A/N: What can I say, I just couldn't stay away. :)
Disclaimer: I do not nor will I ever own Victorious. Or Greek myths.
Lyrics belong to the Script (For the First Time), title belongs to Smashing Pumpkins. Ohh and a line was taken from Tron: Legacy. Guess which one.
Enjoy, and please review. I love feedback.
The Killer in Me is the Killer in You
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Only doing things out of frustration…
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"I hate you."
"Me too."
She's thrown against the wall, his roughness riveting across her spine in silent waves. He marvels in the way her body rusts against his. It's the moment where they forget they're both misfits. Their damp, damp clothes fuse together with their cold, cold skin, his fingers gliding over her ribcage like sulfur. It seems as if the rain won't ever let up, but then again, it didn't seem as if it would rain to start with.
She tastes of cinnamon cuts and coffee photographs, and smells of black snow. He knows the shape of her mouth, but she knows the imprint of his hands.
"Let's knock on the sky and listen to the sound."
The rain drops unearth secret symbols and codes painted across their tissues, tongue twisting messages splattered across the pavement. And all that matters is the way she drills her teeth into his lip and the words of nonsense escaping their throats.
Before long, his mouth is drooling crimson blood. Jade steps back for a moment to revere her work, letting the rain blend in with the incisions.
Her grip on his arm gets that much tighter and he savors the way her charcoal nails hammer into his veins. He's left with a mouthful of illusions that he just can't bear to swallow.
Her eyes can't handle the sight of his for fear of his questions. Because the solace she had found in them before was all but gone and replaced with a mantra of lilac dismay.
His hand rises to rest on the slick wall that had so bravely supported them. She nestles her head on his chest, the clouds in her thoughts silencing the sound of his heart. She knots her fingers in his, their white picket fence latching closed.
They always said that together, time stopped. Guess it finally caught up to them.
Her breath mixes in with his muggy clothes and she wonders why the perfect merge of Beck and Jade has melted away. He feels the scent of her skin leave his fingers and be substituted by the cold feeling of being alone.
On any other given day, he would have chased after her and pried his way back into her heart. But no amount of God forsaken love songs will bring her back. So he settles on humming to the melody of her fading steps, pencil drawn beats branded into his palms.
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Saying things we haven't for a while…
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She drove him out of her mind.
He coerced her out of his heart.
They accused each other of larceny.
They've grown, though, and left behind everything modern for everything vintage because that's just what college graduates do.
They bump (jolt) into one another during rush hour. Their eyes lock in front of a car full of train riders, her young face clashing against his fatigued one. She lights up with the same spark she swore she never had, but he had no need to.
She was always present in his sight.
And it's awkward because they shake hands like they don't already know the texture of each others calloused fingers.
He smiles and she grins, the bullets of past lovers eating away at their seams. Pedy conversations begin about her success in life and his success in muscle tone.
Nothing else has built up strength for him, babe.
Snap shots of their past also come up and how money suddenly became so fucking vital.
His eyes wander to the woman in the business suit cursing at the little peppermint girl grasping her hand for smudging her grimy little fingers on her glasses. It'll work out, just like in Sesame Street. People will laugh, but she'll have a happy ending. Everyone just has to.
Then, he is informed that they're nearing her stop as he tries vigorously to memorize her shoes and pants and the seat she's sitting in. He makes up his mind to follow her; to her house, her job, or Medusa's lair if necessary. Because he's certain that they have gazed on the same moon, wished upon the same star, and have been mesmerized by the same ballad.
She digs through her bag and pulls out a shard of notebook paper. In her messy handwriting, she scribbles something across it and slides it toward him. A street name and number are printed on it and, for some strange reason, his face falls. Because he finally notices that she'd not holding a two sugar coffee next to her lips.
Her hand grips his yet again and stays frozen, forgetting about the up and down motions they were destined to follow.
"Ten o'clock?"
"Ten o'clock."
-:
But we're gonna start by drinking old cheap bottles of wine…
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Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.
His cheeks flush red in shame because he seems to have forgotten how to walk.
And how to breathe.
He's embarrassed that his hands are spiraled around a cheap ass bottle of champagne just because his finances have been totaled for months. He cannot afford the blunt tip, shiny shoes he looked at his reflection in as a child. His steps don't sound like taps on glass, but more like worn out All Stars, cause it's what they are.
He's sort of, kind of, possibly panicked because he's not the person she remembers. He is not the knight on a white horse she recalls. Truthfully, he never was. And he's no longer confident or righteous or at ease.
His anxiety levels reach an all time high when he senses the door unbolt underneath his fingers. There's no turning back. The marble pillars surrounding him cascade down onto him when he realizes that there will be no loving applause from adoring peers to settle his storm.
And so he enters her home, greeted by various shades of blue and red and purple. He can't help but to ponder as to where was the black.
He strangely holds out the bottle to her, like a boy handing his mother the frog he trapped in their (yard) swamp.
She thanks him -mouths it really- and enters the kitchen, urging him to follow.
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We're smiling but we're close to tears…
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By this point, she should at least be tipsy.
She always was before.
The red wine dances around in her glass in a whirl pool of forgotten emotions and dead defenses. The champagne didn't suit her tastes, and she was sure to let him know it. His drink lay motionless, the eerie sound of guilty verdicts ringing from its speakers.
His legs dangle freely from the bar stool and he finds it soothing to see hers are too and it's not that he's just short. Her mouth is moving; speaking words of mastery and not-so-much macabre art. He mutes out the sound of her voice and focuses solely on his twitching hands.
She knows he's not listening and she giggles at his disassociated mind. He's kind of elated and he smiles, if only to assure himself that the world is still a happy place.
He just has to find it first.
She flicks a strand of her obsidian hair back as he notices that that may as well be the only part of her that stuck around. Then, for just a second, he sees the glint of sarcasm that tortured him throughout high school and he knows that she's still the same.
He's just blind.
He finds himself paying more heed to her movements than his own because frankly, he can't feel shit. He ends up running over his glass, staining the counter top and his charisma. She strangles back a snicker with another sip of her wine, his blunders always a riot.
A knot catches in his throat when he understands that she's the culprit for all of his lapses of judgment. He asphyxiates on it when he discovers it means nothing as long as he'll get to hear her laugh again.
-:
Sit talking up all night…
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She's still is not drunk when they initiate talk about tarantulas and the uncanny peeping tom down the hall.
Beck is almost positive it's Sinjin.
Gradually, his shoulders relax, the black gold drowning them drained lethargically. The massage of her gaze is enough to cure his unbending tension. His fast pace gyrating theories slow to a few comfortable twirls, the raging inferno within them extinguished. He's chuckling along with her and remembers to overlook his oh so important audition the following dawn. Because he's Beck and she's Jade and just maybe, together, they can make magic once more.
Her lips would tattoo examples of his immaturity and childish ways on his flesh and he'd relish in her acid pain. His toes would delight in quick butterfly kisses with hers, labeling hearts in places she didn't know could even hold hearts. She'd make him fly again.
But then, the wind beneath his wings would give way and he'd plummet four-thousand feet back to where he is now.
Cause life's a bitch.
And so he is going to be a good little gentleman and hear what she has to say.
He watches her eye lashes flutter every time she blinks and speculates as to how many times she's fought back tears. His eyes redirect toward the clock on the far side wall ticking away, his third grade lessons on the position of the big hand and small hand utterly ignored.
"Hey, what time is it?" He should have known better than to start a question with hey.
She gives him an odd look because she's having a good time and doesn't give a fuck and questions why he does. Quickly and quietly, she lectured him on reading a clock.
Soon, he can tell that it's 2:57.
-:
We just now got the feeling that we're meeting for the first time…
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Motives were bountiful in the air, their fragrance thick with cryptic sequences. One such thing that has absolutely no reasoning behind it is why in the hell they are strewn across her family room carpet, along with his shoes. Perhaps they are still children after all. And it doesn't matter. They liked it better being teens, anyway. There was simply nothing to worry about. Except graduating. And parents.
At first, her father was opposed to her high school romance. True, he had considered Beck a no good man whore, but, he just despised that his daughter had another man (boy) to lean on. His anger was then promptly directed to her piercings.
Firefly memories cloud his vision, biding him to remember. And he does, only because he's far too tired to fall asleep. He recalls a time when he was unwillingly named Perseus.
She was –is- his Andromeda.
Because their love story was built for the big screen; scripted and unpredictable. Damn Romeo and Juliet, because at least they didn't die in the end.
Though, he would, for her.
"What happened to us?"
"It started to rain."
He turns to his right and eyes her and all of these boarded up emotions break loose. Adoring purple butterflies flap their little hearts out with humming birds of invisible lies. And abruptly, he feels like Jade and Beck have a chance and Beck and Jade will reign over Hollywood (Arts) yet again. Because maybe, the Pandora box has finally been closed.
But he realizes that bibbidi-bobbidi-boo won't work on them when he skims over the engagement ring coiled on her finger.
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Fin
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