well, this was kind of cathartic. and majorly depressing, but if you're into that, if you're into my usual angsty take on these two, then this is definitely for you because it's the mother of all my bittersweet stories about them.

it's not as good, not as finished and not nearly as sane, but it works for me, on some level.

it might work for you too :)

P.S. There's a Reunion (the episode) reference in there, a sort of tragicomical one. You'll find it. If you remember the name.

She was back.

Back in time to that awful age when everyone was discovering and experimenting and pulling all sorts of "crazy" stunts that would be considered mild shenanigans today.

Those kids were driving with their eyes closed, smashing bottles against their head, tearing off each other's clothes, slowly, sentimentally, drunkenly.

It was a world she had never fully grasped, because it was always out of reach, almost at the tip of her fingers but never quite. A closed-up universe of teenagehood that smirked and nudged her in the ribs but never left an open space for her.

She had watched from the stands and had bitten her tongue, had swallowed up the nice words she might have said, the taunts she might have turned into jokes, the "suck it, nerds!" she could have rephrased into "glad you're finally noticing me".

Because she shunned the outcasts too. She was everyone's bully. She was her own bully.

Liz Lemon was not supposed to have friends, or have fun. She was supposed to sit on her bed and write about inequality and uncomfortable P.E. shorts in her ironic notebook and smile at her own sense of humor. She was supposed to pace every corner of her room, listening to the Godfather soundtrack and picture herself as a young man, walking out of a bathroom with a gun, ready to shoot into the unknown. She was supposed to imagine herself dancing on a stage in the middle of nowhere to Cradle of Love, seeing shadows and hearing laughter and getting goosebumps, because she felt desired and powerful and alone.

She not supposed to derive too much pleasure out of it, though, because whenever she slipped into romance, she stopped dead in the middle of the room, shook her head, threw her cassettes, slumped down on the floor and hit her head against the wall.

"Dumbass! Stop it with the sappy crap. It's not real. It's not cool."

Because her princess fantasies involved children from other marriages and it was going to stay that way. There was no way she going to admit she felt otherwise.

It was a big, convoluted drama and it was all happening in her head.

And her head only.

No one else was allowed to feel this. No one.

And she felt good, she felt special in this self-destructive cycle. She kept at it all throughout high school. College, even.

She only grew tired of it years later, when it was too late to realize it had been a ruse. When it sort of became part of who she was and she accepted it as genuine.

But now, tonight, the ruse was up.

She was back.

And God knows why she had chosen this moment to return to the tender age of seventeen. I mean, she had just gotten married to a beautiful, loving, goofy, fun guy.

What did that have to do with adolescence?

And what did this party have to do with everything, really?

Why did this party feel like - feel exactly like that party, the one that happened all those years ago? That party she had never called by its real name?

It was her own wedding. This was her night. Criss' arms were around her waist. He was smiling in the hollow of her neck.

Why did this remind her of prom?

She looked up into his eyes and she saw this crazy look in them, the look you get when you drink too much champagne and you're with a really good friend and you want to tell them everything, but you're too full. You feel the bubbles rising up in your throat. Criss had that look. Criss really was in love.

And it sucked the air out of her lungs because she had envisioned this moment, during those nights of pacing back and forth in her room, and it was always the last chapter of some bleak novel where the two leads somehow survived the bombing of a city and now, as a last resort, they had each other.

And this sick, twisted fantasy, the fantasy of a disgusting, but endearing hypocrite, this fantasy was coming to life.

She turned her head away in a sudden bout of nausea.

Why? Why prom?!

"You all right, your Highness?" Criss asked, giving her his trademark grin.

She straightened the folds of her dress and smiled haughtily. "Why? Don't I look all right, you scruffy-looking nerf herder?"

But it felt phoned it. Something she would write in her ironic notebook. And she realized she could have done better. Line-wise. She could have chosen a better line.

Hell, that was pathetic.

Stop it, stop it. Think bleak novel. Think bombing. Think togetherness.

She almost wanted to laugh. She had to picture this kind of sordid tragedy to get in the mood.

Typical, Lemon.

That's another thing. She had become her own catch-phrase.

Although, when he said it, it didn't sound like some cheap self-deprecating joke.

And right now, he was standing right across the room, hunched over his drink, throwing side glances at the people around him, reluctant to make small talk because he didn't really feel up to it. Not anymore. He wasn't at his best tonight. He wasn't where he was supposed to be. And he knew that and he didn't want to inflict that sort of crisis on any of the guests.

He didn't want to ruin her wedding. That was the last thing he wanted to do. She was finally in a good place. He was miserable for now, but he'd get over whatever was eating at him in a day or two. Probably nostalgia. Probably envy. Not jealousy. Just envy. Envy of her life. Of her stability.

But it didn't mean he felt less for her. It didn't mean he unfelt all those things just because he was not in the same good place.

He really, really wanted her to be happ-

The "y" never made it. He never got to say "happy" outloud in his head. He never got to finish his thoughts.

Her eyes had wandered across that small space that separated them and had suddenly met his and everything else had vanished.

He couldn't avoid that look. The look she always gave him, the joyful, sad look of a girl who never expected him to return it, but was content to watch him from the doorway as he went about his business.

He smiled tightly and lifted his glass in a toast. Everything about this one small action hurt. He gripped the glass until he felt he might break it, until he felt he might spill its contents all over his fingers, blood and scotch and anger. And then he let go.

He let go.

Liz saw it, though. He saw the slight tremor in his fingers. He saw the way he set the glass down in a finite motion.

She saw it, because she was back.

Back at prom.

She had invited - practically made - Tim Barsley, a freshman who was part of the drama club, come with her tonight because they had both designed costumes for West Side High-School Story and he had told her that The Empire Strikes Back should be a musical on its own. And she had felt it was the right move.

Tim was harmless. No one would judge her. No one would think she'd grown soft. Everyone would make the drama club connection. People who were in certain clubs or groups were expected to do other stuff together so this was perfect.

This was comfortable and safe.

When the time had come to dance, he had asked her politely and she had rolled her eyes and made a comment about the stupid Natalie Merchant mixes and the horrible lighting and everyone's sweaty armpits, but she had slipped her hand in his and had gripped it hard so she wouldn't feel the clamminess and she had arranged his tie because he really was hopeless and he had put his arms around her, shaking visibly, and she had shouted in his ear how she had new ideas for like, a summer comedy club.

How did that sound?

And Tim had stared at her with wide, brown eyes, transfixed by her made-up nonchalance, as if she were that cool aunt he'd always wanted to hang out with.

And Liz had made a noise at the back of her throat, because she didn't like this new song they were playing; who the hell even tolerated I Just Called To Say I Love You?

"It's songs like these that make me consider tying my tubes, just to be safe," she had commented acidly.

Tim had laughed nervously. That was supposed to be funny, right? He was meant to laugh? He didn't know. He just did.

Sometime around her second joke and his respectful laughter, she heard that same glass, that same chink. Someone setting it down on a table nearby.

Her eyes had met his, across the crowd.

He was sitting right in front of her, watching her, judging her, punishing her silently for what she had done.

His name - well, it wasn't Jack, but it didn't matter now anyway. It had been a different name, a different guy. Same story.

The guy had tried getting close, she had pushed him away.

Lab partners for a year. Then homecoming, where he had brought her a drink and tried to make small talk. She had insulted his taste in sports (namely that he was part of one), he had insulted her taste in clothing. And they had chuckled for a moment. Because they both thought the kids around them were idiots, but he still liked them, whereas she had to dislike them, on principle. Something about him, though, was freeing. His brand of sarcasm wasn't venomous. He wasn't defined by this obsessive self-loathing that took over every aspect of her life. She secretly admired it. Admired him. Then he had waited for her to do something because he had made the first move, so to speak, but they only ever talked during lab work, or maybe if they were lucky, at some party she never wanted to attend. Two years of fragmentary conversations and sad looks exchanged in between lunch breaks.

The funniest part was that she remembered Tim Barsley's name, his face and everything, but him, the real guy - well, that was harder to bring up.

Safe to say, he hadn't been at that high school reunion (Braverman, was it? How ironic.)

But he had set the glass down, had given her the same tight smile.

It's just how things turn out in the end, she told herself.

People want to be unhappy. They plan for it. They work for it. They deprive themselves of every chance to be happy. It's poetic and tragic and it gives their life meaning and beauty.

She had missed her teen years, had missed that first love, had missed the parties, the fun, the unironic enthusiasm of being young, the carefree days, the feeling of being invincible - she had let them slip through her fingers and maybe she had missed her entire life, but she had replaced them with something different.

Something not a lot of people could say they had; a Star Wars wedding.

So in the end, it didn't matter that she was back at prom. She was going to do the same thing she'd done that night.

She was going to let Tim Barsley touch her left breast by accident while she clasped her hands around his neck and placed her head on his shoulder.

And then she was going to let go.

She let go.