Inspired by : "When Five Fell" by Wongfu Productions
(A/N: I'm trying to get back into writing after one heck of a school year, and I thought I'd take a swing at this JONAS fandom, Nacy in particular, before taking on Unaffordable and Degrees again. This doesn't really follow the source of inspiration's format—it's just something that got me going.
Haha, but we'll see how this goes…)
The lively, hot energy of the L.A. sun frolics on her skin like it is its playground, but instead of leaving footstep patches of sunburns, because she's that flawless, she browns such an endearing tint that it should be a crime the way her glow catches everyone's eyes. Even in the middle of wintery December, on that street whose name seemed to be internationally known back home, that shy eye in the sky even takes the time out of its busy schedule to peer over its clouds and take a peek.
She's so inviting, so welcoming strolling down the fresh bed of damp and smooth sand alongside the gentle lapping of waves, but there is only one trail of footsteps being left behind as the hour slowly lingers by. The only hand she's holding is her own, behind her back, by her delicate fingertips.
It isn't long before she comes across a memory, an accidental, chaste one of sorts that brings her arms around and hugs herself tight, secure like a worn out leather jacket—holes, tears, stains and all—that can't seem to get lost.
No matter how much she wants to leave it behind like the dips in the wet sand left in the wake of her bare feet, the holes only fill up to be emptied again. With every intake of tentative, knowing breath, out comes a shallow, unwilling sigh that drains her dry.
But she does her best to convince herself that the gentle swill of the occasional summer breeze is nothing more than a failed attempt to caress her cheek, to wipe away a straying tear. She continues her perpetual path, carefully listening for his voice to call her name again in the midst of the crashing waves over by the shore of rocks, or the whistling wind to play a more familiar tune to accompany her until she reaches her destination, wherever or whenever that may be.
The memories are just objects, things, figments of the wandering imagination when there's nothing but the silence to hold a conversation in bed.
Still, she can easily put a face and a heartbeat to each and every one of them.
Only one face.
Only one heartbeat.
"Daddy! Daddy, lookit!" a toddler calls, squealing in excitement, and she draws in the attention of other beach goers as well when she celebrates her almost finished castle masterpiece. To top off her misshapen building, she crowns it with a yellow, sand-speckled rubber duck.
A duck.
"Aw!" Kevin cooed. "Look, there's a trail of ducklings following their—H-hey! Frankie!"
"Roar! Fear me!" The youngest of the four stomped and charged for the duck family. And as he would do for any living, breathing, cute thing, Kevin protected the fledglings as they were his own blood. Frankie was an exception at the moment.
"Augh!" Joe then grunted, spitting out a wad into the nearest trash can. "Stella, why is this bread so stale and hard? It tastes like a rock."
"He would know." It was always those smirks of his that had her smiling.
Joe shrugged, thoughtlessly agreeing to his younger brother's comment. "I was eight. I thought it was a Jawbreaker."
As Joe's girlfriend of almost two months and best friend of both of their lifetimes, Stella just pouted sympathetically and brushed the hair out of his eyes and caressed his cheek. "Oh, Joseph. When I say it's for feeding the ducks, I mean it's for the ducks. I'm not going to kill you before our anniversary."
"You mean, you're not trying to kill me before it."
"You said it, not me." Stella took Joe's hand with a smile. "Come on, I think Frankie and Kevin found some terrorized ducks to feed over there."
Alas, he was alone with her, the one who has yet to say a word since the latest accident. To keep things short, a perfectly stationary lacrosse racquet somehow put a slight gimp in his step. He had every right to not join in on this trip to the park, especially since this six-person clan would inevitably pare off into three groups, ultimately leaving them two together, but he insisted. Maybe inspiration would hit him while getting some fresh air.
Or, she thought to herself, he was insisting on getting hit with something else—but not on purpose, of course.
But to each their own.
Eventually the weight he was putting on his injured leg deemed to be too much, but he faked an excuse to bench himself with claiming that the view of the playground swings had his writing hand itchy. Too willing to conform to a third-of-JONAS' wishes, the wounds inflicted notwithstanding, she saw his favor to help him limp over to the park bench as nothing more than that—if anything. All she could offer him was a few ice chips from the ice cooler they'd brought along.
Edgily kicking her legs back and forth in the seat beside him, she murmured in apologetic wonder, "Do you think you'll be able to play in time for your next concert?"
"Macy, I'm fine," he swore, breaking into a few soft chuckles when he saw the needless worry in her eyes. "My leg is fine. I told you, I wanted to sit here so I can clear my head for a new song."
"Good." She flashed him a small smile, and the tiny wrinkles in the corners of her eyes make her relieved expression that much more sincere, genuine. She quickly patted his hand that wasn't holding the melting ice, like she was going to do some more damage if she kept contact any longer than one second. "I'll leave you to write your next hit," she said. She looked up just to see how his next words would fall from his lips and found herself breathing a little more erratically and blushing.
He'd seen that look more times than he can count, and each time he would wonder why she would care so much like that for someone, anyone. The romantic idea was blurred by his name in the world so easily in most cases similar to this one, but not with her. He'd experience almost every kind of pain there is with girls, and it would always show in some of his best hit singles, but with her, at least whenever she would hurt him, she would do her best to make it better.
Maybe that's why he never ran away whenever she came near with sports equipment in hand. What would happen, he wondered, if he went the other direction, and pursued her?
She was different; he knew that, she knew that. It was obvious she'd swooned over him, like a school-girl crush, but at least she liked him for more than his looks, fame, and money. She liked him for his music.
"Wait."
Like a deer caught in the headlights her penny-flecked doe eyes stared down at their hands. She could feel the rugged texture of his fingertips, and he enjoyed how small her hand fit in his.
He was beginning to think the physical pain she puts him through might be worth it in the long run. And she was beginning to think that one more second of physical contact wasn't going to cause any more harm like she first expected.
Not by her hands, anyway.
"Watch out!" Frankie came out of nowhere and beetle-crawled underneath their clasped hands with an angry mother duck chasing after him.
"Run for it, Joe!" Stella suddenly shrieked, and Joe was also hurtling in their direction, chucking stale bread in all different directions behind him.
"Wahhh!" Hot on his tail was a flock of seagulls and one giant goose.
"Don't hurt him!" Kevin wailed, also on the wacky pursuit.
"Yeah, don't hurt me!" Joe pleaded. "Take all of the stupid bread for all I care!"
"Not you! The baby goose!"
"Thanks, Kev," Joe spat. Finally he lobbed all the bread into the air and leaped over the bench the two were sitting so innocently on, but still, the chase stayed close behind and trampled all over them.
A toppled bench, new feather-themed wardrobes, and personal crumb-picking out of their hair courtesy of the park birds—all of that and he still had the guts to finally ask her on a date.
"Just to keep things interesting," he said, because he wanted to see where else she could take him. But preferably somewhere bandages weren't necessary.
She smiles to herself when the father takes a proud picture of his daughter and her mountain of a castle with its duck princess.
But she learns to move on. After all, the only hand she's holding is her own, behind her back.
In a faraway distance from the shore is a beach blanket, littered with rock granules and a Frisbee and happy people eating a late lunch in the sun. The circle of happiness in the sky becomes overwhelming for a few of them and they withdraw their oversized shades.
Signs of their muted laughter bounce off the different angles of the reflections in their rounded plastic eyes. She imitates them from afar, bearing a smile but with no sunglasses to hide out-of-place almond orbs; a bittersweet feeling rekindles. Her best friend with having a sensitive eye for things that don't match would say, choose one look and stick with it.
She decides to wear what's more natural, not so much the ordinary or accepted or expected, because Stella doesn't like those alternative words.
Nevertheless, Stella wouldn't approve of either look, no matter which one she decides to go with.
"Now this," Stella eased out, stringing on a sophisticated black pendant, "is the final touch. Simple, elegant, and yet it says, 'I'm ready to dance the night away.'"
"Thanks for this, Stella, but it's only a dinner," she corrected, although she did take an immediately liking to the custom fit, sequin-freckled, lavender dress. When Stella wasn't looking, she had the strongest urge to do a slow-motion spin in front of the mirror.
"You never know," her best friend hummed suspiciously. "And how dare you say it's only a dinner? Macy, this dinner marks the fourth date. And everyone knows that the fourth date in the JONAS universe is the lunar landing of the first kiss. You do have a pretty reliable source here." Stella pointed at herself.
"Wow, no, really?" She rolled her eyes and bashfully laughed it off. "I, um, didn't know that."
Stella cocked a knowing eyebrow.
She bared her teeth in an innocent smile at first, and then deadpanned. "Okay, so just because Joe kissed you on your fourth 'date' doesn't mean N-nick or Kevin follow that custom."
"Oh, they do," Frankie announced as he came in to the foyer of the L.A. complex, tinkering with a remote control. "I would, too, if I still didn't think girls have cooties."
"See? Reliable source number two," Stella laughed, throwing an arm around the restless brunette. "You have nothing to worry about. Oh, and here." She was handed a small clutch purse. "I packed one or two mints, just in case, because I know how much you like garlic." She pretended to not be offended when Stella did a quick breath check and had to contemplate whether it was tolerable.
"He's taking you to a public place?" Frankie asked.
"Yeah, that local Italian place a few blocks away," she replied, popping in one of the mints. "Why?"
Still toying with the remote, he shrugged. "Usually these special dates are private, like at a movie or park, so that…you know." He shuddered with disgust. "Maybe it's not gonna happen."
The rapid throbbing in her chest slowed to one hard, hollow thump that almost made her swallow her mint.
"That looks interesting, Frankie," Stella cut in. "What happens if I press—"
"Don't! It's not finished!"
"AHHH!"
The two girls stood frozen in the foyer, taking a moment to rethink rushing up the stairs to see what happened.
"Oops. I guess your biweekly prank is a day early," Stella realized.
"It wouldn't be if you didn't press the button," Frankie muttered, trudging off to sulk in another room. "Now I have to think of another one to keep up!"
"Don't listen to him, Mace." She was still trying to imagine what happened on the second floor when Stella grabbed her by the shoulders and reminded her of what wasn't going to happen tonight except a noogie beatdown. "He's like, seven; what does he know?"
"I'm ten!"
"But you said he was a reliable source," she griped, walking the fine line between disappointment and whining.
"Someone remind me never to buy a reclining chair from that furniture store again." His raspy chuckle coming down the stairs kick started her heart again, but every thud felt a little sorer than the last. "The defective thing catapulted Joe out the open window and into the pool outsid—Wow," he stopped to breathe. "Ms. Macy Misa, you look…"
She giggled. "You, too, Mr. Nick Lucas."
"Shall we?" He offered his arm like the fine gentleman he was and escorted them to the car waiting in the driveway.
The couple waved goodbye to Stella standing in the doorway in a sad-happy way, like a mom seeing her child boarding the bus for the first day of school; Joe, who was doused from head to toe but flailed his wet sleeves anyway before hunting down Frankie with a fiery glare; and Kevin, who raised his hand not to send his regards but to call to be the next person shot into the pool.
Despite what antics were left behind at the house, a particular teenage rock star had a case of the jitters himself.
Maybe it was the fact that this was the first date they've been on without a tag-along—a third or fifth wheel. Or perhaps he could blame his knee shaking throughout dinner on the basis that this was the fourth date. But he was most likely to be uneasy because she seemed distant as she nibbled on her ravioli, and even denied dessert. He deducted from their lack of usual conversation about the seasonal sport, her downcast eyes and occasional sideline glances that maybe, just maybe, he was too late. He had waited too long.
She'd lost interest.
The exchange of words across the table tapered off until it was time for the check. To make matters worse, word had gotten out about their date, and suddenly a wall going back three photographers thick surrounded the entrance of the restaurant. He had no choice but to phone in for backup security since there was no backdoor exit.
Pulling out his trusty Raybans for hectic occasions such as this, he steered her carefully into the small gap open for walking, his hand pressed against her back ever so gently.
"You know, I think you should just take me back to the hotel," she had to yell over her shoulder.
He stole a fleeting look at his watch. "It's barely nine," he replied, feeling more and more unsure of himself, which was uncomfortably new for him. She seemed to be the only one who could make him feel this way. But if this was what she wanted, if she didn't like him that way anymore… "I'm sorry," he continued, "I should've planned somewhere more private."
"Really?" They reached the car but she turned to face him before he could open the door for her. "Can I ask you why? Why somewhere more private?" She bit her lip and her bambi eyes came to life again.
"Because of this," he answered bluntly, and gestured to the crowd stalking them. Her saddened reaction had him dazed because he honestly couldn't tell why she was possibly acting this way. So he grabbed her hand, just as he did the first time he held her hand in the park, and prompted, "Macy, why are you asking?"
"I don't know," she mumbled. "I just thought that because this was our fourth date, and Stella and Joe, but then Frankie with the whole cooties thing before the catapult and I should really stop talking now." She cracked a smile. "Okay, how about getting into the car?"
"So…you know about the 'fourth date' thing?"
"If it matters, I'm not the only one. It's kind of known on a global scale." She blinked. "But since we're in a public place, I figure you don't want to…If we were alone, then you'd—" Utterly embarrassed, she shook her head down at her feet, laughing at herself for being such an idiot. "Long story short: Nick of JONAS would never take a girl out in public for the fourth date if he wanted to kiss meahhh, her. I mean, her. I don't know; forget it."
A huge amount of pressure was lifted off his chest, and his goofy, toothy smile silenced her into confusion. He removed his shades. "Why, and hide this?" He tenderly framed her face and dipped down to kiss her. She found herself leaning onto him for full support when they parted lips. She opened her dream-heavy eyes and she began gazing up at him like he liked to again.
She couldn't help but sigh happily, "But the paparazzi…"
He positioned his glasses over her eyes and tended to the bangs that fell over them, chuckling, "Well, you can wear these if you want—they help with all the flashing lights—but I think it's safe to say we have nothing to hide."
But any sane and non-celebrity would know, wearing sunglasses at night were useless. This case in particular, with or without a pair of shades, they both saw lights that evening.
A haze of the sherbet sunset muddles over the blue and the caressing breeze blows a little colder; the tourists are folding their chairs and loading their vans while the locals are just unlatching surfboards from their vans and station wagons and open-top VW's. They rush past her like she's not even there. Hours have passed and she's still walking. The beach strip seems to be an endless path, but she doesn't mind. There's no need for sunglasses anymore, and the leather jacket of memories hugs her that much tighter to keep her warm.
The calm waves turn into larger swells which lure in even more water natives out from their hidings, in search of the perfect ride to adrenaline heaven. But when the ocean splashes onto the shore, reaching out with its seductive foam, she deviates off course a bit to avoid it. No one can tell but her composure shrinks and she's finally thinking of retracing her steps. However, when she looks back, the trail of a wanderer are gone; washed away.
So she prolongs the rest of her stroll down the shoreline, she decides, at least until someone calls her to come back.
"I appreciate this, Nick," she said, hugging to her side a board that was taller than her by more than a foot, "I really do, but if I can recall your first time on the water, I was dragging out you out of there."
He knew very well that when he slipping on the upper part of his wetsuit, a certain bicep muscle or two could prompt a worthy distraction while lying, "No. I don't remember that at all." He smirked. "But after this, you want to hit the green at the Wilson?"
She didn't give him an immediate answer. On their walk through the maze of beach blankets and lounge chairs, she studied his face. He…looked different, not like himself; even his behavior was off.
"Nick, what's going on?"
"What, can't a guy treat his girlfriend out once in a while?"
"Yesterday, you took me to the Westfield Mall and we ate at Luna Park," she speculated. "The day before it was the unbelievable experience of playing in the Dodger Stadium—just the two of us. Now, it's surfing and golf?" She speared her surfboard into the sand and caught his arm when she knew he was pretending to not find all this indulging in the city life strange.
"I'm taking a few pointers from Macy Misa's Handbook to Living the Life to Its Fullest," he joked. "Should I have referenced you?"
"But that's me," she argued, "not you. The guy I know barely has any time for this kind of stuff. You used to spend days on end planning and working and writing, and when you take a breather from it all—and we both know that's very rare—then we go out. That's what makes our time together more special. You decide to spend whatever time you have left on your hands with me."
His brow furrowed. "So you don't like what we've done the past few days?"
"No, no," she replied quickly, fervently shaking her head. She smiled appreciatively up at him. "I loved it. Honestly, I did; I do, but normally you'd have the hardest time not bringing up anything close to music, especially if there's a tour coming up. All that dedication, constant dreaming—that's what made you you; the guy I fell in love with." She turned her solemn face to the ocean and began to wax her board like he'd showed her earlier in the day. "I'm just wondering where he is, that's all."
He deeply sighed and collapsed, defeated, onto the ground. Taking her by her waist, he pulled her close to his chest, his lips to her shoulder like a tender apology. They sat together like that, gazing out at the unruly waves and the ripples of water that followed them, silent for a solid twenty minutes.
Up until that moment, to be honest he didn't realize his unusual behavior. He hadn't been honest with her, or himself for that matter. Somehow, in between the lines of Macy's theoretical Handbook, he found denial, although happiness was supposed to be the only implicating imprint.
Leave it up to him to overanalyze things.
"Our time in L.A. is almost over," he murmured at last, ashamed to admit what's next. "Kevin's going for his movie directing thing; Joe's more serious about acting now; Stella and her new clothing line—we're all leaving, but we're not exactly heading in the same direction. Macy, there's no more tour. Not for a long time."
"What?" she whispered in awe.
"I haven't found any inspiration for months now to write songs," he grudgingly continued. "It's all recycled material and even though no one has the heart to tell me, it's the truth."
"Nick…" She raised her hand to his face and pecked a kiss on his lips, then one on his forehead. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because keeping you happy makes me happy." He halfheartedly grinned at her, his fingers combing through her sun kissed hair and drawing her cheek to his. "It keeps me going, Mace. You with me—that's what's keeping me on my feet."
Their exchanged whispers of "I love you's" tasted of sweet reassurance and blissful hope, yet there was an underlying relish of bittersweet hurt. Him, with his feeling of failing to keep things together; her, from him for holding it in and choosing it keep to himself.
But, according to frequently referenced hypothetical Handbook, it was best to look on the better side of things.
"Come on," she encouraged as she sprung up and held out her hand. "Speaking of being on your feet, I believe I have a surfing lesson from the one and only Nick of JONAS: part time surfer legend."
But just for the fun of it, they both took their boards and skipped out on the lesson. He knew she was smart enough to paddle out into the waters full with vigor, and she had balance down from all that gymnastics she used to do. So they tackled the ocean head on and swam out to where the waves were thriving from the wind. They waited patiently for a swell to roll their way.
He took the first one and managed to last ten seconds before jumping ship and plunging into the water. With his bobbing head held high, he advised her that that's what not to do when surfing, she laughed so hard that she almost fell over. Sooner than he could throw his leg back over his board, she was already paddling for the next large wave.
It had first started out small, the wave; not wimpy, but strong enough to get her moving. She wobbled at first but eventually her feet were steady upon the surfboard and she was riding for much longer than he did. The ocean mist, the smooth rainstick sound of rushing water, and her echoing cheer of triumph—that was the true aspect of living life to the fullest. There was no need for a lesson, or a review in safety, the leg cord in particular.
But everything has its peak moment.
The deep blue began to roar back and soon she realized that her Tarzan yell ricocheted off the gigantic curl a little more thunderous than before, and it only seemed to intensify from there. The last thing she could see before the final crash was him swimming as fast and hard as he could, yelling her name. But the colossal hurtle was far too loud-mouthed.
She couldn't hear him call her name as the ocean claimed her, swallowed her whole.
"Macy? Macy, do you hear me? Come on, come on, wake up!"
Only a few can say that a true love's kiss is like breathing life into you.
She lifted her eyes, coughing ounces of salty sea water, to dark chocolate but bloodshot eyes, disheveled and dripping curls, and last but not least a crooked, relieved smile with her name softly placed on his lips, thanking god all ways to Sunday.
"What happened?" she murmured in bewilderment because day seemed to glow a little brighter and warmer in his arms.
"I thought I lost you, too," he replied.
She merely shook her head at him and offered a weak grin.
To each their own: he might have been the one who saved her life, but in the long run after all he'd been through, she was the only thing in his life keeping him afloat.
Since that day, she's not one to have many fears but the beach is an exception to that rule. She treads lightly around the shore, careful not to make any form of contact with the flow of water. To do so would cause a waterfall of flashbacks—no pun intended. But she loves the beach and its atmosphere so he used to walk along the shallow waters with their fingers intertwined and she enjoyed the gritty, tepid sand in between her toes.
She just…has naked hands at the moment and it doesn't feel too good. Not at all like the warm sand. Not at all.
When she goes back to their hometown, when she looks up during those winter days in hopes to see him smiling down and staring at her from his fire escape window, he won't be there—donning a bright yellow costume, all part of some JONAS family scheme, but that's another story.
Her shy eye sun of the sky won't be there to take a peek at her.
But she likes to think that even though she's walking this path by herself, she's not really alone. Because of the memories, he's still there with her. He leaves footsteps, he does, but since he protects her from the thrashing waves, his prints are submerged underneath the water.
She doesn't know where he is exactly in the world. It's been a few months, and she may never know at this point.
He's not there (wherever that is), but he's not here either.
Not really.
(A/N: Um, so. Yeah. This is…something. Haha. I'll leave it to your imaginations to what happened to Nick—rough break up, tour, etc. Or, rather, what really happened to Macy. ;)
I have summer classes starting in two weeks, but hopefully I'll get to write more since one of the classes is English. The other is Cultural Anthropology. I have mixed feelings about that.
Anyway, it feels good to write something and actually finish it. I'm not the most consistent of authors here on FF, but I do my best to write some decent stuff. Throughout last Fall to Spring, I've had pages of meaningless drabbles prepared for JONAS, for which I am personally uberly excited for this summer—are you?—but never could complete. Maybe they'll eventually find a worthy ending. But in the meantime…
Please review?)