Title: Almost
Author: Stigmatized
Fandom: The Shell House
Rating: K
Words: 530
Summary: [The Shell House] The "Morning After" scene from Jordan's point of view.
Disclaimer: The two lines of dialogue in this are taken directly from the book, as it tells the scene from Jordan's perspective. And, as always, hey, fanfiction! Not making any money, and everything belongs to Linda Newbery.
All of it is too much: the look on Greg's face, the tone of his voice, the way his chin tilts up to highlight his self-satisfied smirk. Bikes parked across each other like a cross, like a warning, danger, as he just stands and takes it.
'Course, he's not sure what else he can do; he's frozen to the spot, unable to even look at Greg. Dean's taunts were better than this, immature insults thrown by a thirteen year old have never hurt, but something inside Jordan curls up on itself when he hears it from Greg's lips.
Even if it isn't quite in Greg's voice.
First it wasn't so bad, just angry lashing out because Jordan knew Greg was still struggling to understand, then it comes in a moment.
"Get yourself sorted out."
Hits him like a wrecking ball to the gut, and it's all he can do to keep his face calm and neutral, keep his focus on the horizon. It hurts, and suddenly he understands the term "heartbreak".
Jordan tightens his grip on his handlebars, keeps his eyes on the horizon. Keeps himself safe in his cocoon, regrets ever trying to come out of it to this boy, in that way.
Last Friday he had thought it was going well, his Big Announcement, thought that Greg had been getting what he was unable to say, was understanding.
Maybe it was a surprise to Greg, but Jordan had been certain – well, almost certain – that he knew, had even nursed a small hope that he might feel the same way.
Now, the cold plastic of the hospital chairs and the sterile emptiness of the waiting room have robbed him of something else, and he realises his mistake.
Obviously almost certain isn't enough, not for people like him. Perhaps he had given Greg too much credit, but he had been almost certain, that time in the changing room,on Friday night…
Queasy, he asks about his email, wonders if Greg had done it by the time he'd sent it, if he had been too late before he'd even thought about it, before he'd untangled himself from the tendrils of Gaia trying to reclaim Graveney and gone home. Regardless of timing, maybe Greg would speaking to him differently if he had read it. Someone had once told Jordan that it was the things you don't do that you regret the most; at the moment he's having trouble believing that.
"The problem with emails, you can't unsend them, can you?"
Unhearing all this would have been better, never coming to find Greg in the first place would have been best.
Victorious – a pyrrhic victory that comes down to having the last word, something he has never wanted to argue over – he turns around to head home. What would he do there, though? Exercise is the thing to do, he supposes; drown his sorrows in the sharp nip of chlorine.
Yellow clouds pass darkly above him as he pedals, threatening rain, and never before has the weather so accurately reflected his mood.
Zipping down the hill, freewheeling away from Greg, he feels a bit lighter; everything has changed, and he's not yet sure how.
A/N: So this basically started out as a bit of an experiment/exercise, and I liked it. So here you go.