No Way Ch5

Summary: Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decides to interfere. Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can’t stand each other—but when Ellen falls ill, he’s the only one who can help her. Author’s Note: In a bout of shameless self-promotion, check out my RENT oneshot Grey Eyes! This chapter was by far the hardest to write—I kinda mirrored Ellen in this chapter with mental struggles. :D And…it got off track a little, too. But it needed a break in tension. The next day I walked down to Cohen’s work—it had some funny name…but I couldn’t remember it for the life of me. Not that I cared. I waited around for hours in the cold, before finally I caved and went inside for a while. When I saw Cohen come out of the elevators, I dashed out the door. By the bus stop, I paced around, torn with indecision. On one hand, I was fucking down there already—I should talk to him anyway. But on the other hand, I hated him…so I’d probably end up pissed off. My mind was made up for me when Cohen, cheeks flushed from the cold, went up and started to buy a bus ticket. I groaned softly, and then ran up to him and made a grab at his sleeve. I accidentally grabbed his hand instead—I jerked my arm back, trying not to blush. He straightened, looking confusedly at me. “Um…hi, Ellen,” he said, frowning. I swallowed. “Do—do you think you could…um…walk, today? I…I wanted to…” I looked at my boots. “…talk.” “You’re really going to take me up on my offer?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Nodding, I blushed a little. “Look, if you’re just gonna tease me about it then never mind,” I snapped, starting to walk off. I knew it was a bad idea, I just knew it. But then Cohen caught my hand. “I won’t tease you,” he promised. “I’m glad you’re going to talk about it.” I realized I was glaring at him, and tried to force it away—but I couldn’t. I kept glaring at him. I didn’t trust his promise. “Let’s just walk, ok? Come on.” And he pulled me with him, still gripping my hand with his as we walked. I would have torn my hand out of his grip, but his hand was warm and mine was icy cold. I shivered as a gust of wind hit my exposed neck. “So…how…how did you… find out?” I asked softly. Cohen sighed. “I found out when Roger’s girlfriend, April, killed herself.” Without meaning to, I sucked in a breath. “Damn. That’s…that’s just horrible.” “Mmm. It wasn’t fun.” I rolled my eyes. “No shit, Sherlock.” I held my breath and counted to ten, forcing down my anger. “How…how did he tell you?” “He didn’t,” Cohen replied softly. I almost stopped, but his hand was still locked with mine—I was pulled on. “What…what do you mean?” My voice barely came out. I hadn’t expected that at all…and despite my hatred, I felt sorry for him. Cohen sighed, and I realized I was bringing up long-hidden painful memories. But I wasn’t stopping now, and neither was he, apparently. “I found her…in the bathroom, still bleeding a little and warm. I—I couldn’t move…not even when I heard Roger come in. I remember-remember trying to make some sound, to let him

know that he shouldn’t come in.” He broke off, and I consciously made the decision to squeeze his hand. “But you couldn’t,” I whispered, filling in the blank that he hadn’t managed to fill himself. “No. I couldn’t.” That closed that subject—he shut his mouth tight, his lips forming a thin line. I felt…kinda bad for bringing that up. I wasn’t upset that he hadn’t continued…I could picture it for myself. Roger coming into the bathroom, seeing Cohen standing there, staring at his dead girlfriend… I swallowed. These guys had a life that belonged on TV. Throw me and Cyn into the mix, and you’ve got a whole fucking party. “It takes a bit, you know,” I murmured. “For it to set in. I still can’t believe Cyn has—has…” I choked back tears. Cohen let go of my hand—only to take it with his other and wrap his arm around my shoulders. I clenched my teeth at the closeness, but the wind picked up, and I found myself happy—he never seemed to feel cold…or maybe I was just so much colder myself. And then little white flakes fell from the sky. I cursed softly and pulled my coat around me. “Cold?” laughed Cohen, giving me a little squeeze with his arm. I laughed too, surprising myself. “Not at all,” I said, rolling my eyes. Snow blew itself down my coat, and I jumped, shivering and rubbing at my neck. “Stupid fucking coat,” I grumbled. Cohen was laughing, clutching his sides and doubled over. Looking around, I noticed we had gotten to the park. Snow was gathering on the ground, and I grabbed up a little in my hands. Cohen didn’t notice. I squished it together into a rough snowball, and threw it into his face. He straightened, face red with cold—and he didn’t look amused. He wiped his face off, cleaned his glasses… and then calmly threw a snowball at me. I squeaked, turning away so it only hit the back of my head. A little snow fell down the back of my coat, and I shivered. I rounded on Cohen, trying and failing to glare. I resorted to just flinging snow at him, and he did too. Eventually I was cold and wet, and I stopped. “Truce,” I panted, looking up from my position on the ground. Cohen nodded, flopping down next to me. “Truce,” he agreed, laughing. His cheeks were flushed from the cold—still—and he was grinning at me. I shivered and pulled my knees up to my chest, and Cohen put his arm around me, pulling me close to his side. It was the same sort of motion as the night before—completely without romantic intent…just friendly. Maybe before my withdrawal I would’ve yelled at him…but like the handholding thing, I was just fucking cold. Cold, I told myself. You’re cold, he has body heat. Sure, it bothered me…but I didn’t push him away. Until I realized the snow was soaking into my skirt. I jumped up, and Cohen followed, realizing what was happening. I tried to look and see if I was soaked, but I couldn’t. “Fuck—I’m supposed to be flexible,” I growled, spinning around in circles to try and see. “…What are you doing?” asked Cohen, laughing. He seemed to be doing a whole fucking lot of that today. And at me. I hit his shoulder, but not too hard. “Trying to see if my skirt got soaked,” I said. He grinned. “Want me to check?”

I stared at him for a second, taking in the fact that he was fucking serious. “No fucking way!” I cried, backing away from him. Cohen was grinning mischievously, advancing on me. I ran away behind a bench, glaring at him. “You are not looking at my ass, Cohen.” I sat down on the bench, facing away. I had suddenly remembered my reason for being out here with him in the first place. I shivered—from the cold and from my memories. This little exchange had reminded me too much of Cyn…before the drugs. ‘I hate snow,’ I muttered, glaring at the white drifts. Cyn grinned at me. ‘Why? It’s fluffy and white and…you can catch it on your tongue.’ ‘And it’s cold and wet,’ I added. ‘And it hits you in the face.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘But that’s part of the fun! You’re such a spoilsport.’ Sticking out her tongue, she threw a bunch of snow at me. I squeaked, turning away to avoid getting it in the face. ‘Cyn! What the heck?’ I shouted, shaking the snow out of my hair. Cyn was laughing her head off, doubled over. She fell into the snow, and I threw some on her. ‘Oh, look who’s getting into the fun!’ she giggled, brushing herself off and standing up. ‘See? Snow isn’t all bad.’ I grinned. ‘No, it’s not.’ And I threw a snowball at her face—missing, of course. She laughed again, shaking her head. “Ellen?” I blinked, coming back to reality. “What?” I was too surprised to remember to snap. Cohen was staring at me, frowning. “What were you thinking about?” he asked, sitting down next to me. “Cyn,” I whispered. I then dropped the bomb. “Do you think about it a lot?” “Think about what?” I bit my lip. “About…about when Roger’s going to die.” Cohen sucked in a breath. “Yeah. All the time. I try not to.” I stared at the untouched snow in front of me. It was still falling, catching in my hair and going under my collar. I sighed. “I’m trying not to think about Cyn. But…it’s hard.” Cohen laced his hand with mine. I only noticed in passing, barely paying attention. “It’s not easy. Being the one to watch your friend die…and it’s really hard at first.” He squeezed my hand. “But it gets easier.” It was then that I noticed he was still holding my hand. I pulled it away, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “It doesn’t feel like it will,” I muttered childishly. “Not now. Not yet. But eventually it will. I didn’t think it would…April’s lipstick note on the bathroom mirror stayed in my dreams for ages. ‘We’ve got AIDS. I’m sorry. I can’t do this.’ That’s all she wrote…all she left for Roger. And I kept seeing those words. They didn’t go away. Roger fell into depression, not playing his guitar, barely eating or sleeping…” Cohen’s voice was shaking, and I thought he was going to cry if he kept talking. So I stopped him. “And then he quit, right?” I had to get him on track—he was running himself into a hole. Cohen nodded, taking a deep breath. “Yeah. I found him sitting in his room, staring at the two syringes…and then he threw them out the window. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘I’m not doing this shit anymore.’ And he didn’t…for a few months. Then he

got his hands on some, and started up again. Collins had to stop working for a while to help me.” He broke off, sighing. “Is Cyn quitting?” I shook my head. “Little fucker said she wasn’t gonna,” I whispered, tears gathering in my eyes. “She said—said that she as gonna enjoy life because she had so little left. And she…” I felt a raw sob tear itself from my throat, and hot tears spilled down my cheeks. I took my hands out of my pockets and put them over my face, sobbing as quietly as possible. Cohen pulled me close, and I buried my face in his chest, glad for the comfort. Why did Cohen have to be so fucking nice? It was like…all he cared about was making sure the people around him were happy. And I hated him…right? But I kinda doubted it in that moment. I’d let him hold my hand, hug me…I even had a fucking snowball fight with him! I wanted to pull away, but I was warm there and he hugged pretty damn well… Besides, he was keeping the snow from going down my coat. Eventually I pulled away and wiped my eyes. “Thanks,” I whispered. Cohen shrugged. He looked embarrassed, but I couldn’t tell if he was blushing—stupid cold air. My cheeks were probably red too. I took a deep breath, and finished my sentence. “She was saying her goodbyes. She gave me back this old sweater of mine…” I stopped to swallow the lump in my throat. “I really…I just don’t want…” I couldn’t let myself cry again. I felt Cohen catch my hand, and I readied myself to go on. “I don’t want her do waste her life away. If she’s using her money for drugs…then she isn’t using it for AZT!” I wiped a few stray tears, and then whispered, “I don’t understand it.” About an hour later we got back, and I went right to bed and laid there—I was emotionally exhausted, and more than a little physically exhausted from the snowball fight. Cohen and I had stayed out as long as we dared, talking…and it helped. It fucking surprised me, but it had helped. We covered a range of topics—I cried a lot, which was very fucking embarrassing…but Cohen didn’t seem to mind. He told me everything that had happened when Roger found out: first, he hadn’t really reacted, just like Cyn. He walked around in a daze, saying stuff and then not remembering it. He woke up laying on the floor in the middle of the loft a lot. Then came the anger. Cohen had described it as “a wall of anger. Something that you can’t stop, can’t control, can’t go over or under…and so you have to go through it.” I could only imagine what he went through with Roger. The third stage was becoming suicidal. That scared me—would Cyn try and kill herself? Or had she already passed this stage and that was why she was still on the drugs? And finally was the halfhearted acceptance. Roger had taken his AZT, and regained his quality of life. And he’d quit using. Somehow I didn’t see that with Cyn. Now I was messed up in my mind, having a fucking internal argument with myself. I kept seeing Cohen holding my hand, putting his arm around my shoulders, holding me against his chest as I cried…and it was so…so fucking sweet. He didn’t seem to care that I hated him…he treated me like any other of his friends. Some part of me wanted to just give up and accept his friendship. To just… stop hating him—as must as I could—and try and be civil. It might make staying at the loft easier—if we weren’t going back and forth fighting or exchanging snippy remarks, a whole fucking lot of tension would just disappear.

But…could I really just do that? I knew without hesitating—yes. Especially after today. I wouldn’t have too much trouble putting aside the majority of our— well, my—differences and just…being civil. Friends…not yet. Well…maybe. I hit my pillow in frustration. Why couldn’t I fucking let things stay the same way? Because you let him hug you, hold your hand, laugh with you, and be normal with you…it’s your fault. You liked being friendly with him today. The answer was too easy to get, and I hated everything about it. I mean, this was Cohen! Mark fucking Cohen, the person I’d basically told to fuck off the first time I met him. Before the drugs, an evil little voice said. He was right all along, and you just don’t want to admit it. I swallowed. Fucking voice was right. He hadn’t gotten to me because he didn’t have AIDS or HIV…but Roger had. If the situations had been switched…I would be fine with Cohen and be calling Roger Davis. I glanced at the clock—it read 9:37. “Oh, fuck it all,” I groaned, rolling out of bed. I couldn’t stand it any longer—I fucking had to talk to Cohen, and for the second time in a day. But I couldn’t keep sitting there, going around the same circle in my head all night. I hate him. He’s nice. Why do you hate him? He came to me at the wrong time. So? You’ve done what he said to do in the first place. Why not be civil with him? Why not be friends? Why shouldn’t you give it a try? If it doesn’t work…then everything can just be like it is now, and it won’t matter. No, it doesn’t matter. Wait…yes it does! Hate doesn’t go away! I hate him. I walked to the door, and then leaned against the wall, tears suddenly flowing from my eyes. Why the fuck was I crying? I kept wondering why as I sank to the ground, curled my knees to my chest, and sobbed. I hadn’t cried like this since withdrawal…and this was worse. Somehow, it was worse—it was like my whole world was breaking into small pieces, and the pieces were being burned. In withdrawal, only one piece of my life was being broken, being burned… The door creaked open. I tried to stop myself from crying, but the deep sobs kept coming. I dropped my head against my knees and wrapped my arms around my head, not looking at whoever had come in. Someone sat next to me and held me close, stroking my hair and whispering soothing nonsense to me. I clung to them tightly, wondering briefly if I was restricting their breathing. “Ellen…shh, it’s alright. Everything’s alright now.” A fresh round of sobs tore from my throat. Cohen…Cohen had come in. I didn’t know why, maybe it was to see if I was alright or asleep… And now he was here, sitting on the floor and doing his best to comfort me. I was…I was fucking touched. He was so nice, so…sweet. Fuck. Sweet? Fuck, fuck, fuck! Sweet—Cohen was sweet. Was he? Yes, that fucking half of my mind said. I knew it was right. He tried to make everything ok for me…me, the emotional nutcase. I couldn’t keep myself straight, and I wasn’t the one with AIDS. Suddenly I felt Cohen shift, and the floor wasn’t beneath me. I stiffened and opened my eyes slightly—Cohen was carefully laying me down in my bed, gently pulling the covers over me… I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to be the person who needed someone to pick up the pieces of their broken emotional psyche.

But that was what I was. And Cohen had stepped into Cyn’s place to do just that.