So, the one shots aren't in any particular order, just read them as seperate little segments :) x
"Tip top shit, that."
"Gives me a migraine."
"Stop being a pussy, Freddie."
As is custom, Freddie bites down on his inhibitions and follows Cook's orders. Follows Cook's lead. Just the way they work, always have.
Cook makes the decisions, and Freddie trusts him to opt for the right ones. Which he doesn't. But who is Freddie to complain at two lines of free cocaine?
Even if it does send his eyeballs swivelling into the backs of their sockets.
Cook taps his nose, licks his fingers. Snorts and staggers from his kneeling position. Cuts Freddie a line, and he follows suit - a little more steady on his feet.
"Alright?" Cook asks, slapping him on the chest and slinging a burly arm around Freddie's sagging shoulders. It's not really a question, more of an overly enthusiastic reassurance. Freddie feels resentment at his tone, which he knows he shouldn't. Cook's intentions are sincere. After all, it must kill him just as much to watch Effy straddling that blonde boy by the bar - all giggles and hair twiddles, short skirt and stockings.
But to Freddie, it's far more comforting placing the blame with his best friend. If he hadn't have shagged Effy, played into her hands - this wouldn't be a game and she wouldn't be a player and he wouldn't be the one losing. If Cook had stepped aside…
Well, if Cook had ever stepped aside and let Freddie lick at the limelight now and again, it might have taken him less than seventeen years to lose his virginity. Cook, of course, popped his cork at twelve. Always getting their first. Always beating him at something.
They make their way out of the pisser, and back onto the dance floor. The music drums the drugs further into Freddie's brain, and before he knows it - he's feeling jaws against his fists, fists against his jaws. Blonde, brunette, and fishnets.
Yelling. Screaming. Grabbing. Bleeding.
And then, out of the confusion, a sound far more familiar to his ears than his own voice. Cook's laugh. That thick, fruity, harsh little cackle that he can't help but crack a smile too in return.
Pats on backs and ruffling of hair. How things always were, before Effy came between them.
See, that's what drew the line between them.
What made James Cook and Frederick Mcclair so different.
Cook would always be there, unconditionally, ready to catch Freddie. But Freddie, every so often, let Cook fall. Just watched it happen.
And part of him enjoyed it.
"Raging little bull, you are Freds." Cook winks at him, slumped against the wall. Passes him a cigarette. Freddie takes it.
But his lips are cracked, knuckles split open. Fresh air slamming against his bruises. All he can taste is blood, and it's making him queasy.
He's about to lose consciousness.
And just as he does, only one sound fills his ears. Only one vision fills his eyes.
The sound of Cook's breath against his ear, hands in his hair, face against his cheek.
And it's all he needs to feel strong.