This account is still dormant, but I wrote this (intending it to be for a different ship, but it ended up here). Sorry about the confusion, but I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and it's second-person... I hope I did that justice. And un-beta-ed so pardon mistakes.
No names, but I'm intending for a Massie/Derrick here (the only Clique pairing I ship). This is so dark and AU and OOC... So please, if you're very strict on the characters being exactly as they are in the books, I'm suggesting you not to read this; seriously, haters that "massie would never do this omg" make me want to vomit my dinner. Now that I've disgusted you (my specialty), please continue reading (:
I. Beautiful Disaster
You let the slow smile curl onto your lips; after all, it's just a dance, not a lifelong commitment. You quickly step onto the marble ballroom floor in desperate attempt to evade the whispers and questions. (But you hear them anyway.)
You know it's all wrong, everything's so wrong. He should be with her, you should be with anyone but him. But as he guides you with his hand resting ever-so-lightly on the small of your back, you can't help but feel as if it's inevitable.
His eyebrows snap together as you bring your body closer to his, almost intertwining your limber body into his slightly more masculine build. He doesn't fight it, and for that, you are grateful.
The night has been too long, and you don't think have room left for rejection. You let the music sweep you into a rhythm, a gentle, soothing, haunting rhythm. (It's only haunting because you're oh-so-comfortable with it, and that in itself scares you more than your sudden interest in Sarah McLachlan's 'Angel'.)
Then he spins you. Maybe you were expecting it, maybe not. But in the midst of that one moment, it leaves you breathless and stunned. He was never the gentleman, and you haven't expected him to become one. That spin, however, that heart-racing twirl, jolts you in a way that shouldn't be allowed.
You step away as soon as the song ends.
There's still the nagging part of you, so miniscule, so buried, that wants to stay there, wrapped in his muscular arms that sweep you off your feet in a fairy-tale way that should be banned from reality. (After all, fairytales end for a reason.) But you push that little feeling back down, push it deep into the pits of your heart, deep into a place where chances of survival are impossible.
You don't want to ever feel that vulnerability again. That vulnerability, that weakness, is the only thing that frightens you; control is your strong suit, and when lost, you feel as if you are crumpling apart, limb by limb, because you don't know where you are.
He bends down, milliseconds before you've completely torn away from him, and whispers five words that scare you into pieces. He whispers five words that make you weak in the knees, weak in the brain, and spinning dizzily back to the table. He whispers five words that you think, that you know, will make your life a living hell.
She's nothing compared to you.
*
It's been four years, much too long for anyone to still be mourning over what could have been. You've moved on (or at least you say) and you've started life anew. You deny that you ever sit up, in the darkest hours late in the night, imagining his voice, taunting you, whispering in your ear: she's nothing compared to you.
She's nothing compared to you. She's nothing compared to you.
She's nothing compared to you.
What does he mean, exactly? That you are better than her? That you're completely different than her? If so, different good? Different bad? Why? And if he had thought you were so much better, why had he still chosen her?
You realize, suddenly, that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if she was nothing compared to you; it doesn't matter if you were nothing compared to her.
You twirl the flute of champagne around in your hands (of course you still drink classily even if it's just at home, alone with your faithful dog) and you scream.
It's so unlike you. It's so unlike anything you should be. And that's half the reason it feels so amazing. It feels so cleansing to let your body rid of excess emotion.
Everything you've kept inside that five foot four, one-hundred ten pound body comes pouring out in this one moment, and once you've started you can't stop. You scream until your lungs run dry, until your throat burns like a raging forest fire, and mouth is dry. You scream until your face is soaked with unwanted tears and your fists hurt because they've been balled up into tight curls.
Falling back onto the leather couch, it all aches. Your body, your heart, your brain (if any of it is scientifically possible). You ache all over and you love the feeling of it; the soreness of your legs, the rubbed-raw, tear-stained cheeks. You crave physical pain because it distracts you from whatever internal battle you've been fighting the past four years.
And when the physical pain subsides, you're back to where you started.
You hate him, you hate him so (sosososososo) much. You hate that he still haunts you (yes, haunts you) even after he's long gone. You hate that his presence causes you so much pain (every kind of pain).
You hatehatehate that he said those five words, those five disgusting, sinful words that have shot you straight to hell, deep into the fiery pits of hell, leaving you burning, burning, burning away.
el fin.