Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot.
A/N: please be nice, this is my first fic...
"Summer, what the hell are you doing out here?" She briefly acknowledged his presence, shrugging before her gaze returned to the sky.
"Summer, it's about eight degrees out here." She shot him a look: they both knew he was over-exaggerating, but still. "It's cold."
"No it's not," she replied simply, but her body's arrangement suggested otherwise: she had curled herself into a form resembling the fetal position, having drawn her knees nearly up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them to keep them in place. Her toes, probably bare, were hidden under the hem of purple pajama pants, and her hands had been drawn inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt.
He raised an eyebrow, wrapping his arms around himself and stepping down the extremely short flight from the porch to the patio.
Her normally straightened bangs were extremely curly, and the rest of her permed curls were still half-wet and spilling over her shoulders. "The stars are pretty," she offered, her eyes fixed upon said subjects. He shrugged, glancing upwards, nonchalantly taking a step or two closer to her. Was she really out here in the freezing cold for the stars?
"Could you shut the door?" she asked. "The light makes it hard to see."
"Oh, sorry." He quickly complied, and when he returned was a step closer than originally.
"Do you think he meant all those things he said?"
The question surprised him. They had been silent for the last fifteen minutes, maybe more, just looking at the stars. He had long ago sat down, knowing she would eventually want to talk: anyone else would be too preoccupied with their own lives to notice that she—their host—had chosen to retire early, and would be therefore unavailable to lend a supporting ear. (He had hoped he could fill the role of best friend for at least a little while.)
"All those things who said about what?"
"Zack. About…her."
He sighed. Should've known that was what drove her out here to sit in the cold. A stupid English assignment ("10 Things I Like (About You)",) that had surprisingly made everyone spill their guts. Zack had been one of the few Mr. Callahan had forced to read their work aloud, and his list had been unmistakenly about Katie. "Possibly… Probably."
She sighed, her gaze now past his shoulder, towards the garage. "So I pretty much have no chance with the boy."
"I wouldn't say that exactly…but you'd have to wait a while." He shifted, trying to find a place to keep his hands warm—his sweatshirt's pockets just weren't warm enough.
She sighed again. "Why do I always seem to fall for the boys who don't like to recognize my existence?"
"He recognizes your existence, he just—"
"Likes to recognize hers more." He rolled his eyes. She never seemed to want to believe that rather than someone being too good for her, she was too good for that someone. (As such the case with Zack.)
He was about to say something to that effect—had his mouth open and everything—but she interrupted. "You know what's funny though?" He quirked an eyebrow to show his interest. "I didn't even write mine about him."
Now his eyebrow was quirked in question. "You didn't?"
She gave a short laugh. "No, I didn't." He could finally detect a smile in her voice, which made him smile in return.
"Well…who did you write about?"
"You."
His eyebrow could not possibly go any further. "Me? Why?"
She was getting awkward again. "Well…I had just been talking to you on the phone…and I had been noticing how much Zack and Katie were flirting, so I was kinda mad at them…and…voila. I wrote about you." Her fingers had reached her hair, twirling it.
"What did you say?" He didn't feel it was that important to mention he had written about her as well, and he had had every intention of doing so from the beginning.
"I don't remember everything verbatim, Jones," she said, sounding exasperated.
"I was just wondering," he defended.
She chuckled at him, then proceeded to walk him through her list, ticking off each item on her fingers, and pausing in between each to think.
"Ten things I like about you… Well, your Freddy Mercury impersonations are quite spectacular. I think my favorite is when you sing 'Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy.'"
He grinned, proud of himself. Queen had become one of his favorite bands, having finished his "punk" phase back in middle school, and Queen was about third on his list: first, The Who; second, The Clash.
"…Your smile is just a tad bit crooked."
"It is?" He had never noticed in his seventeen years that his smile was crooked.
"Yeah. The right side of your mouth pulls up just a bit more than the other."
He was pleasantly puzzled that she knew little facts like this about him.
"Oh, there's the way you over-exaggerate the Scottish accent when you impersonate Leonidus."
"I do not!" he defended. He prided himself on that accent: he had spent possibly a week memorizing 300 and perfecting that accent.
"Yeah, you do. But it's not your fault. Gerard Butler totally does it too."
He rolled his eyes and let her continue.
"When you're lying, you stop fidgeting and avoid eye contact."
That wasn't really a large surprise to him; he knew his tells, and knew that he needed to work on them if he ever intended on playing a good game of poker.
"Your hugs are of the awesome variety." He laughed at her phrasing.
She started on the other hand. "The fact that while you hardly know any good Beatles songs or anything, you can imitate a Liverpool accent perfectly."
"What can I say, love?" he asked, performing said accent.
"See? Like that! You sound just like John Lennon!"
"He was the drummer, right?" he asked, just to spite her.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You know who John Lennon is."
"But making you mad is just too fun."
She had become a die hard Beatles fan since fifth grade, and owned what had to be every single Beatles CD in production (along with their solo albums,) knew all the words to everything, positively adored every bit about the group, and was constantly wishing she had been born in 1947. Shaking a fist in his general direction, she continued with her list.
"You have very nice hands."
This comment puzzled him, and he stared at said appendages: to him, they were nothing more than the extremely callused, stereotypical drummer-hands of a guy.
"But they're always cold. Even in the summer."
And, apparently, poorly circulated.
"The way you always yell at the end of a movie if it doesn't end the way you want it to, even in the movie theater."
"It's not my fault if their endings suck and I have to point it out."
She shook her head, smiling, and continued. "You're totally unafraid to be my friend, even when I'm bitchy."
He shrugged, in a vague attempt to apologize, although he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for.
She was on her last finger now. "And…you always seem to make me smile. Even if it's just by like, showing up."
"Aw, now I'm blushing," he replied, somewhat sarcastically, but he really appreciated the fact that he made her happy: it didn't seem like many people were able to do that for her.
They were silent for a few more minutes, their breath clouding the air in front of them.
"So, Freddy Jones, who did you write your list about?"
While he had been dreading that question, he wasn't really prepared for her to spring it on him. But he only dropped half a beat and replied, "Why, I wrote mine about you, Summer Hathaway."
It was her turn to be surprised. "Me? Why?"
"Is there an echo out here?"
They laughed, and she realized it was his way of avoiding answering the question. As to why, she quickly realized that would be a fruitless battle, if he put his mind to it. She changed tactics. "Well…what'd you say?"
He sighed. "You're going to make me list everything, aren't you?"
She shrugged. "It's only fair." He sighed heavily again, then held up his fingers.
"Alright…so…let's see. Uhm…you bite your nails when you think no one's looking."
She laughed a little, growing awkward again and examining her fingernails. "Yeah…" Her hand retreated again to play with her hair. Noticing this, he smirked.
"You play with you hair a lot. As in, all the time. Usually your bangs." She noticed her hand, and sheepishly returned it to her sleeve. He laughed at her.
"The way you say ice cream, or any other word with the same emphasis on the r."
"Ice cream?" She had her eyebrow raised.
"Yeah! You have an accent, I swear! But…it's cute, don't worry."
"Cute?" Shit. He did just say that, didn't he?
He did just say that, didn't hee?
"Shh," he said, glossing over it, "I have a list to complete." She just rolled her eyes at him and smiled. He continued. "Speaking of lists. You make lists everyday of things you have to complete, and more often than not you actually complete everything on that list."
She grinned sheepishly. He knew the story: her mother had started her on that habit when she was young, and it had stuck through until now and would probably do so for the rest of her life. "I'm just amazed that you're that dedicated to maintaining your schedule."
She shrugged, a "what-can-I-say?" expression across her features.
He ticked off another finger. "You hate the name your name implies, even when most normal teenagers are ecstatic by the time it rolls around."
She got defensive. "I have nothing to do in the summer! I can't make lists of things to do if I have nothing to do!" He only laughed, shaking his head, and continued.
"Your car. It is the only place you allow even the slightest messiness."
Slight meaning dirt in the carpet, or her backpack thrown haphazardly into the backseat, or the pell-mell of napkins and documents in her glove compartment: she would never go as far as to allow trash to fester in her car. That was unacceptable. She never allowed anyone beside herself to eat in her car, and barely allowed Freddy in at all, particularly after seeing the state of his car.
She shrugged. "I just never get around to cleaning it thoroughly." He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, so I never really want to clean it. It's so awkward, cleaning a car!" He laughed, trying to remember the rest of his list in between this and the last point.
"Oh, when you sing the Beatles! It's the only time you're not off-key."
"Hey! I resent that!"
"But I was complementing you!"
"But you're implying that I'm a horrible singer anytime I'm not singing the Beatles!"
"'Cause you are!" She pouted. "You can't deny it, Summer. Why do you think Dewey made you band manager instead of back-up singer?"
She pouted further, but then smiled a tad bit. "I am pretty horrible, aren't I?"
He raised his eyebrows. "You had to ask?" Smiling, he sat back and thought for a bit. "Oh! You own a cat who doesn't hate my guts."
She laughed outright. "Will you get over Kate's cat? It is not out to get you!"
"Yes it is. It is the devil cat and out for my soul. But Sunshine actually likes me. As in, she is affectionate and doesn't try to kill me when I touch her."
While she continued laughing, he recalled the last item on his list, before he really got himself in trouble. "You smell really nice. Always. Your hair…like your shampoo, I guess, and you in general, like…something fruity?"
"It's Magnolia Blossom." She received an eyebrow for her information. "My body wash."
He nodded, grinning at himself. "Nothing like fruit at all."
She shrugged, then curled deeper into herself as a cold wind passed through. "What's the last one?"
He was almost afraid of his last one. It was…rather personal, when he thought about it. "Well…um…just…everything."
Her face read of puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
He took a deep breath. "Well, you're amazing, and you're beautiful, and you totally deserve better than Zack if he's just going to be in love with Katie, and—just—" He made an exasperated noise. He was this far gone; he might as well go all the way. "You wanna know why I wrote about you?" He shook his head, then threw it back, his breath clouding the stars. "Zack is good and all and I suppose Katie's alright, but…you're the one who's on my mind all the time."
Avoiding looking in her direction, he closed his eyes, head still thrown back, waiting, praying for a response, but he wasn't exactly expecting to feel her cold hands on his, or her hair tickling his face. Opening his eyes, he found her leaning over him, an expectant smile on her face. Her scent was nearly intoxicating—
"What do you think about me, Freddy Jones?"
"I don't know…stuff?" He felt a tad bit nervous with her this close to him, especially when only minutes ago she had been talking about her affection for one of his closest friends.
Her fingers twined with his. "What kind of stuff?"
He glanced at their joined hands, or what he could see of them through her curtain of hair. "You're not just rebounding, are you? Because Zack won't have you?"
Her fingers clenched tighter. "No, because…I want you. I mean…you're probably the closest friend I have, Freddy. And you'll have me just the way I am." Her weight settled into his lap: he was watching her every move out of the corner of his eye. She leaned forward, and their foreheads almost touched: he couldn't help but lock eyes with her. She leaned down, slightly, and their lips touched briefly, in a rather chaste kiss. "Plus," she murmured, "I seem to have this thing for drummers."
"You did always like John best," he replied, a smirk crossing his features.
He caught her in another kiss before she had the chance to be offended.
A/N: I hoped you liked it. A review or two would be nice?