Promises in Secrecy - Une
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Summary: "Does anybody love me?" "Yes." - In which writing on classroom walls can lead to falling in love. Austin&Ally. Auslly. AU. Three-shot.
Inspiration: Girls' toilets are really interesting. I know by experience that there are about five million & one things written all over the walls of it. Of course, you can get a lot of information from all these writings too but, it's always good to remember that we never really know who wrote them & the real story behind them. This fic is inspired mostly by that & I also got a prompt from this picture in Tumblr where someone wrote something on the wall & then another person answered so...
A/N: This is a gift fic to a very amazing author who's just so amazing :') Her name's KairiR5 & you probably already know her 'coz she is quite famous in this fandom ^^ But if you don't know her, go check-out some of her work 'coz they are pretty amazing :) Well, her birthday's at the 28th of August & since she wrote me a one-shot (a long one) for my birthday, I just want to repay her by this three-shot. & also, this is for a Twitter friend of mine who's so legit whose birthday was on the 5th of August ^^ This is for you Mary ;* Anyway, the idea's been on my mind for a long time now but I just really hadn't had the heart to write it out so, hopefully this turned out better than I hope. Reviews are very much welcomed ^^ Specially long reviews 'coz reviews make me feel special ^^ Okay :)
Disclaimer: If I owned Austin&Ally — which I don't — Dallas would come back to season two. But obviously he hasn't so, no. I don't own A&A.
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Does anybody love me?
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She's heard this lecture over a billion times and the last thing she needed was to hear it again. The last thing she needed was to hear that same old lecture about the hydrophilic head and the hydrophobic tail of emulsifiers — a lesson her classmates could never ever seem to get. She understands it more than enough and she's sick of listening to her teacher drag on and on and on about it. It's bad enough that they've already spent weeks trying to learn the difference between saturated and unsaturated fat — and now this?
(Her classmates were insanely slow but she figured that's what she gets for being so smart — not that she's bragging or anything.)
So she sat with her head looking out the window, not listening to a word her teacher is saying — and she's sure he doesn't mind because the man knows just how much she's got this whole lesson pegged — as she stared up at the clouds forming all sorts of shapes that she found somewhat amusing.
Her mind wandered off to everything. To her life, to her school life, to her dad in the hospital, to the fact that she still has to work at the Sonic Boom tonight despite the obvious possibility of her having a load of homework to do, to her best friend Trish and how she hasn't seen the Latina in days 'coz she's off to another one of their ever-so-traditional family vacations, to her long-time crush on the cute cellphone accessory guy called Dallas — to everything.
(She only realizes exactly how hectic her life actually is now that she's starting to dwell on it.)
And then the gaze of her eyes dropped down to the wall beside her. To that cream painted wall with small little cracks and petty subtle dents. The wall that's been there for years and years before her — probably having met life at a different generation — looking tattered and old and almost broken.
She takes a short glance to her right to see her lab partner fast asleep and then she looked up a bit to see what the teacher writing down notes to further simplify the lesson at hand. She let her coffee-brown colored eyes scan the whole classroom area, trying to take note of everything and anything her classmates did before she brought her gaze back down to that ancient wall.
And then, with a permanent black marker taken from her neat pink pencil case, she wrote on the wall. In black permanent marker she wrote the one musing that's kept haunting her at night, making it impossible for to find ease in sleep. She wrote in perfect cursive with the edges of her writing neat and undeniably clear. She wrote, not having a care in the world if she'd be damned for doing such a thing.
(Because even though she knows no one will answer her, it was worth a shot after all.)
Yes.
.
.
.
She blinked once. Then twice. And then another three times. Then she closed her eyes for five or so minutes while she bit hard at her bottom lip. But then when she opened them eyes of hers, what she thought would disappear — what she thought was just another vision of her dreams — was still there, all in it's blue-permanent-marker-glory, somehow taunting and mocking her.
(She wonders if this was just another dream but then she remembers falling off her bed this morning and jolting up awake and the whole theory just goes flying out the window.)
The word was written right below her very own black permanent marker question, written simply in single stroke writing — with it having a very trendy 'y' and a very small and lopsided 's'. It wrote over a small crack, passing some minor dents and it's bright blue shade highlighted the dirt and stains on the cream colored wall, completely tainting it.
She felt herself smile as she gently let her finger trace over the written word, her coffee-brown eyes dilating a bit with a slight gleam as warmth spread all over her body.
She wasn't necessarily and completely fooled by what may lay beneath to be another mocking joke by another heartless student but, somehow, she felt herself trust whoever this person was. She didn't think over the possibilities of it being written by someone she hated — maybe a teacher who's secretly punishing her for her crime or some guy who just wanted to play with her — no. She did not think over it at all because she trusted herself, her instincts and her very cliché belief in fate.
So taking out again her very own black permanent marker, she wrote in reply to whoever he or she was. Her writing was still perfectly cursive but it went a bit crooked as she couldn't contain the shaking excitement that ran through her whole body.
Once she was done, she smiled in satisfaction, feeling so much pride and joy in herself at what she had written down. Her musings had finally taken over her sane state of mind and she had written whatever her heart felt like writing and she hopes and prays — and in a very cliché way — wishes that the person indeed was a boy.
Who are you, boy?
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.
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There comes a point in time where popularity just doesn't matter anymore. A point in time where being so amazing with all your good looks — perfectly messy blonde hair and bright brown eyes; what more could you possibly want? — with your A plus grade and amazing athletic and musical abilities just isn't all that important anymore. Unfortunately, to this young man, it all never mattered in the first place.
But because he was after all an over-night internet sensation, the curse of fame and popularity never did take it easy on him. Least to say, wherever he walked — be it through the simple tiled hallways of Miami High or just down the corner of the street past his house — fame haunts him and follows him and stalks him with every step he took, bringing along with it the screaming girls and the very nosy boys with their cameras at hand.
(He never did find peace anywhere anymore.)
Just once he would like to be able to go through a class without girls whispering behind him of his amazingly Godly looks and sexy voice — though flattering, some murmurs did creep him out — or boys having to glare at every single move he made because they hated him and hated how he was pretty much at the top of all their games.
(Games which, mind you, he did not even know he was part of.)
So sometimes he found solace in Science class; the class in which he excelled the most at. He loved being there because in it, he was a genius and being the genius that he was, he's always one step and one lesson ahead of everybody else — giving him the perfect excuse to slack off yet not fail.
He likes to think and muse to himself during this class. He likes to let his mind wander off to the most random of things — from all his childhood memories, to the thrilling experience of performing, to the pride of being an over-night internet sensation, to the pointless yelling arguments with his father that would surface — to absolutely every little thing.
And sometimes, he liked to write on the desk, doodling to himself stickmen with air guitars and girls kissing boys and little lyrical snippets of all his favorite songs and the names of all the girls he thought were hot. His mind would drift off to La-la-land as his hand unconsciously scribbled down on the desk ingenious lyrics he never thought were ever good enough.
(The desk, it would seem, was more enjoyable to write on than any notepad or piece of paper.)
But this time, something else caught his eye. A little bit of black overwriting the blue with neat cursive writing against single stroke simple lettering. The words were blurry to him at first but then realization hit him as the cloud on his vision cleared and he could perfectly read what has been written down on that cream-colored wall.
He smiled a little to himself, taking out that favorite blue permanent marker of his before quickly scanning the front of the room to see if the teacher was looking. The coast was clear so he bent down a bit, his hands tingling with such excitement as his face heated up a bit. There was a little rush of adrenaline as he let his hand write off on the wall whatever the hell it was that came in mind.
And once he was done, he leaned back in total satisfaction, a huge grin plastered on his face while his eyes closed in eager happiness. The troubles had went away because even though he doesn't know who she is — he knows it's a girl just by the way she writes — her reply had become the splash of sunshine to his drizzling dark day.
(Oh, how incredibly poetic and clever was he.)
Peter Pan, girl. And I'm guessing you're Wendy?
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The response was not what she expected but her hearty laughter rang through the air as she felt her cheeks go red and hot when she read it. Her hunch had been right that he was indeed a boy and somehow, that one thought made her smile goofily for the rest of Science class.
She giggled a little to herself as she turned her gaze to look down on the blank piece of paper before her. Her hand itched to write a response to Peter Pan on the wall but the smart and right part of her conscience — and probably the only sane part of her mind — told her to worry about it later. That right now, she had this essay on Dolly the sheep to do and no other distraction was needed.
(It bemuses her, really, the fact that this Science class had suddenly took a turn from Emulsions to Cloning in just a span of three days.)
But then, she already knew all that there was to know about Dolly the sheep. She could breeze through this one task in less than fifteen minutes — because she was just that fast of a writer and just that smart of a person. And she'll probably have plenty of time to spare to write on that beloved — and now, perhaps sacred — wall of hers.
So, grabbing that slick black ball-point pen of hers, she wrote in her careful and neat cursive writing a very well-worded and a very well-punctuated explanation of her understanding towards the whole cloning concept of Dolly the sheep. Her mind aided her graceful writing hand with fast snippets of all she knew about said topic. And before any of her classmates could even catch a breath from their own essay, she was done.
After hurriedly finishing up her perfect — she likes to think it's perfect because she knows it is perfect — essay for Dolly the sheep, she read over it once before finding complete satisfaction in her very own writing. Standing up, she strolled over to the front of the room before carefully handing in her paper to Mr. Thomas Hayes as the middle-aged man smiled approvingly at her.
Her classmates groaned and snickered as she silently walked back down to her seat and somehow, she was able to tune out all their snide whispering comments of her being a nerd and her goodie-two-shoes attitude. Right now, all that mattered to her was to write down on that wall her long and thoughtful response to said Peter Pan.
She was keen and smart and therefore, she had the ability to think of two things even while she wrote. And in between her thoughts of the dreary and boring process of adult-cell cloning, she managed to find a very clever response to this playful and mischievous — she assumes he is playful and mischievous because he took the name of Peter Pan and everybody knows Peter Pan is not only known for never growing up but for also causing such mischief with his coy and childish play — boy.
And just like before, she took out her ever-so-famous permanent black marker and she bent down to write on the wall, her writing as neat and tidy as it has always been — and probably will be.
After what seemed like for eternity, she breathed out air she never knew she was holding in as she straightened her back up once again to sit properly on her stool. But she could never quite get rid of that fond and giddy smile she's got plastered on her face as she stared up at the front of the classroom.
(For in all honesty, the dull shade of green that was their board couldn't help but remind her of the clad of green leaves Peter Pan once wore.)
Yes. I am Wendy-lady who is so desperate to never grow up and & find that magical myth of a place called Neverland.
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.
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Before he walked in through the doors of his Science class, he has managed to bump into this strange brown-haired girl. One he's sure he's never seen before but in a strange — and undeniably pleasurable — way, she somehow felt familiar to him.
(And he's sure that there's something about the exploding trace of excitement that flickered through her coffee-brown eyes that just felt so perfectly fitting; perfectly fitting to the ticklish feel of fluttering butterflies attacking his poor stomach.)
But of course, he never was one to dwell so much on just one thing so just this once — or maybe, actually, this nth time — he'd let it slide.
So he squeezed right past through her, muttering a quiet and muffled 'Sorry' as he stumbled his way in through the classroom doors before he marched his way over to his designated seat, a wide grin adorning his boyish little features.
His whole entire face immediately lit up as he saw a new writing written right below his Peter Pan comment and he couldn't help but smirk a little as he thought back to all the reasons why he came to the decision of calling himself Peter Pan.
For one, he was childish and mischievous and dare he say it, clever. He also was one for not growing up and if he could, he'd turn back the time to three years earlier and stay that age forever. Third of all, he just really admired the kid — like seriously, he can fly, not grow up and kick them pirates' asses at the age of thirteen; what more could he possibly want?
(And the girl who he deemed as Wendy seemed very Wendy-like indeed.)
And because he wasn't one for all the sappy love stories of Romeo and Juliet or Cinderella and Prince Charming — or even Knight in Shining Armour and the lovely Princess — he figured the slight denial of Peter and Wendy's romance seemed to fit the current situation he had at hand.
(He's not sure if it'll make sense to anyone but him but it doesn't really matter now, does it?)
He saw it in a way that this girl was looking for an escape — an escape from whatever troubled life she may be living in — and he was there to coincidentally offer it. Because by the way she wrote that very first message, he already knew she was questioning the world she lived in. And he, of course, could be her beautiful escape.
(And plus, who ever said Peter Pan was completely happy living the life of never growing up?)
It never occurred to him once that this girl — whoever she may be — could be some nerd with so much spots on her face with braces and glasses to match or that she could be a blonde-haired beauty who can't hardly tell the difference from left to right or that maybe it's that one very corpulent girl he saw at the school cafeteria, chowing down all food laid on her plate before anyone could even start with theirs; no.
All he ever thought of as he once again responded to the wall — his blue permanent marker already gracing new letters down at that tattered cream-colored wallpaper (or paint, is it?) — was the fact that she wanted to get away and that he wanted to as well. The only thing ever crossing his mind was that she could be the Wendy to his Peter Pan.
(And at that, he promises not mind it one bit.)
If fairytales such as Peter Pan were real, I'd fly you there in less than a heartbeat.
.
.
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Her dad's not doing pretty well but she knows he's still smiling just to make it seem like everything's okay. She smiles back at him and grudgingly keeps her tears to herself because she knows that if she lets them show, it'd just make things a whole lot worse for the both of them. But, she never was that good at bottling up her feelings so, when the final bell for school rang, she broke down in tears right there in the middle of the school's hallway.
(She was thankful school was out and no one was there to witness her in such a pitiful state but, she kind of wished someone could at least be there to hold her and comfort her and make everything feel better.)
Her sobs were loud and they echoed across the whole hallway as her feet unconsciously started to move, leading her to God-knows-where. Her face was tear-stained with red blotches adorning her cheeks and her bottom lip was bleeding from her biting so hard onto it. She had her face buried in the comfort of the warm palms of her hands, her hair curled down and a mess, all tangled up as her fringe fell right before her — masking her crying face.
And the second her feet stopped walking, she found herself back inside her favorite Science classroom. The room was empty and the orange tint of the setting sun came blinding in through the glass windows. The walls all around the classroom was that pale shade of cream and she only now noticed how big and vast the actual room was. There were tears and rips found on the wallpaper and she can discreetly see that she was not the only one so fond of writing on walls.
Smiling a little to herself — with her breathing shaky and slow and a little ragged — she walked over to the board, reading the scribbles of different notes of different topics written all over the dull green surface of it. She ran her hand through the chalky writings and felt the white dusty texture stick to her slim little fingers. She sighs deeply before turning her focus back to the rest of all that was in the room.
And out of the corner of her eye, something bright blue caught her attention, making her do a head-snapping double-take as the smile on her face turned into a full-grown grin. Clumsily shuffling over to her seat at the back of the classroom, she grinned madly as she saw that Peter Pan had once again replied to her.
Reading his response, her grin dropped down into a small and bittersweet smile as she found it a little ironic the way he spoke the truth. It's ironic 'coz she obviously wishes he hadn't yet, she's thankful he's honest. It's also ironic 'coz she admires him for not being too caught up in the tangles of fantasy, even with the fact that she hated reality.
(It would seem that her feelings were the definite epitome of irony.)
But she doesn't hesitate to let all her tears out once she finally understood what he was implying. This time, she just shamelessly let the tears fall free as she closed her eyes tight while leaning her whole body against the comfort of the cold wall. Her hand touched the blue and black permanent-marker writings on the wall as her other free hand gripped the hem of her skirt. She choked in her own sobs and tears but she doesn't mind and she doesn't care the fact that she stayed there 'til nine o'clock at night.
(Because in all honesty, she'd rather express the truth of how she really feels to this God-forsaken wall — she thinks she's actually going crazy at the thought of this; really — than smile and pretend that everything's all fine and fucking dandy in front of her dying father.)
And that night, she doesn't visit the hospital nor does she spend it working late at the Sonic Boom. No. That night she went home, suddenly collapsing down at the front of the staircase the minute she's locked the door — not bothering about the fact that she had homework — as she lulled herself to sleep with that an unfamiliar humming tune stuck inside her head. That night, the only thing she bothered to remember to do was to write back to Peter Pan on their wall.
(And it's okay that she slept on their dusty, carpeted floor. Why? Well, 'coz in all honesty, that night was the only night she smiled such a blissful smile in her sleep.)
What are we, to each other, Peter Pan?
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Four months. Three weeks. Two days.
That's how long it has been since he first saw her writing on the wall. It's been that long since he first started talking to this stranger of a girl who he — quite exactly, he's still not sure how this came to be possible — has grown to love. And in that span of time, their conversations has gone from the topic of Peter Pan and Neverland, to the inevitable upcoming examination season, to the talks of princesses and prince charmings, to their endless and playful banter about each others' lovelife(s), to this.
The concept of their relationship.
What were they, exactly? They're friends (of course) but, what else? Are they something a little bit more than that or a little bit less? Were they best friends — 'coz they did tell each other almost everything — or were they something a little bit more intimate than just that?
They haven't seen each other face-to-face yet and they — somehow, after all this time — were able to avoid the topic of ever meeting each other in person. But, this doesn't mean he's never thought about it before.
Actually, he's thought of who she was. He imagined her to have beautiful long brown curly hair — just like Wendy did — and brown chocolate eyes that could possibly match his. He thought of her being this small and petite little girl with a very slim and skinny frame that made her seem so fragile as he felt himself scared of ever breaking her. He thought of her dressing like a princess with pretty frilly skirts and flowery tops and high-heeled shoes to match.
(And if he had to be honest, he wishes she was that girl he once bumped into that very third day they started talking.)
He contemplates on the fact that he hasn't seen that brunette girl since that one chance meeting they had and he begins to wonder if it all was just a dream. But then he glances at the wall and reads his reply to Wendy-lady that same day and it dawns on him that there was no way it could've been just a dream. That she was really there and he really saw her and it was reality and not fantasy at all. He knows this. He's pretty damn fucking sure of it.
And right now, all he wishes was for this stranger — owning that black permanent marker with the love for writing on walls and the craving for an escape from reality — and the girl with those exciting coffee-brown eyes and innocent cute little face to be one and the same.
That's all he really wanted. That's all he's right now asking for.
So with a mind made up and a smile like a smirk, he took out his good ol' permanent blue marker — with it's ink slowly fading away — and started writing down his most clever response to her yet.
(It makes you wonder though — doesn't it? — how after all their messages, there could still be space to write anymore.)
His hands were shaking in excitement — making his writing look a little bit edgy and crooked — as his little ol' heart started beating ten million times more faster than usual. His smirk grew into a wide grin and when he finally finished writing, he couldn't help but feel so much pride in himself.
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.
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I'll tell you when we meet in person. Deal?
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A/N: There was a poll on Twitter last week that I put up on which one-shot to work on & this one won. I was hoping it would 'coz I already had it started & everything but, it seemed to go on a little bit longer so I'm turning it into a three-shot & I'll try my best to post all of it's chapters up before September ends. & just a reminder that I'm still working on 'Like a Playboy'... I'm just taking a little bit of a break from it but I'll be back on track soon! So, erm, I hoped you like this & please review ;* I'll hopefully update soon! & oh, I'm sorry if the last few bits were rushed. I got, erm, kinda distracted. & I'm so so so sorry if I got a little bit too carried away with the whole Peter Pan thing! I swear I'll make it up to you all soon enough :)