lay petals on the path to redemption
skins, effy and cook, words, rating r
notes: for bryana.
There's a paper bag on the floor.
There's a paper bag on the floor and he flops his head against it while he sleeps. It crinkles with every twist of his neck but he just grunts on.
He's Cook.
A little ache and pain won't wake him up.
The room smells just south of atrocious and she wrinkles that nose of hers as she steps over a pair of his boxers, strewn on the carpet to make her way to him.
"Cook?"
It's only half a question, he's snoring like a train so she knows the slugger isn't dead but he's suspiciously still so she figures there isn't much harm in checking.
His eyes snap open.
"What are you doing here?" He doesn't bother reaching for a towel, a blanket or anything to cover his modesty. Just rolls over to face her and ask if there's trouble in paradise with a crooked, sleepy grin.
She tugs the ends of her sleeves. Tries for a smile but faux brightness isn't her forte so she settles for mumbling something about breakfast, eyes fixed to a spot above his head.
He snorts and hands her a beer, reaching lazily for his boxers.
"It's eight o' clock. In the evening."
Cook can do silent better than she can.
His shoulder is stiff when she reaches for it.
She sits herself down on the edge of his bed, fingers tight around the neck of the beer bottle. The thread of her jacket twists around the cap. Her thumbs twiddle themselves.
She hates his room. Hates his ceiling, hates the way his mattress creaks and his sheets stink and this is why they've never fucked in his bed before.
She tells him as much as she walks out the door, fingers adjusting her panties and pulling the skirt over skinny knees.
He tells her they can use Freddie's bed the next time or the floor if she'd like and rolls back to his side.
She leaves the door open on her way out and tells herself she has nothing to apologize for.
The park bench is hard.
Her fingers find a loose thread in the hem of her skirt and she pulls at it hard, slowly unraveling the cloth and once it looks like a right mess, she's done.
She spies a daisy in the corner of her eye and plucks it.
There aren't enough petals to last more than a minute.
She smokes a joint while she waits for the sun to turn blue.
Life, lemons- lemonade.
She kisses Freddie and it's like biting into one of those lemons. Sour and fresh and conflicted doesn't even begin to describe how she feels.
There are roses in his room.
His room smells of roses and she can't breathe.
Roses.
His room smells of roses and fresh paint and he smells of soap.
His hand rides up her thigh and she lies back and thinks of England- or at least a Freddie- shaped England when he slips his tongue between her lips. It's soft, quiet and he cradles her head when he kisses her like she'll break between his fingers and muffles a sob against the corner of his mouth.
Nothing spins. The world floats lazy and when he reaches over her to switch off the light, she thinks his bed is all that she likes better.