Title: For All the Supernovae
Author: Summer [Indian Summer]
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or plot of Joan of Arcadia. I don't own anything under the stars that you could sue me for, at least not relating to this story.
Summary: It's the end of the summer, and one of Arcadia's newest couples is watching the stars.
Date Published: 07.16.2004
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Her understanding of a supernova only goes as deep as a website with a botched spelling of the word. She doesn't understand the reasons a core collapses, or how this relates to a neutron star or what a radio pulsar is.
But these are the things he explains to her as they sit out on her father's rickety old Adirondack chairs, their heads tipped upward as they look at the stars. He speaks excitedly of Kepler Star and the Crab Nebula and ROSAT, his voice penetrating the dark night.
She lets him talk, not feeling like telling him she couldn't care less about the Cygnus Loop and black holes, or that she understands them even less. This is comfortable to him, it's familiar.
So she sits there in silence for a couple hours, until she's sure she has an imprint of the wooden chair on her back. She knows other things, things that are more important than supernovas.
She knows that she's never done this before, never opened herself the way she has for him. She knows that she's falling, probably faster than the meteoroid he tells her is careening toward the earth right now.
And she knows that sitting like this, with all her muscles so tense that her neck is starting to hurt, isn't good for her. But still she sits, her hand in his as she concentrates on not trembling, on not letting him know how he affects her.
He squeezes her hand and points above them. Now he's talking about some Hertzsprung-Russell diagram, how the stars they're looking at are on the main line.
Or something like that. She's too wrapped up in the fluctuations of his voice, the feel of his skin against hers, to pay attention. It feels right.
This thought strikes her with as much force as a bolt of lightning right to her heart. This wasn't supposed to happen, she wasn't supposed to cave, to give in to him.
Instead of sitting here hand in hand with him, she should be inside, packing for the protest in New York on Tuesday. She should be ranting with her friends about how silly this kind of thing is, about how love doesn't exist. She should be arguing with her father over some trivial fact only a rabbi's daughter would know.
If there was one thing she shouldn't be doing, it was this. Sitting here, thinking about how right this was.
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There'd been plenty of chances to fix this, to turn in the other direction and never look back. After the kiss she could've insisted on walking the rest of the way home by herself, on pretending it hadn't happened. She could've told him she'd done it just to keep him quiet.
But she hadn't. Instead, she'd let the corner of her mouth twitch up into a small smile, and she'd started walking. She hadn't tried to shrug away when he wrapped his arm around her waist, and she'd actually leaned in toward him.
It wasn't one of her smartest moments, she'd admit it. They'd walked home in silence, and even kissed on her doorstep.
She'd come to her senses the next day, and even gone to his house to call it off. She hadn't wanted anyone else to see her, so she'd even resorted to climbing a tree outside his window. She'd never forget the way he'd jumped when she'd tapped on the window, or that stupid smile that had transformed his face seconds later.
Once she was inside, she'd started to tell him it wasn't going to work, that she wasn't just anti, that she was anti-him. But she'd found a smile forming on her own face, one of those big, teeth-bearing, flirty smiles the wearer can't control. And instead of standing up to him, instead of telling him off, instead of breaking his heart, she'd let herself kiss him.
She'd even sat down on his bed and tried to define their relationship. They weren't boyfriend and girlfriend, she explained, and she'd kill him if he ever used those words. They weren't in love, and they certainly weren't soul mates. She'd even made him promise not to tell anyone, again with a colorful threat.
And it had worked. They'd spent the summer as friends… who often kissed and held each other's hands. But still, they were just friends. She hadn't felt alone or like she was missing a limb when he went away for a couple weeks to camp, and she hadn't called him, or even emailed him.
So why, now, after keeping their relationship so casual for almost three months, did her heart race when he leaned close, or did her skin tingle at his touch? Why was he the last thing she thought of when she went to sleep and the first when she woke?
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He notices she's pulled her hand away before even she does. Her looks at her, a question in his eyes.
It's too dark for her to notice. She stares at the sky, unable to talk about it, unable to look at him.
He says her name softly, and when she doesn't respond, he reaches out for her hand again, and asks what's wrong.
She shakes her head. Nothing's wrong. "So what were you saying about the stars?" she murmurs, trying to clear her head of all these ridiculous thoughts. She is not that kind of girl.
He seizes on the question, rambling about how stars are like humans, how they have a birth and a death. How when they start burning hydrogen, they're real; it's like they've found a purpose. He tells her it's like falling in love, and he drifts off, leaving his words to ring in her ears.
She murmurs in agreement, and rolls her head against the chair, toward him. She says his name softly, something she's never done before. It's a subtle action, but he takes notice. He always seems to notice.
Her lips meet his and suddenly the stars don't matter anymore; the rest of the world caves away. Because even if the viewing of a supernova is as rare as he says it is, it's still not important as this. For each black hole in the universe, their kisses can plunge her into one just as large. And really, their lives are much more interesting than the stars.
As they separate, her lips curve into a smile and she looks at him. She's falling, and there's nothing she can do to stop it. And as much as she doesn't want to admit it, she doesn't want to stop it either.
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