farming in the southwest of England, pointedly talking about Bristol's obvious inclination towards this trend. It's a little hard to make out however when her gob is stuffed with veg.
He doesn't tell her to stop though because it's likely the last time he'll hear her voice in person for a while.
It seems wrong somehow to not get marvellously fucked up on his final night in London but they persevere anyway, choosing to relax in the sitting room with a DVD. Everyone immediately vetoes Blondie's choice and she slumps sullenly into the sofa cushions until Ems snuggles up to her, whispers something that is obviously filthy in her ear and she brightens instantaneously. He doesn't even want to know anymore. Katie, after watching them for a moment, smirks and raises an eyebrow in his direction. He taps the side of his nose and chuckles. He's still surprised at the ease of their even silent conversations.
That night, Naomi climbs into bed with him. Katie takes the sofa, and Emily agreeably sleeps alone. It's magic, really. As the quiet descends over the flat, he can feel his best mate fidget and shuffle about in the sheets. They don't speak either. She merely reaches out and spoons up behind him, like so many times when he'd have nightmares about Effy.
Sometime around half 3, he feels the dusting of a kiss to his cheek and then the mattress springs free of her weight. He can hear her careful footfalls all the way back to her own bedroom and he knows at that exact moment that he's made the right decision to leave. Things change. They move. Time is the unstoppable force, and therefore no immovable object can exist.
In the morning, he wakes to a head of wavy brunette hair tickling his nostrils and he doesn't feel lonely. He doesn't think of Effy, or Naomi.
At Paddington, Ems insists that none of them focus on goodbyes, because that is ridiculous. It helps a little bit and as he's sitting on the train, watching Reading, then the Didcot Power Station, then cottages of Bath fly by, he reminds himself of this. It's not goodbye. Beside him, Katie blathers on about how she's glad to be heading back to Bristol since lezzers are way too insane and emotional for her. She says something about how she doesn't know how he put up with Ems and Naomi for so long. He's not sure either, but at this moment he sort of would rather be back in that flat with the overdramatic muff-munchers because the thought of Bristol is terrifying him suddenly. Katie grabs his hand tightly as they pull into Temple Meads.
“Right,” he says, quelling the trepidation in his voice and echoing, almost wistfully, the exact phrase from years ago. “Let's go fucking mental.”
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End Part 3a. Part 3b is here.
Sorry. LJ is being a bitch and telling me my post is "too large". *sigh*
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Author: eskimo_jo
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
For more information, please see Part 1 & Part 2.
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KATIE
The day had been one of multiple surprises and Katie just couldn't believe some of the shit Naomi had brought up. She couldn't believe that they actually had two massive rows and managed not to stab each other repeatedly with forks. And now, they had some sort of agreement, or something. Katie wasn't sure but she really wasn't interested in fighting any longer. The blonde bitch could bite as well as she barked, and fuck, it hurt like hell. But she was a Fitch, and for the most part she knew Naomi was venting. That was also a surprise, her ability to allow Naomi this privilege without socking her in her thick skull with a well-trained fist. Sometimes she believes that Naomi actually gets her. Like, they have a mutual understanding about some things.
Then other times, she's sure they live on completely different planets. Different fucking galaxies maybe.
When Naomi comes out of her bedroom wearing the Kookai top she had bought with a smart pair of dark jeans, there is a little surge of pride. Firstly, she convinced the plonker to wear it. Secondly, she was fucking right. It looks perfect. For the first time, possibly ever, Katie concludes that Naomi can be quite fit when she tries. She retracts the thought instantly. She rises to meet Naomi and motions for her to come closer.
“I told you it would be well peng,” she trills, trying to keep the pride out of her voice for being so brilliant as she makes a few small adjustments to how Naomi is wearing it. She sees the pinkish colour rising in the blonde's cheeks. “She's gonna love it.”
Naomi smirks. “What about me?”
“Yeah, well, I guess since you're in it she'll love you too, that's like a packaged deal.”
It all happens kind of suddenly, even though it likely spanned a good 20 minutes.
One minute she's fiddling with the way the cowl neck hangs over Naomi's so-called tits (which she has effectively managed to make look perfect as well), the next she hears the door burst open. Naomi jumps back in surprise.
“Jesus, Ems. You and Katie should copyright that entrance. Scared the shit out of me.”
Katie looks nonplussed at the entire situation, and feels that way too. As if she's just anticipating the next minute ahead of time. Waiting for time to move. She sees her sister's gaze shift from her in joggers and a tee, to Naomi dressed to impress. She appears nothing short of utterly bewildered as she drops her rucksack in the corner with a thud.
“What's going on?” she asks, to Katie, which seems a little odd to her since it's really Naomi who is the strange one.
It's only when she sees Naomi visibly searching for an explanation like a choking fish that she steps in. As always. “Surprise, Ems. Campbell wanted to make me jealous of you.” She grins.
The dumb cow opens her mouth, obviously to tell Emily how it's all Katie's idea so she swiftly interrupts with a lie. “We went shopping!”
Now, Emily no longer looks confused. She looks downright incredulous, suspicious even. Naomi's so flushed that she's pretty sure she's single-handedly created a new shade of red. For the first time in her life, Katie feels sympathy for Naomi's obvious lack of both a real spine and any semblance self-confidence. Her mouthiness is just compensation. Thankfully, instead of adding to the lie and making it worse, Naomi smiles. “It's for you. Like it?”
Finally, her sister loosens up and gives the blonde minger a hard look over. Twice. And then there is that glint in her eye that Katie knows all too well. It's her signal that she should leave them alone because any second they're going to be all over each other.
“Well done, Katie,” Emily grins appreciatively without her stare leaving Naomi, as they practically fuck with their eyes. It should be sweet, she knows, but she can't help thinking how sick it is to be that in love with someone. That is, until Naomi quickly moves over to her girlfriend and kisses her so soundly that Emily looks just a tiny bit dazed when it ends. Katie's not sure she's ever been kissed like that. She wonders if it's something that takes time and experience, and builds to that point or if it had been like that since middle-school. It's hard to separate her jealousy from her depression now so she turns to retreat into Cook's room, which has kind of become hers when Naomi's not sleeping there.
Then without warning, there's another knock on the door. Very loud and unnecessary for the small flat and all the girls share similar looks of apprehension, Naomi's by far the worse she thinks.... until she sees Emily watching Naomi, and her heart plummets for them both. Katie moves towards the door, but a hand on her arm holds her back. It's Naomi, and she's shaking, but she her face looks hard as stone. She puts her hand on the knob and sighs far too loudly. She was always so dramatic.
There's so much movement and noise in such a short period of time that Katie's not really sure what's happening at first. Her only thought, and yeah, it's not the best one, is that if it's Cook, she really doesn't want to have to sleep on the fucking sofa again. Poxy piece of crap. Her fears about sleeping arrangements are confirmed however, as Naomi continues to let out this weird-as-fuck wailing kind of sound and Cook's doing some grumbling or something and she's all over him. Like, all over. And the soppy minger is actually crying. It's when the ignorant fucking cow snogs him that Katie feels like vomiting in place. Fuck this bloody hideous carpet anyway. Any inconsequential fears she had about spending another night on the uncomfortable sofa are vastly overshadowed by the pure terror about what happens now, from this moment on.
The kiss, though brief by all standards, was frantic. And it's not like there was any tongue or whatever but it just looked meaningful. And that's what terrifies her. She sneaks a glance at Emily, who has gone from a blissfully aroused state to ashen white, and looking just as nauseated as Katie feels.
There is something ending right now, she can feel it. Naomi manages to back off slightly and it's only then that the twins can really see the state of Cook. He looks far worse than she had ever seen anyone, (except maybe for the bloke in Trainspotting). He's bruised, and bloody, and just covered in what looks like a week's worth of dirt, grime and stale sick. He can barely stand, his eyes seem vacant in this light and the blonde cunt is there immediately to pull an arm over her shoulders and help him inside. In a few seconds, he turns his head slightly and gets sick over Naomi's new top.
“Help me, Ems,” she says. It comes out probably more demanding than she intended as she struggles to hold up Cook's weight. Katie doesn't feel even remotely like she should help. There's something incredibly strong rooting her to her place by her sister's side. And Emily doesn't even flinch. There is no attempt to help Naomi or Cook, and Katie can tell by that sort of far away look that Emily is just caught re-watching slutty Naomi kiss that stupid fucking tosser, over and over.
“Emily!”
Naomi's voice sounds ear-achingly shrill but still, neither girl moves. Eventually, she gives up imploring them to assist her and shouts a string of obscenities at Emily mostly that make Katie want to give her a proper kick to the face.
“Piss off then! Guess being useless fucking tits runs in the family!” she shouts as she slams the bathroom door behind her and Cook.
Christ, she hates Naomi Campbell.
Emily doesn't appear to blink, let alone move, for a good 5 minutes and Katie pushes aside the notion that people can go catatonic that randomly. She gently takes her sister's cool hand and tugs. The trance is broken and Emily looks at her, her eyes so sad that Katie for once doesn't feel that bland pity rising, but a sort of connectedness; empathy. She knows what that's like now. Katie's fairly certain she can literally feel Emily's heart breaking through their connected palms.
“I need...” Emily starts softly, almost as if she doesn't know she's even speaking. “To not...” She never finishes the sentence and Katie is confused if that is the whole of it. She watches her sister move towards the bedroom and close the door behind herself, shutting her out and shutting down. Right. That's fucking it. She warned that stupid slag what would happen if she did this, and miraculously it only took less than a day for her to totally ignore the threat. She thinks Naomi actually might be retarded. Or have some type of fucked up saddo's death wish. Because, honest to God, Katie will fuck shit up good and proper if she has to.
With this in mind, she marches towards the bathroom and throws open the door. The first thing her eye is drawn to is Naomi's new top in a pile of water and sick on the floor tile, along with Naomi's trousers and a bunch of Cook's clothes. It turns her stomach because she knows what she's going to see next. She narrows her eyes and manages to suck in a breath of surprise at the scene in front of her. It's not really what she expected.
Cook is slumped in the cramped space of the shower stall, completely naked and almost unconscious as streams of water pummel him. Naomi, crouched in the shower as well with a washcloth in one hand and soap in the other. She's in her bra and knickers, still looking as scared as she has the entire week. He feebly groans in protest every so often as she brushes over a purple bruise or an open wound. Katie realises that this situation isn't all that much better than before, there's still uncertainty and fear. Water is pooling on the floor outside the stall as Naomi has left it open for more space. A thin layer of steam is coating everything and Katie decides it must be the reason she feels so suffocated. She closes the bathroom door to keep in the heat.
It's only as the blonde scrubs away the grime that she sees the nasty red track marks lining his arm. Naomi pretends not to notice but Katie gasps a little. She follows the trail up his arms, down his chest which is battered in bruises, some fresh and some healing, until her gaze settles on what appears to be an infected gaping wound on his thigh. It's so red, and a greenish pus is dribbling out of it every so often. The caked blood around it has been there so long that even the flow of water has dislodged very little of it. It looks like he needs stitches. She thinks that they should take him to hospital. This is not right.
When Cook heaves again and lets what's left of his stomach contents escape down his chest, she finally looks at his face. Angry blackened bruises line his jaw, one eye is slightly swollen and his lip is split. She can't help but wonder how much it must hurt to have that acidic bile seeping into open sores and she's actually thankful when Naomi wipes it away from his mouth.
With a sorrowful kind of shock, Katie realises that Cook now just looks as broken on the outside as he is on the inside. And guesses that's what her insides look like as well. She feels immediately guilty for being so self-absorbed with where she was going to sleep and whatever issues Emily and Naomi are having, because, unfortunately, this time the hippie div might actually be right. There are bigger problems. He is dying, right here in this flat.
For the first time since she's entered, she attempts to move. “We should call 999,” she offers hesitantly.
It seems like Naomi's voice echoes in the small room. “No. He'll be fine.” There is a ferocity in her tone, like she needs to convince herself of the truth and Katie is taken aback at how adamant she sounds for once. She puts down the toilet lid and takes a seat, watching Naomi's meticulous cleaning. The same quiet determination is obvious in her actions.
A diluted stream of blood flows from somewhere on Cook's head and Naomi is running her hands through his soapy hair, searching desperately for the source. It's only when she's hovering above him that Cook looks Katie's way. Her eyes catch his there is a spark of recognition and she feels warm. But a wince and a groan are enough to distract him as Naomi finds the source of the bleed. Katie knows that's not the same way Cook looks at Naomi and feels stupid for even guessing otherwise. And as she watches Naomi too, she realises that Emily's fears are unfounded. Naomi is as fiercely loyal to her friends, and over-protective of them, as one of those mother lions on the telly is. This isn't sexual, and it's not love. Well, it's love, but a different kind. It's the kind she loves Emily with, and it's the reason Naomi made than comparison earlier.
Why does the fucking tit have to be right all the time?
“Head wounds always look worse than they are,” Katie states, trying for some semblance of calm. Naomi doesn't say anything in response, but she nods, before looking down at the dirty washcloth and then back where her hand is cupping the side of Cook's skull.
“I need to get another facecloth,” she says distantly as she steps out of the stall, completely unconcerned with modesty or the fact Katie can see right through her wet white knickers. She's on a different plane at the moment. Katie tosses a towel in her direction.
“Cover up. You'll catch cold,” she chides as Naomi wraps it round herself. Katie wonders when she started to care about these two twats, but as the taller girl leaves the room in search of clean washcloths, Katie strips off her joggers and steps into the shower, ignoring the fact her t-shirt is getting soaked and feeling the cool water against her back. She twists the knob further and hot water once again spurts out. She crouches down across from the boy who seemed so invincible in college. Picking up the soiled washcloth, she lathers it up starts scrubbing away dirt from his abdomen. She considers letting Naomi do it all, but somehow she thinks it will be best if she tackles this part, especially in light of her sister's insecurities. She had no doubt Naomi regarded Cook in a purely clinical sense at the moment, but Emily likely wouldn't understand that. That girl just cared too much about everything, which forced her to see meaning where there wasn't any. She moves the washcloth to Cook's groin and begins to clean away what is undoubtedly stale, caked-on piss and spunk, mixed with other substances she probably wouldn't want to identify. She's careful not to aggravate any cuts and bruises he has, and apologises quietly when he flinches as the soap stings a sore.
“Miss'd you,” he slurs, almost unintelligibly, but his eyes are strangely clear. She's sure he hasn't said as much to even Naomi yet. She chuckles slightly.
“You're just saying that cos my hand is on your cock again,” she volleys back.
Suddenly the shower sounds incredibly loud because she can't quite make out what he said but she's pretty certain it was something along the lines of “You're more than that, Kate.” It strikes her that having such tender feelings for him, especially given their current state, is weird but at the same time oddly right. She ignores the blush rising to her face, and moves to wash around his terrible looking leg wound. His muscles visibly react when she gets near to the inflamed skin. She opts instead to work on his other leg until it's clean down to his toes. Rocking back on her heels, she merely stares at him through the spray of water and steam. “You should come back to Bristol with me,” she suggests, taken aback just as much as he undoubtedly is at her request. She changes the subject completely to hide any rejection she may face.
“Why did you do this?” she asks softly because she really wants to know what pushes a person to this edge. He shakes his head wordlessly, groaning a little with the serious turn in conversation. With his reluctance obvious, she grabs hold of his scarred arm and pokes at the track marks. He flinches again. “Why did you do this?” she demands, less forgiving than the last time.
For a moment, she thinks she sees fear. Then shame. Then just pain. “Effy.”
It's the first time anyone's mentioned her in quite a while, even though she knows that fucked up girl has been on everyone's mind lately.
“I saw her,” he whispers, just above the crashing of the water. “I just...”
Katie's not sure she understands, not yet anyway. “What did you do?” She is honestly afraid of the answer.
“Everything,” he states plainly, his head lolling back against the tile as a dry heave racks his body. “Almost worked too,” he adds sadly and the awareness of exactly what he means feels like a slap across Katie's face. She really doesn't want the answer but knows that she has to ask.
“How many times?”
He holds up two fingers, and that alone seems like far too much effort for him. She wants to have a proper conversation about this, about how he tried to kill himself - twice - with drugs, and god knows what else by the looks of him. She knows it was the drugs that made him feel like he could escape, like he could actually see fucking Effy Stonem in all her anorexic, depressing glory. She knows how lucky it is to overdose to the extent that it was obvious he went to, and not die, especially twice within a week. He should be fucking ecstatic to be alive, but here he was, a pathetic shriveled mess, bleeding out in a shitty East London flat with a girl who, up until about a week ago was repulsed by him. She's irrationally angry suddenly. Like, who the fuck does he think he is? Putting her sister and that huge blonde monster through all this. Making her kind of fucking fall for him a little bit and then just trying to off himself like all of it means absolutely fucking shit. She's boiling with barely contained rage.
“What made you give up and come back here?” Her tone is unforgiving because right now, she doesn't feel he deserves pity. “Quitter.”
He rolls his head again, and there's that insufferable hint of a grin. “She doesn't want me anymore.”
It takes her a few moments to piece together his story and realises he's been talking to imaginary ghosts for a whole week, ghosts that told him not to go. That makes her feel the sorrow seeping into her bones. “Yeah, well, there are people who do. Like, real living people.”
As if waiting for the perfect moment to return, Naomi comes back into the bathroom with a pile of facecloths, drops her towel and tosses a bunch of tea towels over the small flood on the floor. She studies Katie for a few seconds, taking in not only her lack of trousers, but her still adorned wet t-shirt (and wicked tiger-striped hot pants), squatting in the shower with Cook. For once, she actually keeps her gob shut and stands aside as Katie steps out, pulling a free towel around her shoulders. Naomi's back by his side in an instant, pressing dry cloths rather fruitlessly to his head wound. Katie gathers all the discarded clothes into a nearby washing basket and carries them out, kicking the door closed behind her.
Both she and Naomi eventually help Cook to his bed, which she has graciously stripped and remade for him while Naomi was finishing cleaning him. Emily still hasn't come out of her room and the stress of the day has made itself entirely too evident on the blonde's face. She looks like death herself as she mutely leaves the bedroom, surprisingly not crawling into bed beside her best mate. Katie finds her on the sofa, where she has been for the last week. It's like nothing has actually changed, and part of that, Katie guesses, is because Naomi sort of wishes it hadn't. Because then Emily wouldn't have closed herself off in the bedroom and her life wouldn't suddenly be falling apart at her feet. Katie sinks down on the other end.
“You really need to get him to hospital, you know. His leg -.”
The blonde cuts her off. “I know.”
Katie chews on her lip for a moment, contemplating her next sentence. “It's going to be fine, yeah.” And Naomi snorts and shakes her head as if that is a ridiculous notion. She glances at the closed room she shares with Emily.
“It hasn't been for a while,” she muses sadly and it bewilders Katie that Naomi's known the whole time that her relationship is cracking, and yet did nothing to try to fix things. It's with an odd sense of camaraderie that Katie feels slightly upset with her sister for not being out here. First of all, it's not Katie's place to be comforting the stubborn prat, and secondly, Naomi looks like she could really, really use her right now. It's never been so obvious how much Naomi needs Emily.
“So fix it.”
Naomi reacts as if Katie has just said that the Prime Minister has bought a gas-guzzling, environmentally-murderous SUV for everyone in England and passed a law that they all must be driven. It's the same kind of abject horror at the thought. Katie feels annoyed by the response.
“Or don't. And throw away the only person who will ever love your cowardly, colour-blind arse, I don't care. She fucking loves you, and unless you're some sort of brilliant pathological liar, you love her too. We've all gone through this shit before and it got fixed in the end. But I really don't think Ems is going to be quite the same this time.” And she honestly doesn't. Something about everything feels final. And Naomi may be a raging bitch 99% of the time and a master of hiding the affection she feels in public, but Katie has no doubt that she's full on in love with her sister.
The other girl sighs, defeated and nods almost imperceptibly. Katie honestly can't believe she's giving good relationship advice to one of the banes of her existence. It's so bloody backwards.
Almost in an attempt to prove her wrong, Emily emerges from the bedroom with red, puffy eyes but a hard, cold look on her face. She's toting two large bags. Katie recognises one as her own and thinks it's rather ludicrous to be kicking her out now.
“Come on, Katie.” Emily's voice is distant, as if she's completely disassociated herself from her body.
“What?” She's just as baffled as Naomi appears, though less terrified. “Sit down, Ems.”
“No, Katie. I packed your stuff. We can get the rest later. We need to go.” She pauses and looks directly at her girlfriend. “Now.”
Emily makes it almost all the way to the door by the time Naomi summons the courage to stand up. Katie's not sure what's happening right now, but Emily's her sister so she looks around for her jacket and trainers in the piles of mess that have been building up over the past few days.
“Emily.”
The voice makes both girls pause and turn towards the blonde.
“What are you doing?” Her voice trembles noticeably with the question, and if Katie thought Naomi was bad when Cook was missing, she takes it back now because she knows this is going to get a million times worse.
“Leaving,” comes Emily's curt answer, wiggling into her shoes. “Not that you would care.”
That comment flicks Naomi's bitch switch apparently. “What the fuck, Emily?!” Naomi's glaring at her sister with such contempt that Katie is amazed that she can push down her emotions that easily. “What's your problem this time?”
It's going to be a blow out, Katie senses and she really doesn't want to be party to it. She's not sure she can watch three lives crumble to dust in one day.
“It doesn't matter now,” Emily states and a chill runs down Katie's spine. She's never seen her sister be quite as callous as she is at the moment.
“Like fuck it doesn't matter,” Naomi snarls back, losing the battle of who can be the most apathetic, by a long shot. It's only a small gain for Emily however, because in an almost instantaneous way, she screams back, breaking her ice-queen resolve.
“You kissed him!” Her voice breaks painfully.
The sound silences Naomi for a minute. “So what?” She seems utterly confused at the issue, until her irritation comes to the forefront. “Are you shitting me?”
Emily doesn't respond but crosses her arms across her chest defiantly, challenging Naomi to explain herself. Katie knows her twin however, and there is a barrage of tears built up behind her brown eyes that are reaching a critical point. Naomi doesn't seem to notice, not really a surprise there. She's too absorbed in her own anger and disbelief.
“You really think I would snog him the same way I do you? You're being fucking absurd.” Her tone is far too acerbic to be any kind of hidden apology, or explanation even.
Katie's attention flicks back to her sister and the constant back and forth is doing her head in. It's like watching the most horrible tennis match ever, and she's certain there isn't going to be a winner either. Though, maybe that's for the best. At least it would finally break this cycle of mistrust and hurt. Emily can be free. When there's still no verbal response from Emily, her girlfriend snaps.
“You know I bloody love you!”
And before Naomi's even finished the sentence, Emily begins to shake her head sadly. “Don't you see, Nae? That's not enough. Not anymore.” She holds her composure magnificently, Katie muses. Naomi just scoffs at Emily's words so she continues. “You can't do this. I can't do this with you anymore.”
Cook appears in the doorframe of his bedroom, scratching at his scalp and squinting around.
“He's a drug dealer, okay?” Emily finally shouts and pokes two fingers at Cook, who looks completely lost as to why he's being dragged into something like this. “He doesn't have a fucking job. And you just let it slide, like you let everything fucking slide now, Naomi. You just don't care. So you can love me all you want, but if you don't care about me - about anything other than saving him - it's worthless. He's not your dad. You can't just cling to him and keep safe knowing he'll never leave you, cos he's too bloody dependent on you. It's just manipulative and wrong.”
It's hard to tell exactly what piece of that Naomi is reacting to at the moment but she looks briefly at Cook, who is now rooting around for what Katie can only assume is leftover weed, and then back to Emily with this kind of unreadable expression. Something between shock and disappointment, with a little fear mixed in. In fact, she looks betrayed. Cook shuffles back to his bedroom but not without Katie catching the guilt all over his bruised face.
“Goodbye, Naomi.”
Naomi doesn't respond to Emily. Doesn't even attempt to, so the younger girl bends down, lifts her bag over her shoulder, and nods for Katie to follow. She's out the door before even Katie has time to protest.
At that moment she sees Naomi collapse slowly to the carpet in a dazed kind of shock. Katie hovers a moment as watches the scene unfold. It's so surreal to see sodding Naomi Campbell of all people in this state. Forlorn, painfully vulnerable and completely shattered. There is a heave of the blonde's shoulders as a huge sob finally breaks free and she buries her face in her hands. The picture of Naomi, broken beyond belief and sobbing in a heap on the floor, is the last thing she sees. The sounds of her choked cries are the last thing she hears as she closes the door.
COOK
Recovery was slow. The hospital queue even longer it seemed but within a few days, about 20 staples, and some very helpful “medicinal” (if slightly illegal) marijuana he was able to ignore the throbbing pain in his extremities and focus instead on making soup and bringing it to Blondie in bed, who spent a great deal of her time wallowing. She was in much the same state he was, just utterly defeated. She hadn't really done much of anything since Emily walked out on her, and as ironic as Emily's statements were, he is actually the one taking care of his best mate. Not the other way around. Plus, he feels ridiculously shit about the whole situation.
They had spoken, he and Naomi. About the night he saw, or rather hallucinated, Effy standing in the rain. It had been a difficult conversation, bringing up old demons that they had both thought were gone and buried. He told her about getting hit by the car, and making his way not to casualty, but a mate's place who offered pills and IV morphine instead. He doesn't remember very much after that, except the constant injections and the substantial mixture of every Class A he could procure in that disgusting squat. And hell, every B and C as well. He wasn't picky. His mobile had been crushed in the accident.
She hadn't looked upset at his admissions, just lost. Helpless. So he told her about seeing Effy again in the haze of opiates and hallucinogens, wanting to be with her so desperately and doing line after line of whatever powder he found until his heart felt like it was being shredded and crunched and he vomited up blood before passing out for what he could only assume was at least a day. It had felt like a failure, like Effy would not be proud of that. So he had tried again. Somewhere in the blur, he was offered an opportunity for speedballing, which, well, fuck it, why not? The smack was top notch, and the high fucking indescribable. But he hadn't seen Effy then. He's still not sure how many days he spent fluctuating back and forth from the skag and various other drugs to borderline sobriety. As the comedowns got worse, he decided in one particular rut between episodes of being sick, to go for it again. Packing his rig for the speedball of his fucking life (and his second of day, he supposed), he had made a decision.
Naomi had begun to cry at this point in his narrative and he had to pause, but had no idea what to say to her. Comfort just wasn't possible. He had needed to continue so she let him.
After sitting and staring at the syringe, he doesn't remember much, monging out to a magnificent state. He knows that needle poked his vein. He knows the crisp buzz, followed by a sublime brown rush. And he knows for certain that Effy was there. Somewhere. Possibly even before he decided that the mushrooms and infinitely more lines of coke would be a brilliant idea. He couldn't make her leave and he couldn't make her stay. It had been like a constant tug-of-war. There was the best feeling of his life, followed only shortly thereafter by the worst. Convinced he was slowly dying, he swore he had seen his life flowing out through his fingertips. And he had heard voices sometime later in that ephemeral dreamstate. One, he was certain, had been Eff telling him to fuck off and stop being a shithead, that they were over now. Apparently there had been more seizures, that horrible feeling of a strangled heart and blood in his mouth. And that's how he ended up banging down the flat door.
After the conversation had ended, Naomi said very little. She had just stared and said she was glad he made it home. Until she asked if he had been trying to kill himself. The answer was harder to admit to her than to Katie, from what he remembers of their shower conversation. It was just better in that blissful place, close to God, Effy, whatever. It was better than the fucked up shit life he had been living. Yeah, ODing would be the easiest way. The pained look that had taken over Naomi's features was enough to immediately regret telling her the truth.
And now he lies down next to her, pulling the duvet over them both and settling into yet another evening of dull silence.
“You need to get tested,” she finally mumbles into the darkness.
He sighs. “Not really an issue.”
“Like fuck it's not,” she hisses, although only halfheartedly. “You're pumping shit into yourself in a squat, Cook.”
He laughs. “Babe, they may be addicts, but they're not complete mongs. It was all clean.”
“Debatable,” she growls. “You'd better go. I need to know. You bled everywhere.” There is definitely fear in the tremble of her voice and he decides to give in even though he is certain there is nothing to worry about. Absolutely 100%. But it couldn't hurt if it sets her mind at ease.
“Fine, Blondie. We'll do it your way, like always,” he says with a chuckle, feeling in better spirits than he has been for a while, since well, since little Katie Fitch had one of the most massive, flailing orgasms he'd ever had the pleasure of giving another person. Yeah, he was a sodding oral rockstar.
They fall into another period of silence. And he's not sure if it's the right time, if there ever will be a right time for this, but it needs to be done.
“I'm going home,” he whispers to the air, barely audible.
He can feel Naomi shift around until he knows she's staring the best she can in the dark, trying to figure out how to react. The least likely of his predicted outcomes happens.
“But, you are home.” She sounds like a child, lost and confused. He shakes his head, grimacing as his healing head wound rubs a little to hard against the pillow.
“Bristol home.”
“For how long?”
The question sends sparks of guilt and regret throughout his body and he knows he has to answer truthfully. “Indefinitely.” He reaches over and grasps for her hand, finding it easily, like it's second-nature. He's going to miss that. He knows that as much as he thinks he's going to miss her now, when the first night back in Bristol comes, that pain is only going to pale in comparison. No one in his life has ever believed, trusted in him the way she does and he feels like he's somehow betraying that now, which only adds to guilt of the feeling he broke up her relationship with the munchkin. Resisting the urge to just take it all back, he grips her hand harder. “I love you, you know that, Blondie. You're my best mate. I wouldn't go if I didn't have to.”
“You don't,” she interrupts. “If it's about the drugs, we can get help here.”
He sighs, feeling himself unravelling in light of her desperation. “It's not the drugs, babes. You just gotta take care of shit sometimes.”
It's amazing how he can predict the coming moments, the way her body tenses with indignation and she begins to protest. “No. You don't get to leave me too. No, James, you bloody don't,” she pleads, her voice breaking. He reaches for her but she pulls away, a firm hand pushing against his sore chest. It's a warning.
He wants to explain it all too her. Katie's offer, the need to get away from this hole and his dead end in London, the way he believes answers wait in the murky harbour water, in the colourful houses of Totterdown and in the freedom of standing in the middle of Clifton bridge. But that all sounds fucking cheesy and gay so he doesn't say it out loud. “I'm not leaving you, I'm going home.”
“Did you have a thought about what happens to me? I'm completely alone, and soon to be fucking homeless cos my savings can't pay for this flat alone.”
He wants to ask if he was merely a source of income but knows better. If she were more angry than just scared, he probably would have done. “Of course I thought about you, you twat. I'm doing this for you. I'm just holding you back here.”
The tremble in her voice is far more pronounced now. “No, you're not. You don't...” But they both know better, have for a while, and hearing it spoken aloud has just made it all the more real. He can tell Naomi's mind is whirling with objections, arguments to prove him wrong. But as a testament to his truths, she never actually voices any of them. They know they became mates because of pain and heartbreak, then they rallied together as best mates, chaining their souls together, when Effy left, if only because it was harder for her to drag both of them with her at the same time. But she's really gone now, she doesn't want to tear them from this world, and he's not afraid anymore. Blondie has yet to realise this herself. He just wants her to be happy, and the one person who makes her genuinely blissful has walked out because of him.
He hopes this olive branch will help. “Kate's coming round tomorrow, with your Ems, yeah? Sort it.”
There's an intake of breath on from the girl. “How do you know?” She's suspicious. It's better than angry, and much better than crying.
“I nicked your mobile when you were sleeping,” he admits and watches her snatch it from the beside and scroll through the call history, her face illuminated in a blue glow. She frowns harder, then shoves it in his face.
He tries to focus on what she's showing him but can't since she won't stop waving it at him. “You spoke for 34 minutes to Katie?! You're buying me more credit.” She pauses for a moment. “Such a tosser.”
Her insults are common enough behaviour so he takes them in stride and curls up around her, ignoring her feeble attempts to ward him off. He knows she's relieved that Emily's coming round. “Just so you know, I know I'm not your substitute dad. Ems is talking bollocks. I'd never leave you if you weren't ready to let go.” When he feels her relax, and then nod off, he allows himself to sleep as well.
The afternoon arrives without much fuss but he can tell Blondie's so nervous she's going to piss herself in a minute. Offering her a spliff, which she obviously declines, he sits back in his chair and tries to concentrate on the programme about horses. He doesn't even like horses particularly but Naomi has some sort of coursework about animal cruelty to work on and decided a more fruitful (and rapid) approach to research would be watching documentaries instead of reading. He can tell she's barely registering what's happening on the TV screen. The way she's chewing on her bottom lip is a telltale sign. It figures that as soon as she gets up to put on the kettle, a key turns in the lock and the Fitches step into the room. He only affords Emily a short glance because he's still a little pissed off at her for going off on Naomi yesterday, and for her obvious lack of concern for him. It's peevish but he can't help it. Katie, however, looks well buff and he has an honest moment of confusion about how he never really noticed before. She was always a set of great tits, but he could see all over her now and while she doesn't present the manipulative air of challenge Eff had, she is still a complete and proper stunner. They both stand somewhat awkwardly in on the other side of the room, waiting for Cook to say something welcoming. He looks back to Emily, fidgeting in place. He recognises, with some resignation, that she hasn't brought her overnight bag with her. It's a sign that they don't plan on staying. He shrugs at her.
“What do you want, Emsy, an invitation? It's your place an' all, mate,” he says carefully, making sure no more callousness comes out than necessary. She huffs in irritation at his attitude and makes her way to the kitchen, somehow knowing Naomi is hiding in there. Katie takes a seat on the sofa and winces.
They can hear the sound of talking above the drone of the television, which at this point is showing kill pens and horse slaughterhouses. Not the best choice of entertainment. He listens for Naomi's voice. At least they're not screaming at each other. Yet. He takes a long look at Katie and she catches him.
She smirks. “If you're wondering, I talked some sense into her last night. I told her about you coming back with me as well. Don't worry so hard about Naomi. She's in good hands.”
He's not sure if she means Emily's or her own. He wonders if Katie Fitch is magic because despite Effy (and himself) pulling everything apart, she's kind of brilliant at putting it all back together again. Like it doesn't take any effort at all.
“Safe,” he says absently, trying to figure out how to move over to the sofa without looking like a desperate pillock. Fuck it. That's never stopped him before. But he doesn't get the chance to make a move. A loud crash is heard from the kitchen and his stomach drops and Katie's eyes widen in confusion. She jumps up from the sofa with her back ramrod straight, shoulders squared for a confrontation. But there's no screaming. Cook grins and stands slowly, and waves at Katie to sit back down.
“Unless you want nightmares, sit your fit arse down. I'll check on them.” He moves carefully towards the other room, like it's all some sort of spy game. Poking his head around the doorway, he sees what he expected: Ems, her back to him, is propped up on the kitchen table with her knickers dangling around an ankle and her skirt hiked up around her waist, and his best mate with her top lost somewhere as they snog languidly. That much is a relief. It isn't the frenzied fuck of regretful mistakes. More like the slow, dedicated act of redemption. He watches as Naomi pulls back and whispers something intently, cupping her face with both hands. Emily barely nods but he can hear her say “You really scared me, Nae,” before she pulls Naomi's lips towards her again. The pot of leftover pasta has rolled across the floor, and some of the hardened noodles have spilled out.
“Cook!” Katie calls loudly and he stops his contemplation of the pasta pot. “Stop perving then.” He slinks back over to the sitting area and slouches down next to her. It's almost like a week earlier, except he feels possibly even more lonely now knowing what he has to do in the coming days. This time Katie reaches over and links their fingers together.
“I guess this means you want to call me 'James' now, yeah? Or some other soppy crap name.”
She chuckles. “We're not there yet, babes.”
He thinks that's as good as a promise.
It takes a week and a half to tie up all loose ends in London, and pack what little of his shit he's bringing home to Bristol. He knows tonight and tomorrow morning are going to be the hardest hours of this new adventure. He's decided no drugs, no excessive drink; not tonight. He wants a clear mind and a clear memory, even if there was nothing quite like the brand of hilarity that ensued when Naomi and Katie got pissed and started yipping at each other. Things have calmed down substantially in the wake of the past few weeks, and he's thankful to see the smile back on Blondie's face, and the way she can evoke that crinkle in Little Fitch's nose when she giggles. He's not stupid though, and there's still tension deep down but he honestly thinks they are possibly in an even better place than before Katie visited, because there's something she does that slaps bandages over everything, helping it heal. Literally and figuratively, obviously because Blondie's been little to no help in that department since she's been so preoccupied with uni again, and shagging her girlfriend during all her free time. And good on her for that, because he doesn't think he has ever - even in college - seen Ems look quite so bloody satisfied. They're moving to a smaller flat soon, something that is completely theirs and free from haunting memories of this one. And he thinks of the secret trip he and Naomi made to Hatton Garden and wonders what will come of that.
With a clang, he dumps a handful of cutlery onto the kitchen table, sliding it all around to bracket the plates. Katie is beside him setting up rather nice and delicate wine glasses he can swear never existed in this flat before. He knows. He would have taken great joy in hurling them around. They're silent, as they tend to be often in the last few days and he knows it's because they've both stepped into an area of life that was previously blurry and unimaginable. Tomorrow is the start of something, and that's enough to scare them both into silence.
It's pretty lucky that they have Naomi to constantly prattle on about some boring-arse issue of the day. The girl likes to go on... as she is at the moment while she checks on the boiling potatoes. It is possibly about the success of Malawi in implementing fertilizer subsidiaries despite IMF restrictions, or maybe about the Japanese poaching of whales for human consumption in the Antarctic under the guise of scientific research, or even the effect of burning petrol on climate change in the fucking highlands of bloody Scotland and how it makes all the sheep cry. He has no clue, but it doesn't really matter because it's the same kind of thing she always rants about. It's almost the same as putting on talk radio, but at least that has advert breaks. Meanwhile, Ems is just sitting in a chair, staring at her blathering on and on and on, her eyes sparkling.
“Careful there Ems, swoon much harder and you'll fall off your seat,” he comments with a wink, and a blush rises to her cheeks.
Almost immediately, he feels a hot, wet chunk hit his head and hears it drop with a plop to the tile. Looking down, he sees a potato and glares at Naomi, who has a rather large serving spoon in her hand and a smug grin on her face. “Oi, wanker, if she wants to swoon at my feet, she can,” she states simply, glancing at her girlfriend. “I'm very swoon-worthy.”
Katie makes a gross snort-like sound beside him, and he laughs. Naomi's just narrowed her eyes at the brunette and Emily's flushed darker, suddenly finding the placemat incredibly interesting.
“Aw, look, you guys, stop it. You're embarrassing my little sister,” Katie says with mock sweetness, refraining from letting go of the chuckle that's in her throat.
“Just shut up,” Emily growls under her breath. Blondie takes the opportunity to start up about something else completely unrelated and probably important for the well-being of the planet until the meal is ready and on the table. Then she just begins what he assumes to a hippie would be a tremendously exciting and informative one-sided conversation about the profitability of organic farming in the southwest of England, pointedly talking about Bristol's obvious inclination towards this trend. It's a little hard to make out however when her gob is stuffed with veg.
He doesn't tell her to stop though because it's likely the last time he'll hear her voice in person for a while.
It seems wrong somehow to not get marvellously fucked up on his final night in London but they persevere anyway, choosing to relax in the sitting room with a DVD. Everyone immediately vetoes Blondie's choice and she slumps sullenly into the sofa cushions until Ems snuggles up to her, whispers something that is obviously filthy in her ear and she brightens instantaneously. He doesn't even want to know anymore. Katie, after watching them for a moment, smirks and raises an eyebrow in his direction. He taps the side of his nose and chuckles. He's still surprised at the ease of their even silent conversations.
That night, Naomi climbs into bed with him. Katie takes the sofa, and Emily agreeably sleeps alone. It's magic, really. As the quiet descends over the flat, he can feel his best mate fidget and shuffle about in the sheets. They don't speak either. She merely reaches out and spoons up behind him, like so many times when he'd have nightmares about Effy.
Sometime around half 3, he feels the dusting of a kiss to his cheek and then the mattress springs free of her weight. He can hear her careful footfalls all the way back to her own bedroom and he knows at that exact moment that he's made the right decision to leave. Things change. They move. Time is the unstoppable force, and therefore no immovable object can exist.
In the morning, he wakes to a head of wavy brunette hair tickling his nostrils and he doesn't feel lonely. He doesn't think of Effy, or Naomi.
At Paddington, Ems insists that none of them focus on goodbyes, because that is ridiculous. It helps a little bit and as he's sitting on the train, watching Reading, then the Didcot Power Station, then cottages of Bath fly by, he reminds himself of this. It's not goodbye. Beside him, Katie blathers on about how she's glad to be heading back to Bristol since lezzers are way too insane and emotional for her. She says something about how she doesn't know how he put up with Ems and Naomi for so long. He's not sure either, but at this moment he sort of would rather be back in that flat with the overdramatic muff-munchers because the thought of Bristol is terrifying him suddenly. Katie grabs his hand tightly as they pull into Temple Meads.
“Right,” he says, quelling the trepidation in his voice and echoing, almost wistfully, the exact phrase from years ago. “Let's go fucking mental.”
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End Part 3a. Part 3b is here.
Sorry. LJ is being a bitch and telling me my post is "too large". *sigh*
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