Author's Note: Okay, so I didn't realize how addictive this fandom could be for writing fiction. So many little ideas began to spring into my head after my first piece, and I had to get at least one out of my brain! This takes place sometime between the first few episodes, in the time before Violet and Tate started getting serious. I like to think about them just hanging out and bullshitting as teenagers are wont to do.
Hope I'm getting them right. They're both really interesting to write for. They kind of make me feel like an asshole.
Review if it suits you, I'd like to know what y'all think!
Cough into Your Sleeve
The melancholy lilt of Greg Laswell is their anthem on this day, a little more modern than their typical choice of Cobain or some other alt 90's whiner. Violet's always taken aback when Tate has never heard of certain artists in her queue – she doesn't know why she's surprised, she listens to some pretty off-the-cuff stuff, but she just involuntarily assumes he's gonna know everything about the same things she knows everything about.
It's stupid to think that. They've only started hanging out again within the last couple weeks. But still, he's just got this way about him like he's got the secret to everything that ever was. Maybe it's because he's older than her, she thinks.
But Tate's got his eyes closed and seems to be enjoying the sullen guitar riff with the air of someone trying to truly appreciate a novel thing, and Violet feels a beam of pride zigzag through her that she's shown him something new.
"I like this," he voices, cracking one eye open to watch her watching him. She looks away and nods as she tries to hide a smile. "Mellow. It's calming, I like that."
"Yeah, it's cool," she plays it off and shuffles over to the bed where Tate's prone figure lies horizontally. His knees bend over the edge of the mattress, his chucks hanging off at his heels. He looks so comfortable; how can he be so comfortable lying on her bed like that? She has jitters just looking at him, him on top of her covers like he's not a boy in her room.
Tentatively, Violet settles a proper distance from him and reclines in parallel to him. He doesn't flinch or even glance at her, still lost in the soothing tones. Violet folds her hands over her stomach and allows her lids to fall as she envelops herself in the music, too.
She remembers days like this in Boston, just like this, but she was alone then. Very alone. She forgets he's there, a little bit, and exhales softly with nostalgia overcoming her.
"What's with that?"
Violet opens her eyes and turns her head to look at him, and she turns a bit pink at how intently he stares. "What?"
"The sigh. You bored?" He moves to sit up, but when she shakes her head, he just rolls his shoulders into the mattress.
"Nah. Just thinking about stuff."
"Like?"
"Before I was here. I used to listen to music alone in my room a lot."
He snickers softly, and her eyebrows crease in question. He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, 'cause you don't do that now?"
His teasing draws a tiny laugh from the back of her throat and she turns her face away from him. "Shut up, you know what I mean."
"I don't, though," Tate's voice is sincere, it's like a switch, and Violet looks back at him. "Tell me about it."
Violet shrugs and makes a face. "Nothing to tell. When things really got bad, I'd just crank up the most morose shit I had on my iPod and just lay there. For hours, sometimes. Like this." Her hand lifts from her stomach vaguely, and she doesn't see him look down at her ribcage, and lower.
"Would you fall asleep?"
She shakes her head. "No. Just think about things."
"Like this." He states, and she nods. The quiet settles between them as AIR drifts languidly from her speakers. Her eyes close again, but she can still feel him looking at her. Finally, he asks, "You ever been to a therapist?"
Violet peers and searches his face with uncertainty. "Where did that come from? You think I'm that weird?"
His chuckle is a short sound and he squints at her. "Uh, yeah, maybe. You ever?"
It's her turn to roll her eyes. "Whatever. Yeah, sure."
"Really?" His interest perks and he lifts himself up on one elbow. "What for?"
She's sure he's so curious to find another common source between them, because she feels it too. "It wasn't anything, like, big. I had to go 'talk' to someone," she affects with air quotations, "After that whole thing with the miscarriage."
"Oh." Tate sounds a little deflated, but he's still half-sitting upright, looking down at her. Waiting for the continuation of a story she really hadn't ever bothered to tell anyone. She didn't find it that interesting – why should he? But she resumes just to appease him and his hungry eyes.
"Dad thought it was best for me to go. He and mom went to talk to people, too. It was such a crock – I had two sessions a week for two and a half weeks. I ended up bailing on the last two." Violet looks up and across to meet his gaze with a crooked smile. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not a very good sharer."
"I never would've guessed," he in-tones, and she huffs a small laugh. "What about the second time?"
Violet purses her lips in a thoughtful glower. "My parents were thinking about divorce, just before they decided to move here. Or mom was, anyway. Her lawyer recommended sending me to counseling beforehand. All it was, was a bullshit way for them to try to make themselves feel better. It wasn't for me."
"What makes you say that?"
She stares hard at the ceiling and hates rooting through these memories. They still burn inside, not like the silver little slices up and down her arms that are dead and numb now. The urge to bolt for the bathroom makes her itchy all over, and her foot twists rapidly at the ankle in an effort to alleviate her discomfort. "I don't know. I think it made them feel like they were actually addressing a problem instead of making some fake, cop-out play. But that's all it really was. It didn't do shit for me." Violet hesitates, then shrugs. "We still ended up out here. Things are still pretty fucking broken. I don't know."
His hand moves over the one she had left fallen upon her bedspread, and his fingers are so warm around hers. Tate's grip is gentle, but firm, and she blushes when she looks up at him again. He's frowning at her, in concern, and in pity. It makes her tummy rumble.
"I'm really sorry, Violet," he says so softly her armhairs stand on end.
Her eyes are wet and she grimaces then looks down her body at her knees. She doesn't say anything, just lets him inspect her knuckles fixedly. Eventually, when her throat decides to cooperate and the corners of her eyes dry up, she wonders, "What about you?"
"What about me?"
Violet looks up at him, he's relinquished her hand, and he rolls over on his stomach, inadvertently (or perhaps purposely) shifting minutely closer to her in the process. She lifts her head to toss her hair out from under her neck. "How many therapists have you been to? Is my dad the first?"
The expression on his face is truly unreadable. Violet cannot discern it whatsoever. It should unnerve her, but it only fascinates her. "A few," he permits after a pregnant pause, and that's it.
She's not satisfied and she lifts herself up from the waist, propped up on both arms. "Well, then why are you seeing my dad?"
His eyes snap over her, and she's alarmed to see him glaring at her. That look is unfitting on his features, usually so kind and imploring and inquisitive when looks upon her. "I don't want to talk about that," is his short response, and he turns his attention to his feverish picking at the hangnail of his thumb. She hadn't noticed him doing it before now. "Let's talk about something else."
"You started it," she grumbles and eventually moves into a full sitting position, her legs curling up underneath her, Indian-style.
He stays quiet and doesn't make a move to look back, no matter how hard Violet stares at the side of his face. She's upset him, somehow, she knows. Her hand stretches out to tug at the fabric of his sweater, almost child-like in the motion, and it gets his attention. "Don't be like that," she pleads of him off his stern brow. "C'mon, Tate."
"Why are you asking?"
She shrugs and tilts her head, her hair tumbles down over her shoulder. "I don't know, I just want to know about you, I guess." He glances back down at his hands, away from her face. "I mean, you're always asking things about me. What, I can't ask about you?"
"My life's shitty," Tate offers with a significant lack of emotion. He's gotten so distant, now. Violet feels apologetic but she can't bring herself to say anything to the point. He must get it, because he turns his head up to see her again, and his eyebrows give in a little as he exhales. "My dad's a dirtbag who split when I was a kid, my mom's a cunt who spends her time chain-smoking and sucking and fucking her way to what she wants. God, I fucking hate her," it comes off as an afterthought, an angry, forceful breath and he tears off a jagged piece of skin at the corner of his nail. He lifts his thumb to his mouth and sucks gingerly at the sensitive skin he's broken into.
A different kind of silence passes over them now. Too much honesty and personal knowledge shared too early on. She feels for him, though, and she reaches for the hand he's nursing and he lets her, though he doesn't meet her eyeline. "She sounds like a bitch," Violet sympathizes, but he gives her no response other than the tightening of his fingers in her loose hands. She has the sense that she's being rejected, and she releases his hand with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry I asked, okay? I get it - it's personal. I shouldn't have intruded."
Her tone and inclination appear to jar him out of whatever pitiful reverie he had been engrossed in, as Tate pushes himself up abruptly with open palms into a mirrored sitting position across from her. "Fuck it," his mouth upturns into a smile, one obviously forced, but it's rooted in genuineness. It eases the tension, and she's relieved. "I'm kind of being a douche, right?"
"Let's just talk about something else."
"You have a boyfriend back in Boston?" It's off his tongue before her sentence is barely finished.
Violet startles and flushes brightly. "Dude. Seriously? I thought we were done with personal."
He cracks a wild sort of smirk, all teeth. "So, is that a no?"
"Why do you care?" She plucks at her comforter and knows why he cares, of course. She doesn't miss his careful glance up and down her torso, this time.
"C'mon, Vi."
"No," Violet grudgingly forces the answer out of herself. "I mean, I went on a couple dates with some guys from school. Nothing serious."
"What's serious?" He ventures with a nosy sort of curiosity. "First base?"
"God, you're being rude," she scowls and he grins. "What about you?"
Tate shrugs. "One girl, freshman year. We dated for like a week. She was a fucking idiot."
"Why'd you date her, then?"
"She was pretty hot," his shoulders circle idly. "And she let me in her pants. Why else?"
"So gross, you're such an ass," there's a part of her that wants to laugh, but her stubborn streak just won't let her. "How can you even talk like that?"
"What's wrong with that?" He does laugh, seemingly almost offended by her own offense. Tate's eyes shrink as he studies her carefully, and that grin stretches further, it's almost feral. "Fuck, you're still a virgin, aren't you?"
Her face is hot with embarrassment and Violet knows she must be burning red. When he starts guffawing so heartily, she reaches behind her and pitches a pillow at his head with unbridled fury, though he catches it easily. "You're a pig, Tate. Seriously."
"Oh, come on," he hugs the pillow to his chest, settles his chin atop it, and his smile shrinks into something kind. "You know I'm fucking with you."
She chooses to be brittle about it, anyway. "It's not that funny."
"I know it's not. I'm not saying it is."
"You laughed," she hitches both eyebrows pointedly, and he groans and tosses the pillow aside.
"You're being so sensitive. Stop being a girl." Tate eyes her and Violet glances to her bedroom window when she hears the car door slam outside.
"I am a girl."
"I think it's cool you're a virgin," he presses earnestly. "You don't see that a lot these days. Most girls are just dumb sluts with no sense of pride or any kind of self-esteem. They fuck around with whatever piece of meat will take them, to try and make themselves feel better about how empty they really are on the inside. It's pretty disgusting, and pathetic-"
"Oh, god, stop it. Just stop talking about it," she shrinks back into her other pillows and reaches for her Marlboros with a tilt of her chin to the window. "I think my dad's here."
He watches her charily as she lights the cigarette and willfully deviates from the topic at hand. He falls in line, because he has to. "You haven't told him, have you?"
"That we're still hanging out?" Violet blows out a stream of smoke through flared nostrils. "No way. He'd kill you and ground me."
Tate falls silent and Violet puffs away at her vice. There they sit, observing one another, as Vivien and Ben's dull voices sound below the floorboards of her bedroom.
He's the first one to speak. "My session's in forty-five minutes."
There's a certain suggestion under his observation; he doesn't make it plain, she doesn't even think he knows he makes it, but Violet has a hunch that wiggles inside her stomach, and she draws another hit from her cigarette as her toes curl beneath her. "What do you want to do?"