The world has the funniest sense of humour.
Cook isn't laughing though. This. This is fucking ridiculous. It's been four years and there is Freddie, in the same bar as he is. He wants to scream at the very odds of this happening. Out of everyone from college, of course the world believes that he should meet with his best mate again.
What the fuck.
As if right on cue, Freddie locks eyes with him from across from this place. If there's one thing Cook's good at doing, it's running away from his problems until they blow up on him.
This happens to be one of those issues.
He turns on his heel to leave. This isn't time for this conversation, in fact, it's never time for that conversation. Yet Freddie is too fast, grabbing his shoulder with confusion in his brown eyes.
Cook resists the urge to shrug it off. Part of him is grateful to run into a familiar face yet at the same time, the boiling resentment creeps into his veins.
How dare Freddie act as though nothing has changed? Being left behind in Bristol as everyone went for their next chapter still makes his stomach turn.
"I never expected to find you here," Freddie begins as the ice in his glass chimes. "Cook it's been years and-"
He blinks and shrugs off his friend's hand.
"Not all of us have left Bristol," Cook snaps back. "It's been years Freds. And you never visited."
"I did, for Christmas and Easter just as we promised. Where were you?"
(At least they never ran into each other and thank fuck for that.)
"Stuck working overtime, mate."
His friend glances away, the glass forgotten on the closest table. He notices how long Freddie's hair has grown, long enough to cover his neck. He looks older, more tired than ever, Cook supposes he has a similar air about him. It's funny how much time has slipped through his hands, just like water in a sink. Sometimes he wants to go back to college instead of dealing with whatever shit is going on in his life.
The silence that rings between them is something that has Cook keeping the urge to run away under his veins. Nothing prepared him for this.
"So why are you here, anyways? Last time I checked, you didn't give a fuck about this place."
"It's not like that-"
Freddie only shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. There's distance between them again. Cook looks up, craning his neck a bit.
(Apparently Freds has not grown shorter in his time in London, Cook is still dwarfed despite everything.)
"Client meeting. They're in Bristol. And I need to work on their grant application. Cook, it's not in that way."
His mind is spinning a mile a minute.
Cook can only raise a brow as confusion becomes louder by the minute. "Client meeting?"
"It's a long story."
It draws an awkward chuckle from Freddie who draws out the closest chair. Cook joins his friend even as part of him screams to leave. Curiosity may kill him one day, but today is not that day. The very chair scraps along the wooden floor. Around them, a few onlookers glance over at the two of them. Freddie ducks his head, cradling his drink.
"Now you have to tell me," Cook says with his best attempt as a smile.
Freddie groans.
"How did you even land your position as a writer though? I never took you for a writer," Cook asks as Freddie goes off on his current client. This is fascinating information. The speaker is still playing, the lyrics blending together. "Much less a university student. No offense, mate."
Freddie pulls the glass beaker close to him again, smiling sheepishly.
"It's a funny story, actually," his best mate murmurs.
As if by magic, Take a Chance on Me starts playing and he looks at Freddie. His friend sends a look to the grain of the table. Oh. Oh, Cook knows that look in those brown eyes very well.
"Don't tell me that's what happened-"
This is peak comedy, Cook will not accept otherwise. Freds just glances over with mirth in his eyes.
"That basically happened. Midway through the interview, I think everyone started laughing then and there."
"Shit! That's fucking brilliant-"
"And then, a month later, I got called back that I got the position," Freddie says between a sip of the drink. He wonders if it's beer or some sort of liquor. "I submitted over a hundred application and got two interviews before all that."
This is the best thing he's heard in all his life. The power of music, some would say, but to Cook, Freddie has always been brilliant in his own way. These years are nothing on them, it's as though his best mate never left and it's an understatement to say he didn't miss this.
(They don't talk about what they need to but Cook doesn't care.)
Four years, he realizes, is a ridiculously long period of time. Rather, it feels as if it's the blink of an eye. One moment, he's watching everyone leave Roundview college and the next moment he's here.
Apparently Freddie has gone through hell in university. Cook knows there's holes in everything, parts of the story his friend still refuses to talk about. He doesn't press for the information at all. It's always been this way, time changes nothing.
They've never been good at opening up about the important things. Cook waits for it to blow up in front of his face while Freddie watches in the distance.
"And that's basically it, shit hit the fan pretty early and I nearly failed second year," Freddie concludes.
Cook nearly spits out his drink.
"I thought lots of people fail university," he finds himself saying instead.
"Right," Freddie responds with a raised brow. A dry look in his eyes. "And apparently I can read shit in the worst ways. So wrong that I was seeing shit no one else saw."
"How wrong are we talkin'?"
There's a small pause. Freddie takes a sip from his drink and stares at the grain of the table. Cook suddenly feels like he just insulted his friend's best hat. Or broke his favourite chair.
"So bad that the professor threatened to fail me from the essay I wrote," Freddie jests. "I'm just saying that Hamlet and Horatio definitely had a thing going on."
Cook can't say he disagrees even if he remembers shit from that class. Even still, they're still beating around the bush, he has too many skeletons in his closet, too many ghosts that whisper into his ears when reality slips through his hands. They don't talk about it.
(They never do.)
Perhaps one of his biggest regrets is fucking up in the last years of college. It's not something he likes to dwell on though. Yet more than anything, he wishes for the dead to rest and this is finally his chance.
Cook wonders if he should take this shot. After all, this is an opportunity placed right on a silver platter.
"Your client is asking for you to-" he begins again, trying to clear his head and to change the topic.
"Grant writing. Projects for nonprofits who need another writer on hand."
Cook knows shit about grants or anything to do with writing, in fact he wonders if he can even write english. He can only tilt his head a bit to the side and take another shot from his drink.
Perhaps it's time he gets completely wasted for the first time in years.
Except-
Except he's not sure if he wants to. This is his life and how come Freddie gets to shake the very foundations he has spent years cultivating? It hardly sounds fair.
"But what about you Cook, anything new?" Freddie prompts. It cuts through his thoughts like stray stone onto glass.
He takes a swig from his drink. Everything about the liquid burns. Fuck, he's not drunk enough for this conversation.
"I uh, got my own flat," he supplies with a shrug. This conversation shouldn't have happened in the first place. "Really about it. Got a job at Keith's but you know that."
Cook wants Freddie to hate him. He wants the other to hate him as much as he hates himself. Yet it seems like all of these years has changed them both, hairstyles aside. Without another thought, he gets up to leave. No more of this.
As much as he craves for the attention of another (reality's been lonely), he doesn't want Freddie's company. After all, all he did was drag everyone around him down.
(A waste of space if anything.)
Cook isn't sure if he deserves to even know the other man. Too much has changed and he's chained to the past.
"I need to get going-"
Freddie sighs, defeat evident in every part of his body. Outside, the snow beckons with the lull of the dark sky. Coldness is what he deserves, not the warmth that's always radiated from Freddie.
"I'll see you, yeah? And Cook?-"
He turns around, fast enough to give him whiplash. "Yeah?"
"I'm glad to see you again."