a/n: so after some encouragement, I have decided to hop back into the writing field. be warned that this is the first time writing for this fandom after a long, long time, & it's Brucas. this story has a rainy essence to it. this is based on the early seasons of oth during their high school days. inspiration surprisingly comes from "Little Things" by One Direction, which is an excellent description of, in my opinion, Lucas's feelings towards Brooke at that point. enjoy, my lovelies, and don't forget to review :)
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Brooke's legs dangle across the pavement of the top of her rooftop.
Her smile is magical. It glistens in the darkness of their surroundings, as he joins his hands with her in the midst of the warm, humid summer air.
They sit in a comfortable, easy silence: her resting her head on his chest, clutching his shirt, him twirling her dark hair casually. He brushes his lips against her forehead, and watches the dimples on her cheeks form as she smiles fondly. Their legs are tangled, and the sweet warmth of her hand against his on this rainy night is blissful. "Be mine," he whispers into her cascading ringlets, smiling as he envelops her in a warm hug.
The calming lock of his fingers around hers lingers in the air, and he tightens his grip around her small waist and pulls her closer to his chest, so she can hear his heartbeat. "Someday, Lucas Scott," she promises, with utmost sincerity. "Someday I will."
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Autumn, the most magical time of the year, or so he's told.
They roam through the forest together, fingers loosely intertwined, searching for a good spot. It's been a while since they've last been alone, really alone, without the company of Haley, Peyton, or Nathan, and it feels good. He smiled when he saw her wearing his hoodie, which was a tad too big for her, and now, watching her shuffle through the fallen leaves while tugging on the strings, he can't help but smile again.
"What are we doing here, anyway?" she moans, eyes glittering with frustration and a hint of curiosity. He shrugs, not answering, and she growls.
"It's called a surprise for a reason, Brooke," he says, and she groans again. He laughs.
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Sometimes, he wonders.
He wonders if she knows that her eyes light up whenever he quotes Shakespeare, he wonders if she knows her smile sends little fireworks to erupt in his heart, ever so lightly. He wonders if she knows that his heart skips a beat every time her fingers intertwine with his (every single time). He wonders if she knows that her laughter is like music to his ears. He wonders if she knows he loves the way she flickers her long, long hair over her shoulder.
He wonders if she knows just how beautiful she is to him.
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"Do you ever want to leave?" she asks him once, when they're sitting on the seaside, away from the reckless bonfire party that all their friends are indulging in. He raises an eyebrow.
"You know," she elaborates. "Tree Hill. Do you ever just want to find someplace new? Don't you ever get sick of it?"
"The day I get sick of Tree Hill is the day you're not in it anymore."
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He watches her sleep, peacefully against his shoulder, curled up in his hoodie with long black hair cascading gracefully.
He kisses her forehead and intertwines their fingers. If he could stop time, he would, without a second thought.
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He rarely sees her cry.
But that's because she's usually all bright smiles and laughter, glimmering eyes and sly jokes, and sometimes she's so happy that he forgets she's actually capable of feeling pain. And whenever he sees her cry, he panics. Because he's not used to it. He's not used to her not being her cheery, happy-go-lucky self. But he doesn't say anything. He gently holds her in his arms and brushes her hair back. He rocks her back and forth and she clings onto his shirt, crying her beautiful eyes out.
Once she's done crying, she wipes her tears and gets up and politely excuses herself to the bathroom (which scares him even more). But he stays in his room and waits for her, patiently. He hears silent sobs in the bathroom and water running, and when she finally arrives, she stays silent for the most part. She only speaks to ask if he's okay with watching Kick-ass, which he agrees to, and she stays completely silent throughout the entire movie.
She doesn't laugh, she doesn't cry, she doesn't gasp or clap enthusiastically. She does nothing. Absolutely nothing.
But at the end when the credits are rolling and night rolls in, she looks at him and whispers, "Thank you for being there for me." Brooke doesn't look at Lucas when she says this, she stares at her perfectly manicured nails and sighs. In return, he hugs her.
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They're not perfect, not at all, not one bit.
They fight and they're fickle and they're both emotional messes, but for the most part, it's okay. But it's not okay when he finds her in her bathroom sink, with one finger down her throat, wet eyes and trembling hands. It's not okay when he sees the way her hands shake and body limps when she turns around and faces him. It's not okay when she falls to the ground and hurls once more into the plastic bag. It's not okay that he didn't realize any of this was going on.
But when he holds her and grabs her and hugs her, she starts hyperventilating and suddenly she's a crying mess again and neither of them are entirely sure what to do. He wipes her mouth and kisses her forehead. He wants to be mad at her. He wants to scream at her, yell at her, chastise her for being so reckless and selfish. But then he looks at her, sees how hard she's crying, sees the sheer pain and brokenness in her eyes, and when he hears her soft voice whispering, "I'll never be good enough," he stops himself. And then he holds her. He doesn't let her see the tears he sheds as he hugs her. He wants her to believe he's strong, even when he's not.
Eventually she falls asleep in his arms and he carries her to her bed and lets her rest there. He cleans up her bathroom and covers her in blankets and then sobs. He cries and cries and then suddenly he's absolutely aggravated and he punches the wall and screams and shouts and then falls back and cries again.
The next day, he drives her to the clinic and lets her stay there. He schedules her in for a therapist and when she objects, he looks at her sternly. "I'm doing this for a reason, Brooke."
She doesn't say anything, but she lets him write her name in splattered ink.
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"You wanna know a secret?" she asks. It's been a month. One full month. He stares at her.
"What?" he responds. She pauses.
"There's nothing beautiful about this," says Brooke. "It's all sick."
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He finds her curled up in a ball on her bed, covered in blankets, and he wordlessly hugs her. His polo shirt is stained with trails of her mascara, eye-shadow, and tears. He's never seen her so real, so raw, so heartbreakingly tangible. He watches her and holds her until she can't take it anymore.
She walks out the door.
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He doesn't fix her.
He tries and tries and tries and tries. He tries to pick up the broken pieces, tries so desperately to glue them back together with his poetry reading and kisses and hugs and she still doesn't budge. He thought he could restore her. He thought he could save her. But she's trapped, trapped and caged and stuck and she doesn't even remember what happiness feels like any more. Eventually, he realizes what she already knew. He realizes she doesn't want to get better.
"You'll never love yourself," he remarks, staring at her, but she doesn't say anything. She simply meets his gaze. "You'll never treat yourself right." He wants her to, though. He wants her to love herself, to realize how beautiful she really is. He wants it with every inch of his being, with every shred of his aching soul.
They're so hopelessly broken. They both know it. And it's only a matter of time before they crash and burn and incinerate. It's only a matter of time until he gets tired and he gets worn-out and she can't pretend any longer. They both know it. But nevertheless, she still crawls onto the couch and rests in his arms and pretends that nothing's broken, and lets him read sonnets to her as she drifts to sleep.
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"Be mine," he tells her, staring into the moonlight, on the rooftop of her house once again. She rests her head on his shoulder, linking their fingers together.
"I already am."
a/n: reviews are love.