fic series: this love (left a permanent mark)
category: girl meets world
genre: romance/drama/humor
ship: lucas/maya
rating: pg - mature
series summary: A collection of unconnected oneshots focused on Maya and Lucas.
story rating: PG-13
story summary: No matter how many times she tells herself she can't have him, can't like him, can't want him, she does. So badly.
...
They're in class, and this is 'capital W' Wrong. Matthews, and Riley, would call it 'inappropriate.' But then, when has Maya ever shied away from either?
She feels his thumb on her knee first, the faintest brush, and there's a moment where logic steps in. She should move, shuffle her legs out of reach, let him know this can't happen, she won't let this happen. But these things, these touches, are becoming more common. The way he reaches for her when they're already standing so close that she can feel the fibers of his clothes rubbing against her skin. How he never steps back when she leans in, so they're chest to chest as she ha-hurr's in his face. And she can feel his heart sometimes, beating against hers, or in the pulse at his wrist when she circles her fingers around it. She's not always aware when she does it, when she reaches back, when she grabs for him first. So it's not all his fault, she can't lay all the blame at Huckleberry's feet and let him drown in the blame. It's on her too. No matter how many times she tells herself she can't have him, can't like him, can't want him, she does. So badly.
But he's not hers. Even if he's not technically Riley's, he will always be Riley's prince. Her knight on the white horse. Her perfect match. Maya has never been perfect anything. She is broken and jagged and even on her good days, when she lets hope bloom bright in her chest, she will still always be just a little too sharp, a little too rough, a little too Maya. And it doesn't matter that he keeps reaching, like he thinks he won't get cut, won't bleed on her edges, won't tear himself open and retreat like all the rest. It doesn't matter because she knows how the story ends, how it has always ended, and she is not the princess he rides off with for a happily ever after.
But his thumb has brushed her knee and his fingers crawl ever higher. Her own have reached the end of her black skirt, and when he stops and waits, she knows what needs to happen. She should pull back, turn her legs, let his hand fall. Put an end to it before it can ever really start.
When Maya was four, she learned the word 'rebellious.' Her babysitter, a crotchety older woman who had long lost any kind of patience, used to call her that whenever she refused to do something, and she refused to do a lot. She grew up on that word, survived on it, told herself there was nothing wrong in being a rebel. It was just who she was, it was in her blood, and it was better to rebel than to lay down and take what she didn't like or want or deserve. But this... She should not rebel against this.
If she could just let go. Of him and hope and those dumb fantasies of hers where she's happy and free and warm and loved, then it would be easier. Maybe there are some battles that can't be won, some she can't or shouldn't fight, and this is one of them. One day, when she pulls away enough times, he'll stop reaching for her. And she'll miss it at first. She'll miss the way her heart pounds in her chest and the burst of excitement that floods her blood when he smiles at her jabs and her nicknames. She'll miss how he looks at her, with stars in his eyes brighter than she's ever seen before. She'll miss the way he pushes her hair back from her face and tucks it behind her ear, how he says 'there you are,' like she's been hiding all this time and he's just finally found her. And she'll miss the way he tells her she's going to do great things and make great art and be whoever she wants to be, with so much certainty that she almost believes him. She'll miss it all, but she'll get used to it. She'll move on. She'll stop wanting things- people- dreams- she can't have. One day.
It'd be easy not to reach for him. Not to want. To go back to shrugging off every awful thing that happens to her and adding it to that dungeon of sadness she hasn't visited in a while. But then her palm slides down her leg, fabric rubbing against her skin, and she feels the tips of his fingers against hers. She shouldn't look, but she does; she lifts her eyes to see his face and sees the smile that pulls up one side of his mouth. The sweet taste of victory.
He lifts his fingers and stretches them out, dropping them to drag down the ends of her fingers and along the top of her thigh. And she can feel as goosebumps break out on her skin, as he does it again and again. His touch is gentle and warm and promising. It's all she can focus on for the rest of class, forty-five minutes of a project they should be working on but have made no efforts in whatsoever. He has the outline in his other hand and they should be making a plan - maybe he is and she hasn't been listening; it wouldn't be the first time - but her mind is focused completely and totally on the constant stroke of his fingers. All she can hear for the longest time is the pounding of her heart in her ears. It sounds a lot like hope.
When the bell rings, he pauses, and then he squeezes her knee, just once, before he pulls away to start gathering his books.
Maya swallows tightly, her brow furrowed, and starts to do the same. Her leg is warm, like she can still feel him, and her fingers are tingling strangely. Not strange bad, just... different.
When he stands, he has his books on his hip and he's pushed his chair back over to another desk. He grins down at her and she rolls her eyes as she stands from her desk. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Sundance," she mutters.
But he just smiles wider.
And when they walk out of the room and into the hallway, his hand reaches for hers, the gentle brush of long fingers against her own. This time she doesn't fight it; she just reaches back.
{end}
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