A/N: So this is my first fic on here... I finally decided that I should stop letting my fanfiction stash rot on my laptop so upload time it is! Many thanks to my best friend and lovely editor, Si, who fixes all. There are not enough Bendy stories on here, which is one of a few reasons I decided to write this. Enjoy! ^.^
It occurred to me the other day that the tugging in my chest and the queasiness in my stomach and the pounding in my skull, was not some weird-ass illness I had picked up from hanging around the people I do. Because, though that would make sense, I could not take any more time off school to recover from a sickness that was not improving at all. The school nurse told me that she could find nothing wrong with me, but suggested I go home for the rest of the day just in case. I did not get better and the local doctor told me the same thing, "spend a few days at home, but there does not seem to be anything wrong with you".
"Psychosomatic," I heard him say to my mother; then had to explain, "In her head. She should be fine."
Two weeks passed and my mother was worried. Hell, I was worried because I woke up and did not feel like getting up for anything. I slept in. Barely ate. The only time I felt vaguely human was the same time I felt like vomit was slipping up my throat; whenever my best friend came to visit me.
Wendy Testaburger is the kind of beautiful that leaves women gaping in awe. Well, the girls in school who are fucking jealous of her, anyway. 'She's not even that pretty,' they would bitch amongst themselves, 'She's striking. That's all. Too many sharp edges and spiky hostility, her sharp, angled personality printed on her large-eyed face.'
But that was bullshit. Sure, her face is made of angled, sharp planes, not classically gorgeous but attractive all the same. With eyes that dark, rich gold-tinted brown and hair so sleekly dark and long; she was the most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes on. And she is just short enough to pull snugly against me, head tucked under mine, and this makes me deliriously happy.
Her personality does not sit on the surface and shine through because she has not been that kind of person for years. On the inside she is so deeply, incredibly sweet and confused about herself, general outward confidence masking the blatantly depressed, lonely, self-worthless girl curled up within. Anyone can see she is gifted with a wicked sense of humour that she is proud of but does not like showing in public, a knack for codes and languages that she can never be bothered working on, a gorgeous laugh she is uncomfortable and self-conscious about and a love of subjects that allow her to express herself.
Though she never grew out of her love of books (nowadays she adores comics and such as well, especially real-life superhero ones) but when she reached high school she stopped with the whole debating thing because she felt too naked up there in front of an audience as herself, but kept up with the drama because playing someone that was not her both calmed and amused her. Music has soothed her for as long as she can remember, but sometimes she feels it is a chore to practice with her parents hovering over her shoulders. They do not like how she has stopped with the student voice deal because they want her to grow into politics when she has clearly grown out of that and into a love of art, and when you view her violent compositions you can clearly see her state of mind and discourage. She is talented as fuck, too, but she is talented as fuck at everything she puts her mind to — at least in my opinion — though she will never believe that.
And though it should not have taken me that long to realise, it finally occurred to me what was happening and I did not like it one bit.
Maybe this was a crush.
Maybe this is what it felt to genuinely like someone for who they are; everything about them, and not just their looks and superficial qualities, like it has always been with the boys. Stan is handsome in a cute, teen emo boy kind of way, Kyle a studious, glasses-bring-out-his-eyes type of adorable and Kenny like a swimwear model; fucking hot. Clyde is an all-round jock, Craig has the most gorgeous eyes, Token is goddamn ripped and, you know, you get it.
But Stan broods and Kyle whines and Kenny does not understand what fidelity means, and Clyde is stuck up and Token is possessive and Craig is a fucking emotionless robot — but Wendy? She is sweet, kind, intelligent, thoughtful, talented, feisty and argumentative and the epitome of passionate. But her bitter, nasty streak just adds to her charm. And the girl gets obsessed really fast.
Most of us expected her to grow out of her need for a cause like she did with everything else, but she gets so indignant and fiery whenever people are indifferent about issues she deems important.
For instance, when Stan crawled into her window during one of our sleepovers, and — completely forgetting I existed — managed between sobs to admit that he cheated on her and was in love with the other person, she was completely supportive. She was upset, but she said his happiness was more important to her and once she found out it was Kyle — because no one saw that coming — she jumped on the GLBT bandwagon and practically forced open-mindedness on the people of South Park. Just so her ex-boyfriend could be happy. But that is the kind of girl she is.
And me? Well I'm the kind of girl who took three sleeping pills and passed out when she thought she might possibly kind of been having, uh, romantic feelings for her best female friend. Who for all intents and purposes is asexual now, what with the whole "My first boyfriend who I have been going out with since third grade knew he was in love with someone else for most of that time… a male someone else…" thing.
Everybody knows Stan has practically been married to Kyle for that long anyway, Wendy was just in denial because she actually loves him and was hoping for any other outcome. No one else got to see her break down about it, though. No, that was me; arms wrapped tightly around an inconsolable noirette who took all night to get enough of it out of her system to actually turn up to school the next morning with a proud and happy smile for Stan and his newfound euphoria.
Cue my not impressed face.
Because no one fucks with Wendy Testaburger. No one deserves to be that close to her anyway because they sure as hell are not worthy of being in her presence. And it is normal for a best friend to feel that way!
Right?
"Oh screw this shit… I'm Googling it."
"Mmm?" Wendy makes a questioning noise in the back of her throat, not taking her nose out of the manga she has not-so-secretly propped in front of her science textbook.
Like I was really going to answer that with "Nothing really, just going to see if the internet can tell me if this tugging in my chest when I'm around you or thinking of you means I love you, or if I care for you a lot platonically and am being a prick." Pfft!
I shoot her another, longer look. So pretty with the sunlight streaming through my green curtains, turning her locks into a dark, glowing halo and making the lenses of her plum-coloured reading glasses flash. A dark angel bathed in evening mountain light, violet beret sitting askew on her head, fuzzy black arm-and-legwarmers pinned with metallic safety pins to the sleeves of her dark superhero t-shirt and the knees of her mauve-tinted jeans, her nails — where they peaked through her gloves as well as her currently bare feet — painted with intricate designs reminiscent of a group of Maine metahumans. She seems so studious but her cheeks are flushed, teeth biting deeply into her bottom lip and I am close enough to see her eyes bright with anticipation and vague embarrassment. She shifts in her seat and I decide that I really do not want to know who is making out with who in the latest volume of whatever she is reading (probably still something with vampires, though she would never admit she was into that craze).
Wendy flicks her dark eyes up to me, one delicate eyebrow raised, finally shifting her focus and snapping her manga shut. Her gaze makes me fidget slightly and I twirl my fingers through my blonde curls absently, wondering how she has never garnered this reaction from me before recently, when I know she has always been this way.
"You were going to Google something, Bebe? Sorry, I phased out there for a moment…" She giggles sheepishly and I cannot help the laugh that slips through my lips in return.
I shake my head, "Eh," — a shrug — "Nothing really. I'm just worrying about going back to school tomorrow, because even with you helping out I've missed three goddamn weeks!"
This time Wendy laughs, "Calm down! I'm supposed to be the hysterical one and I don't know how to deal with this! But honest, B, you'll be fine. I'm not even being biased this time."
I give her a sceptical look.
"Yes, really. I've helped you go through everything that you have missed and you're nothing if not quick to catch on. Plus the teachers at South Park High aren't the same intolerant douchebags as those from our elementary and middle schools. They know you've been ill and taken that into consideration."
"Since when can you calm people down, Ms Testaburger?" I snipe, softly amused; knowing. And knowing that the moment her calming presence is gone I am going to have a panic attack about that in particular.
She beams, "Since my dear friend Bebe ditched me three weeks ago and I had to learn how to be the "sober and sane" one in order to stop anarchy from ensuing."
"As if that could happen."
"You better have meant the anarchy, Bebe Stevens." she warns mockingly.
I shrug, "Take it how you will."
Wendy grins and as usual (recent usual), it does a number on my stomach and my chest starts up with the aching again. She slides all of her books back into her satchel, announcing that it is half past five and if she does not go home her parents are going to have a fit, and I pout at her and she scolds me for overreacting playfully, because pretending to be pretending is better than letting her see that I really do not want her to leave me alone with my thoughts, which will just revolve around her anyway.
She winds her arms around my shoulders, black fur tickling my neck and face as she squeezes. I twist around in my chair so I can wrap my arms around her waist.
"Bye Bebe, I'll see you tomorrow." Wendy offers me a reassuring smile and bumps our foreheads together softly, "You'll be fine. You trust me, don't you?"
"Nope," I smirk.
"Arse."
My lips tweak up at the corners, "Ya love me."
"You are so lucky I do. Same on this end, B." She slings her purple satchel over her shoulder, half-waves and leaves my room.
And I slam my head into my desk and breathe deeply through my nose as I attempt to ignore how that simple movement has sucked the warmth from my body and half of my thoughts from my mind. My heart feels like it is attached to her by a thick rope and every step she takes away from me makes the rope tighter and my heart tug towards her ever more desperately.
Oh God look what is happening to me. Just shit.
It takes me all of two minutes to start wondering if this feeling in my chest is actually love, or longing for the idea of it — which I have never been able to touch with the three boys I have seriously dated (you know, if high school dating can even count as serious) like that — or if I just care about her so much platonically that I can no longer tell the difference between that and the affection for my romantic partners.
Have I thought myself into this? Talked myself into these feelings? Am I that desperate that this has occurred? And I know I will just keep second guessing myself until I am in Wendy's warm presence again. Once back with her all I will be able to do is think of how gorgeous she is without trying, how amazing she is all the way through to her core. And I stop doubting myself and my feelings because there she is and look at her and wow. I kind of love her, I think, this crazy fucking girl, I think I'm really head over heels for her.
Never even a 'but she is a girl! And I am also a girl! And this is wrong and against nature!' moment. I would like to personally thank Mr/Ms/Mr Garrison for that one (which gender is he/she now? I forgot). Though I do not think it would have mattered either way.
I just hate how I can think so perfectly objectively and then the moment she walks into the room… the rose-coloured glasses slip on, I become putty in her completely oblivious hands. Just for the past week.
And that week turns into multiple, becomes a month, becomes Spring; slipping into an almost even cooler Summer, becomes three and a half months with nothing but this wretched longing and aching and stupid, stupid feelings of utter euphoria every single time I see her or I hear her voice over my phone or my mobile vibrates and I can feel in my bones that it is her.
It gets to the stage where the emotions are so commonplace I can barely remember a time before them, as if this was just the natural progression of my original friendship with her. Which is dumb. Because I have been friends with a stack of people for as long as I have been Wendy's, so it should not change anything.
But though I am still upset and angry and confused most — if not all — of the time, I know that this dull, wistful throb against my ribcage is kind of a blessing.
Wendy worries about me a lot, because she assumes that I should at least be wanting a boyfriend by now, but I know answering back with "Would you mind if I have you instead?" every time she brings up the subject is a sure-fire way to end a lifelong friendship. She has asked me a couple of times if maybe I would prefer a girlfriend, and it makes me laugh how my stunning noirette becomes so uncomfortable when it comes to sexuality and me. This is my main proof that if I ever did decide to tell her about my kind-of-maybe romantic attachment to her she would freak out and never come back. And I can deal with the consolation prize. Honest. I would much prefer to have Wendy as my best friend until one of us dies than have a passionate high school romance that ends in less than six months with tears and resentment and not being able to glance into her dark eyes ever again.
And if my body was not urging me to take her face in my hands and press my lips to her pink ones and screw repercussions, this situation would be a no brainer. I continue to mull it all over anyway.
Soon prom is coming around and everyone is freaking and Wendy is asking me with a sweet smile if I will go with her so she will not be lonely.
"You of all people know I'm not going at all," I mutter, but her wide eyes and pouty lips soon change my mind for me. I am helpless to resist her, actual love or no.
I pick her up and wonder aloud how impossible it is that no one asked her to the prom and she answers that several guys did, but she would prefer to go with someone whose company she actually enjoys, and otherwise the two of us would be completely miserable on opposite sides of the town. Of course I am touched, but still in awe of the fact a girl like her would rather hang out with me than, say, Clyde Donovan.
Wendy is wearing a simple strapless gown; multiple strips of silk in shades of purple are bound tightly around her breasts, folds of mauve silk taffeta dropping down to brush the snow, silver wedges only visible when she tugs at her skirts to climb into my mum's red Toyota Camry without draping the silky material into the slush on the side of the road. Her hair is swept up in an intricate coil with enough left free to frame her slightly dolled-up face. My brain stops working as I look her over, chest aching, eyes damp, throat dry, lips tugging up at the corners because look at her. And she's mine. Maybe not in the way I would like, but who the fuck cares? Look at her!
I stop doing so, because a second longer and she will tilt her head to give me an odd look that might just make me kiss her.
Wendy is grinning at me, her shoulders literally shaking despite the fact I turned the heater the whole way up. She waves me off when I mention it, so I grab my leather jacket from the backseat and refuse to drive until she shrugs it on with a vaguely amused pout. It is at least a size too big for me, so Wendy's hands are swallowed whole by the sleeves and it keeps wanting to slide off her slender shoulders.
That jacket is probably my favourite because it is ancient and soft but well looked after. My mum said it belonged to her brother, the only thing we have of him after he disappeared before I was born. Other than being too large, it is missing a button we cannot replace, the zipper catches and for the life of me I cannot get the scent of Craig's expensive cigarettes out of the leather but it really adds to its charm. Wendy makes a face at the smell, instantly recognising it, but she seems to agree with me on the charm factor. I giggle at her and she laughs with me and we enjoy ourselves with Jonathan Coulton blaring ridiculously loud from the speakers of the Camry. The air stays that electric and warm and bright until we get to our school hall.
And by "school hall" I mean "the youth centre across the road from our school because the school is way too cheap to build its own". Wendy jokes about it but sighs, and I know she does not want to have to deal with the people inside. But she gets out of the car anyway, slips off my jacket, smiling her thanks, and waits for me to lock the car before we head for the door.
The noirette halts me as we pass some blacked-out windows, and with a streetlamp behind us, darker, shadowy versions of ourselves turn to face us. She gives herself an onceover and I glance at my reflection. My mum made my dress, sewing being the one thing she is good at that she actually enjoys. It looks like a black velvet evening gown from the 30s that has been hacked so it comes to mid-thigh, and though I do not think the sleeves really count as such, my shoulders are not freezing. Thanks to knee-high boots and fingerless gloves that reach up above my elbows my limbs are far from frostbitten as well. Plus, you know, being brought up in South Park means being systematically desensitised to snow and general cold, bitter weather.
Wendy sighs, mist seeping from between her darkly stained lips and I rest a hand on her shoulder. She glances up at me and I smile softly, letting my hand fall back to my side before the gesture can be considered "lingering".
"You look stunning, Wends, as always. So stop it with your worrying."
She raises an eyebrow and gives me a look like I have finally cracked and therefore have no idea what I am going on about. "Yeah, not going to happen, babe."
"Oh don't 'babe' me Wendy Testaburger," I hook my arm though hers, "We are going to walk in there now, and you are going to smile and have a good time, okay?"
There is a darkly amused chuckle from behind us and I sigh heavily. Of course he snuck up on us, of course he is standing there laughing with all the knowledge heaven and hell can provide in his pretty skull, of course he is being an amazing ex-boyfriend by pissing the shit out of me at every damn opportunity.
I tilt my head to catch a glimpse of him.
Kenny McCormick is wearing an orange hoodie with a tuxedo printed on the front and the hood pulled up over his mess of spiky gold hair, dark jeans and scuffed orange converses. He is leaning back on his heels, hands propped behind his head like an anime character and an infuriating smirk gracing his lips just for me.
"She's heading straight for the punch bowl is what's happening, Gorgeous." He winks and strolls past us as I yell at him to never call me that, to which he just starts laughing again.
Once he is out of earshot Wendy whispers to me, "He really likes you, you know."
It is not a question, and the small smile she is wearing is forced, like she is giving advice that she knows she should but she does not actually want me to listen to her.
I scoff, "He's being obnoxious."
"Kenny is just pulling your pigtails. That is what he always does when he likes someone!" she snipes back, but she seems relieved, her shoulders relaxing.
She must not have wanted me ditch her for the night, I think.
"You don't get it Wendy; he is on purpose being a prick. Besides, he broke up with me." There is the kind of finality in my tone that even shuts my noirette up, she just laces her fingers through mine and starts off towards the hall.
We walk up to the entrance of the hall, where black pentagrams are pressed onto the back of Wendy's hand and above my left glove by the girls at the desk. Annie, — wearing a gold, sequined slip that matches her eyes — Becca — in a dark metallic-grey gown that brushes the floor and a black trench coat — and Powder — the practical one with a black hoodie and dark jeans, but with her hair up artistically and killer red pumps — are the unfortunate school committee members who drew the short straw and have to man the desk out front, making sure everyone who enters hands over their little green permission slip and is marked by the stamps left over from the Halloween dance (this is our school for you). They are all wearing black armbands with the school's crest printed on them which separate the committee members from the rest of us. Becca shakes her head at us with a sigh and the other redhead slumps in her chair as Annie chats about nothing while she marks Wendy and I off her list. Powder tells the blonde to shut the fuck up for once and waves us inside.
The hall is too dark to really see any of the decorations the committee has worked so hard on, the fluoro light display around the DJ splashing back against the gyrating dressed up teenagers on the dance floor. Wendy searches through the darkness and then brightens; she drags me over to the punch and fills up two flimsy plastic cups with dark red liquid. It looks like the raspberry cordial you give little kids, especially when the flashing lights shine through the equally red cups. The noirette pushes one into my hand, pinches her nose with her thumb and pointer finger and gulps hers down. Her pretty face twists in distaste and then smirks at me as she refills her cup.
I take a tentative sip of mine and I have no idea what is in there, but it is obviously about one part cordial to every ten parts random alcoholic beverage. Sometimes I hate my year, for managing to get half the students to spike the punch.
There is no way I am drinking it, and against my better judgement I hand it to Wendy who raises an eyebrow but keeps it anyway.
And I know this is going to be the theme of the night; me, trailing after my best friend who is slowly but surely drinking herself into a stupor. I can ask her to stop but she is not going to listen, I can rationally explain to her every reason why she has ever told me not to drink but she is just going to wave me off. I can physically pull the alcohol away from her but that would just result in her being pissed off at me and when that happens she leaves and does whatever she wants to elsewhere. And Wendy drinking and losing her inhibitions and whatnot elsewhere without me to keep an eye on her and watching her back? Not fucking happening.
I follow her; make sure she does not do anything ridiculously dumb. All night she avoids Stan and Kyle, who are blissfully unaware the entire time, and as it gets later she starts avoiding certain other couples, and then more of them, until she eventually ends up outside with her head pressed between her knees moaning about a headache. And how she is absolutely sure everyone else inside is amazingly happy, and yet here she is, drunk as fuck and miserable. And alone. Completely, utterly alone.
"Yeah, I know the feeling, honey." I sigh, finding it distantly amusing and sadly gladdening that she feels the same way I do.
It is actually really funny because alone is the opposite of what I am. I have a loving family and a stack of brilliant friends, even teachers I can turn to, yet I have no one to talk to. Not really. Not about this feeling in my chest that I am still not sure if I have falsely identified. I cannot tell a soul, much less the one soul I want to tell.
Wendy feeling the same hurts, but in a convoluted way it means I am no longer alone, and this is what makes the secret on my shoulders feel slightly lighter.
Putting an arm around her I ignore her swearing and ask her if she would like to go home. She shakes her head violently and then groans as the movement causes her to dry wretch in the snow next to us.
"No," she says when she can speak again, "I don't want to go home. My mum and dad would freak. Can I go home with you?"
I do not tell her that my intention was to bring her home with me anyway; I just nod, help her to her feet and comment with wry amusement on how articulate a drunk she is.
She tries to glare at me but seems to find it funny too, because she laughs and my heart swells.
We stop twice on the way back. Wendy pretends she did not vomit in a gutter twice during a ten minute drive, pretends I did not pull hair from her face and be comforting. She just climbs back into the car and looks ill and bitter. I really want to say something, but I hold my tongue and when we arrive I let us into the house and we are careful not to wake my parents up. Once upstairs, I hand my best friend a warm pair of my pyjamas, a glass of water and two of the super strong Aspirins and tuck her into my bed.
She tosses and turns but is asleep in fifteen minutes and I watch her from my computer chair like a stalker. It does not bother me how calm she is when she sleeps because Wendy has been my best friend since we were practically non-existent — I know what she looks like when she is asleep. So calm and sweet and vulnerable; definitely not the kind of expression you ever saw on awake Wendy Testaburger.
She mumbles and frowns a lot while she sleeps, and nearly every exhale sounds like a frustrated sigh. She is completely adorable. And I have always liked how she is not one of those silent sleepers, who even when you are directly next to them, seem more dead than asleep. My mum is like that, her chest barely lifts and she breathes quietly through her nose. Thank god she is so warm otherwise you would think she was a cadaver.
But Wendy is usually a relatively light sleeper. Unlike me she would rather go to bed and get up early, though calling her a morning person would be inaccurate. She is always tired, no matter how long or well she has slept, though to be honest she is usually mentally, not physically, drained.
I go to bed too late, sleep poorly, but am so used to it that I barely realise I am tired until I pass out. And I do not mind mornings as long as I can stay in bed for another five minutes.
Needless to say it is incredibly common for one of us to shift over in the middle of one of our sleepovers to find the other one staring at us with tired curiosity.
My mind wanders as I watch her, and no sooner has it trailed off does it return to her.
I start making a mental checklist. Now I am still not so sure the internet knows what it is talking about, but Google sure as hell is safer than asking anyone I actually know, and it is not like many of them know much more about love and feelings and bullshit than I do. Except the internet keeps going on about how you know if you love someone you are actually dating and nothing that applies to how you know if your feelings are genuine for someone who does not know how you feel. Plus it says that heart fluttering, sleeplessness (as if I can tell whether it is just me or Wendy-induced…) and nearly everything else I feel is more likely lust.
But, uh, ew.
For starters, I would not know how to go about it. More importantly, I think I would rather curl up with her and watch movies.
Which is tick one for "friend", the actual physical and mental symptoms a tick for "more than".
Seeing as I sleep terribly, I spend a lot of time wondering what the future will be like at night and all of those semi-dreams have been taken over by her (tick "more than") and I just generally cannot get her out of my head.
The whole "you can be yourself around them" thing does not apply in this situation seeing as I can be because I have known her for so long.
Yeah, this is not working. Screw the damn internet and all the people being fucktards on it.
Sighing, I focus on her again, and to me it is like divine intervention. Wendy shifts, yawns, ends up half biting her hand and she makes a cute face then rolls over again. I cannot help but grin and that is when I was gifted with my epiphany.
It suddenly occurs to me that it doesn't matter whether I love Wendy Testaburger as a best friend or more than that, because either way I know I love her and the rest will figure itself out. Because she smiles and it makes me laugh and she laughs and it makes my heart melt and she sings and generally speaks and fangirls and I die a little inside — in a good way — because she is so amazing and feisty and I love her to fucking pieces! I know that I am head over heels in one way or another and I am — this is — so selfish, but I adore her. And if I decide I love her as more than simply my best friend I will want everything to change (just because staying like this would hurt way too much), I know that being able to say she is "mine" in any context is enough for right now.
A/N: So much for me not adding to the Bendy fics without happy endings. *rolls eyes*
I am currently writing two optional sequels to properly wrap this up.
Thoughts?