A/N: Probably been done many times before. Since when has that stopped me?
Disclaimer: Uh, let me think. Ha, ha. I'm hillarious.
Honestly, he hadn't planned to come here. But then again, nothing was going the way he planned it to.
When he got the invitation, he thought about burning it. Or ripping it. Or stabbing it. Or mailing it back, even. All he knew was that he wanted it to be gone, because, in a way, it kind of disgusted him.
It stood for what he wanted but could never have, and the unfortunate reality that he had never thought would come to be. He hated that he had lost his chance, his choice, his only, and he didn't want to think that there would never be another.
But before he had a chance to get rid of it, the phone rang, and he shoved it in the book he had been reading at the time and forgot about it. When he found it, that day, it kind of seemed like a sign to him. So he went.
Honestly, he didn't think it would be like this. But then again, since when did anything turn out the way he thought it would?
She looked beautiful, of course. She was in white, which was appropriate, considering the occasion, and also because she always looked good in white. But, he thought, let's face it—she looked good in anything. He knew that it had been her choice to have it in Stars Hollow, and he also knew that pretty much the entire wedding, besides the location, had clearly not been planned by her.
There were pearls and white roses, which, honestly, he thought would be more appropriate at a funeral than a wedding. But then again, what did he know? It wasn't like he was much of a romantic.
Yeah, the whole place screamed Emily Gilmore, from the diamonds on her neck to the lace around the chairs and the string quartet. Funny, he mused, he always figured that Lorelai would plan it. There was something about the whole situation, though, that was making him uneasy.
Honestly, he would've turned around and left, right then, if she hadn't looked. If she hadn't seen him, standing there, under the willow.
Déjà vu.
She ran over, a huge smile plastered on her face, which didn't quite cover up the confused look she also wore. He was surprised at how sad her eyes seemed, even when she looked so beautiful. He didn't like it.
"What are you doing here?" she asked him.
"Hello to you, too," he said. He figured he might as well draw it out, since it was probably the last time he would see her, save awkward lookers-on.
"Hi," she said, her voice barely a squeak. "What are you doing here?"
"I was invited, remember?" he said.
"I…" she stammered, clearly nervous. "I didn't think you'd come," she admitted. Then, more quietly, "I'm not sure I wanted you to come."
"Why's that?" he asked, a little bit annoyed. Honestly.
"I…uh," she mumbled. "I don't know."
"You do know," he said, softly, inching closer to her. "You do, Rory. You're not…this isn't…it's not right."
A look of anger passed across her face, but he could see in her eyes that she was also a little ashamed. "And who the hell are you to decide that, Jess?" she yelled, spitting out his name like poison.
"I'm the only person who ever saw you for who you are," he stated obviously. "And you know that. You aren't meant to be this, Rory. This isn't who you are, or what you're supposed to do."
She sighed, putting her face in her hands. "I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know anything anymore."
"You do, though," he said, gently pulling her delicate hands from her face and placing them inside his own rough ones. He could see that she was crying, the mascara tracks across her cheeks, and he could also see, closer now, that this wasn't the first time.
She shook her head. "I don't know what I am without you."
"But, see," he said, lifting her chin up to look at him. "I'm not going anywhere."
She sniffed, a shaky smile making its way across her face. "I'm glad."
And when he kissed her, even though her lips were dry and red, bitter and salty from too many tears and not enough tenderness, he could also taste something else. And, honestly, it reminded him a little bit of hope.