Summary: Short scenes from the lives of Summer and Seth. SS.
Disclaimer: Don't own OC or characters….title is from Emily Dickinson's poem "Tell all the truth, but tell it slant".
A/N: I had a bunch of ideas floating around, none of which I could make into an actual story, even one-shots. So I smushed them altogether into the story you see before you. Enjoy!
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Last year, Summer stole Seth's rugged hemp bracelet, a remnant from a lazy spring afternoon. She wrapped it twice around her wrist and wore it for days, grinning playfully when he asked for it back. "It's too big for you!" he objected, pointing at the overlapped material. Summer shrugged, "I like it." She quietly slipped it in his pocket several weeks later, returning it. "You can keep it, if you want," he said coyly, carefully sliding it over her petite fingers.
She only wears it at home, when the sky is dark, and the air is grey, and the rain drizzles softly against her window. Her mind never fails to complete the picture, filling in the edges of his mouth, the shadows in his eyes. She hastily takes off the bracelet, replacing it in the depths of her jewelry box, only to be taken out when the memory isn't sharp enough.
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"You're anticipating our fallout!" she accuses, referring to her and Zach, and sighing into her hands as he stares.
"No, I'm not. I'm anticipating you and me," Seth says, unwavering, reeking of certainty. Her face is a flurry, a light snow, of emotions, each appearing for a split second until she settles on confusion, because it is easiest. Love would make her eyes starry and lustrous, and he knows it. His shirt lays awkwardly on his small frame, his shoulders projecting through the pale tint.
"I can't be here," she decides, striding across the slick floor, running a trembling hand through raven hair. Her fingers grip the doorknob as his face falls, his eyes liquid amongst the solid room.
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Seth loves music, the strained vocals, the rumbling of the precise guitars, the rigid drum rhythm beating quicker than his heart. The words tumble into his ears, shuffling through the melody, saying everything he wishes he could. He falls away, closed eyes, a world with only clever lyrics and the sheer feeling of intense control.
Seth hates music, the utter perfection of it, the exact timing and fit of each chord, the passion. Most of all, he hates the fact that he will never create anything so flawless. The notes jump around the staff, arbitrarily landing on the lines, making a song without effort. Music is reminiscent of her. It's all about Summer.
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"You still love her, don't you?" Zach pries, waving to Summer from across the room, his lips creeping into a guilty smile. Hesitation; acceptance. Seth's eyes wander, as he digs his nails into his neck. It's only a mark, faded by next week.
"I don't want to…" Seth falters, fluorescent lights beaming on his perspiring forehead. Inconclusive, unresolved. Zach shakes his head.
"I don't want you to, either," he says, cutting swiftly through the heavy air. His turned back becomes an image Seth often sees; the aching never too far away.
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Her name is scrawled in careless cursive, the letters dancing dizzily on the paper. Only her name and a misshaped, miniscule heart in the corner, threatening to fall off without warning. There is no signature, but she is well aware who sent it, the stray pen marks virtually spelling his name. She inspects it with great care; she's never known him to be at a loss for words.
She writes back, forming her letters with vigilance, so they lie straight and assertively. Only his name, no heart, no identity. The pencil makes bold, solid strokes, but it's no where near being permanent. Easily erased; she's glad.
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One night, two people, three words.
Zach gently takes her hand, the eerie moonlight bright against her black dress. His lips trail down her cheek in a symmetric pattern, never too abstract, never changing. She calmly strokes his hair, tangled in the cold air and ominous breeze. It feels real, she thinks, her eyes burning with expectations. "I love you, too," she reciprocates mechanically, wrongly, unwillingly, with the taste of him on her lips. Spoken words are wasted on her.
One heart, two pieces, three regrets.
She thinks in actions, not words. Words will be forgotten before the night is over, as she sits on her porch, inhaling deeply. The sun rises and the sky bursts into brilliant crimson and ginger flames before she realizes it is morning.