Our Song is Silent
Disclaimer Oh! Me? No. Sorry.
Rating PG-13 (sexual situations)
Summary He asks her one more question infinitely harder than the rest. No, no, no, no…I think…-Lit.Two Parter-
Author's Note A re-write of the night Jess asked Rory to run away with him. I was extremely upset when Rory slept with Dean, so I decided to write this, which I think is still pretty damnable. It's two parts. 1. Night with Rory and Jess. 2. Scene with Dean, Rory and Lorelai.
Poetry or bits of novels that read like poetry always inspire me. Jess (and Rory) quote some of my favorite lines that originally were written by: E. E. Cummings, Langston Hughes, Margo Swedlund Russell, and one original piece by me.
Feedback is greatly appreciated. Follow the yellow brick road…
-Mira
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"No!"
The grim word echoes in the dorm like ghosts of the past. He nods once as a solemn understanding and goodbye. It would have taken too much energy to say something. He turns his heel to leave, but pauses. The moonlight lies still on her face, pensive and confused, and her voice is thick in her throat. She cannot ask why he just doesn't just leave. She is unsure how much longer she can hold back the tears threatening to fall.
When he speaks, his voice is husky, yet it breaks at certain syllables, "What do you feel for me?" He has to know her answer to this. He knew the running away question, his version Caufield's plea to Sally, was stupid.
Her breath catches in her throat as he turns back around, blocked by the words of the thought before. Her pulse quickens. How is she supposed to answer that? How does anyone answer that?
"It's a simple question Rory. You don't have to worry anymore about my feelings." His feelings? His feelings were shot.
"I…I think," she gasps.
He remembers the telephone conversation (can it be called a conversation?) where she told him basically it was over. She was moving on. But. But she may have, she thought she may have, loved him.
"Now," he presses, "Rory, I need to know what you are feeling now."
There is a long pregnant pause that shudders under the weight of these two people costumed as adults.
"Right now, I hate you. I hate you," she takes a breath as if she ran a marathon, "Or I think I hate you. I'm confused. I should hate you. Or really dislike you."
"You hate me." A statement.
"No."
"Then?"
"I…I'm still confused. I…uh…god. I don't--," she stops abruptly as he takes a bold step towards her. She takes a few tentative steps back. It's symbolic, this dance, of their relationship. One step forward, two steps back. Repeat. "Jess, I can't, I don't know how to answer that. Just go."
"No."
Her eyes flicker up to his, and a shudder passes through both their bodies. Another step forward. By whom? The dance is complex. Slowly, painfully, they advance each other. It's hard to breath. The dance comes to stop when they are inches from each other's bodies; the heat is almost unbearable.
She swallows, "I feel like I love you right now. At this instant, but," shallow breath, "I want to feel the opposite, or something else."
"Something else?" he breathes, leaving an imprint of moist air on her cheek. It mingles with the salt of her silent tears.
They are only centimeters apart. "Something…else…yea, not…love," she finishes weakly with her lips trembling.
He rationally decides that his lips should help her lips, and he leans in to take them with his own. She fingers his leather jacket, and reaches to touch his black hair, logically thinking that it need to be pushed back by her hand. The movements are sluggish and deliberate, each millimeter onward leading them further into the abyss.
The kiss becomes heated, and hands are wandering about on their own, re-learning territories. Mouths are open, breaths are blistering, and teeth are clashing. It's unorthodox. It's sacrilegious. It shouldn't be happening.
They part and their foreheads are cool when leaned on the other. They catch their breath, but forget about their sanity.
"This is Poetry, You and I.
Minds soaring.
Senses roaring," he murmurs absently; his mind in the moment. He wonders when the hell he became so insane that he quoted poetry to a girl he really cares about. She wonders when he stopped hating poetry. He never really did stop. Just the ones he understands he's okay with. The poems about love.
She kisses him this time, begging for anything that is securely him. His taste, his touch, his sound. Every sense she has is at his mercy. She wishes it wasn't. She wishes she could stop this, and make him leave out the door and out of her life. Instead, she leads him into her empty room.
Two beds and a vacant bookshelf make up the space. The beds are bare, the mattresses, stark white to the open window. Dust catches like glitter in the light of the moon. It swishes and turns as passing bodies, tangled in each other, disturbs the flurries. The bodies hold tight to each other, and she lowers herself onto one of the beds pulling him with her. He doesn't question her. He is terrified if he does that he'll wake up New York under filthy covers and a stale odor of the city choking his lungs. No. Instead he'll hold her.
Lips moving together, her hands make way to his jacket. She pulls at the zipper and he understands. The leather slides off his narrow shoulders. Immediately, unthinking (she's too frightened to think), she reaches for his white tee shirt.
He spots her eyes. Blue orbs are wild with fear, confusion, curiosity, and lust. He wants to make sure, you know, that this isn't a mistake. He would hate himself if this were to become her downfall and the memory to be filed away and forgotten. He takes her hands and puts them to his face. She looks to him and his own brown eyes say it all. They always have. She's always been searching through the bad to find the good, when the good was right there. She sees it now.
"Give me a carpet of moonlight, cover my bed with a song,
Dress me in golden mornings, show me where I belong," she whispers and pulls his face to hers. She can hold her own in poetry too. He knows she means it. He leaves a scorching trail of kisses, serious and intent, along her neck. She arches into him, a moan escaping her lips, her chest full against his. He can feel the beating of her heart. His fingers tremble as he undresses her, planting his lips on any skin he can make out through his red, red, red eyelids. She nuzzles the top of head, his dark hair tickling her nose. He's aching for her now, really aching. His heart, his body, and in a faraway romantic sense--his soul.
Barriers between them fall, and they soon become one.
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It's so very cold. That's the first thing he notices. So goddamn cold. He wishes she would keep him warm, but she's on the other side of the twin sized bed, so they have a small distance between them. Her eyes are closed, but it doesn't matter because the image of her eyes, cloudy, gasping his name over and over like some sinner's mantra, is scarred into his mind for the rest of his life. Her breathing is slow and steady; she's asleep.
They lie there, on the harsh white mattress paled by moonlight, naked and apart, like a fallen Adam and Eve. She faces him, and he sees her lips next to her hands where her head lays (no pillows). They are ruby with kisses and bites, and swollen too. She looks more like a porcelain angel than ever before. His eyes do not wander anywhere but her face. They can't. He is in awe and ashamed. If he looks down he'll see the black sins of his body on her, and he can't face that. Not yet.
He reaches out, hands shaking again, and touches the edge of the bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down at a weary speed. She awakens by his calloused touch, familiar to all of her now, and turns ever so slightly, eyes shut, and the edges of her lips catch a bit of thumb in a gentle kiss. She glances to him, and his eyes are closed with a troubled look crossing his face. She grabs the hand she just kissed and holds it to her. This makes him look at her. His face speaks volumes. He's regretting what happened. He's feeling responsible.
"Don't feel guilty," she says softly.
He sighs, "I can't help it. I am no good for you."
"Not true."
Nothing.
She looks at him earnestly, "This wasn't a mistake, me giving you my…gift."
He finally wills himself to look down, and instead of black marks he only sees gentle wisps of care. He can't believe he did that. No tattoos of his transgression, only marks of love. She watches him knowing what he is thinking. He leans down to kiss the curve of her hip, and her eyelids flutter shut.
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She wakes up first this time, surprised to find a thin cotton sheet covering them, and the sunlight streaming in through the window is making their nude bodies shadows behind the cloth. He's still there lying next her. Her mom lied; he doesn't snore. She almost giggles at the thought. She would laugh at anything because he stayed.
This time they're together, skin touching skin, her head on his shoulder and her hand draped across his stomach. He stirs, and she tenses. She wants to admire him some more in this state when his guard is let down and he is almost peaceful.
He looks up, groans and turns back into his pillow trying to block out the sun. "Are you really that unhappy to see me?" she asks smiling.
"You I am very happy to see. The sun I want to murder," he mutters into the pillow. He sneaks a peek at her and wags an eyebrow, "You, I am very happy to see." She just blushes.
"I'm happy to see you too."
"Really?"
"Really."
He closes his eyes, and his face scrunches slightly as he tries to recall something, "I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more."
She sighs, content, and slides even closer to him, her hips and her curves are the missing jigsaw puzzle piece to his, and she hugs him tight to her, her breasts pressed to his chest. He finds it slightly hard to breathe. "I wish we had a song."
He places his chin on her head and inquires, "A song?"
"Yea," she whispers excitedly looking at him, "a song that is ours to remember this by, it's so perfect, but my music and stuff is packed."
"I could go get it. I got us this sheet."
"No, that's ok."
He kisses her softly; first full on the lips and then where her heart is underneath her flesh. The sensitive nerves in his lips can feel the thud-thud-thud of her heartbeat. "This is our song," he murmurs into her ear, as he places a hand to her heart, "our heartbeats and poetry and whatever is left of the light of the moon."
She looks at him in awe for a minute, and then her expression changes to bemused, "I never took you for such a romantic."
"Well," he asks. "What do you want me to say? 'Hey Rory, you were a great fu--'. See, I'll save you from the rest."
"I thank you. You are my Superman."
"I prefer Batman. Much more mysterious, and way cooler."
"Oh yea, I forgot. You are cool," she smirked.
"And Superman?"
"Who wears red underwear over blue tights?"
"Huh. I dunno," he grins. He's never been so happy in his life. This is his Heaven. Too bad, he thinks, he has to go to Hell.
Her eyes turn dimmer and lips turn into an unforgivable pout, "You really mean it though?"
"About Superman? Sure."
"No," she hesitates. "About our song."
"Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.
I love you."
"That's our song," she hums lightly into his chest. She gives his shoulder a peck, "Heartbeats and poetry and moonlight. That's our song. I love you."
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