A/N Okay, this one is so random. I don't expect many people to read it, or maybe even like (but if they do both, that would be amazing). I know the popular opinion on Pretty in Pink is that Andie should have chosen Duckie. Maybe it's because I watched it for the first time as an adult, or maybe it's because I'm really not a fan of the "Nice Guy" trope, but to me, Duckie was kind of an ass, who tried to control Andie, semi-stalked her, and then treated her like crap when she failed to be what he wanted her to be (i.e. in love with him). He came good in the end but I never saw or wanted romantic chemistry between them. I liked Blane - how could you not? (those dimples, that smile) - but he was an unconvincing hero in the end. Too weak to stand by his convictions. So, neither of the alpha love interests went the distance for me. Nope. I came out of that movie utterly fascinated by the antagonist - Steff. How had he ended up this way? Why was he seemingly obsessed with Blane's relationship with Andie? And why had he wanted Andie in the first place? My problem is, questions like these lead to fanfics. Very random fanfics...
The Seed
The raspberry pip was well and truly stuck. Lodged in his back tooth.
He spent the next hour trying to dig it out with his tongue.
As an only child, company choices were limited. There were other children around – neighbours' kids; those who had been deemed suitable by his parents. But they hadn't been deemed suitable by him that day, so he'd sent them away.
They'd gone, of course.
They did whatever he told them to.
One of the many reasons they were highly annoying.
High school was purgatory for Steff.
His whole four years there, there were only two things that stood out, that looked different against the unchanging, unrelenting monochrome.
Blane was the first.
Even if he'd wanted to hang out with his parents (something that wasn't really encouraged; something that he hadn't really tried since he was little), they were out that afternoon at a "business bbq". So his choices were calling back the kids he'd sent packing or spending time with the housekeeper again.
Working at the pip stuck in his tooth seemed like a worthwhile alternative.
Blane was a drop of colour in an ocean of grey.
Just bright enough to draw the eye.
When he told Steff he was shit, it penetrated the surface.
He valued his opinion, his friendship, just enough for it to sting.
He lay out on the perfectly manicured lawn, gliding his tongue over the ridge of the seed again and again, half-intrigued, half-annoyed at the sensation.
There was an honesty to Blane, an openness he'd been drawn to from the start. At first sight it made him that much easier to mould, but beneath that sweetness was an undercurrent of stubbornness, a determination to go his own way.
Steff could get around it. But only up to a point.
So when he saw Blane talking to her in the school courtyard it hit him like a dull blow to the stomach, but it wasn't a surprise.
Of course, they would want each other. Like was drawn to like.
Though not in Steff's case.
When he ate supper that evening, he pushed his tongue along the groove of his teeth to catch the last of the crumbs; it caught on the pip.
It seemed more prominent than before.
The sensation had become irritating, physically and emotionally.
He determined to get rid of it.
Andie and Blane were similar, but she was streaks ahead.
Where he softly glowed, she brilliantly blazed.
The undercurrent that ran through Blane was the bedrock of Andie. She would always go her own way. To the point that she didn't understand those who didn't do the same, was scornful of anyone who tried to cage her.
She and Blane went well together. Their pieces matched.
For a time.
He tried flossing that night – something he tended to avoid, hating the feeling of thread forced between teeth – but he couldn't reach it.
Steff had been two years at Brown when he learned that Blane was "finally seeing a nice girl".
He was unsurprised to learn the undercurrent had only gone so far. That given time he'd given way, and taken up the mantle, the life – the girl – expected of him.
He'd kept tabs on him via the WASP grapevine, with the half-intention of picking the friendship up again once his relationship reached its inevitable demise.
Instead he found himself furious.
After half an hour of poking at it with a cocktail stick, he was no closer to getting it out. A half hour more and he realised he'd actually driven it in deeper.
Steff went home more often that semester, but avoided any functions that might bring him in contact with Blane or the McDonoughs.
He'd drive around town for hours in his 944 Turbo. His parents had bought it as a graduation gift after he totalled the 911, something he'd actually regretted. He missed its flaming red colour. But they had informed him the Turbo's conservative paint job was more appropriate for Ivy League standards.
Several times he found himself outside John Marshall high school, which made no sense at all. No one he knew went there anymore.
He'd driven it in so deep he could no longer feel it, could not distinguish it from the rest of the tooth.
The fourth time he drove there a passerby accused him of kerb-crawling. He raised an eyebrow in amused disbelief, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in his face.
High school girls were irritating enough the first time round.
And it wasn't like he was short of tail in college.
After a day or so, he forgot it was there. Assumed it had worked its way out on its own.
He continued to enjoy the fruits of an Ivy League education, of privilege and prestige. Even if they had lost much of their savour.
Even if they'd started to do so while he was still at John Marshall.
Always the same tastes, the same sensations… the same endless circles of booze, blow and bullshit.
Always the same people.
That didn't mean he wouldn't pick the fruit when it was so low-hanging, though.
Blondes or brunettes; black, white or brown.
He wasn't choosy.
Except when it came to redheads.
He'd never found a redhead good enough to tempt him.
After a few days more, the flesh around the tooth became puffy and enflamed.
There was one whose hair was just about vibrant enough, though a touch too long.
He was stoned off his ass so leaning into her came easy.
He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.
(The haze of pot made it easier to pretend.)
But when she leaned in for a kiss, he shoved her away.
Her lips were far too thin.
It didn't occur to him to tell his parents; he deliberately chose not to tell the housekeeper.
He knew she'd make him go to the dentist.
He didn't like Dr. Keen. Didn't like the fact he called him "Steffie", didn't like that he was so familiar with him.
And he didn't like feeling out of control, how small he felt in the giant chair. Or the indignity of sitting with his mouth hanging open.
And, in his secret heart of hearts, he didn't like the sound of the drill.
Every trip to the dentist he lived in fear it would be brought out.
So he kept silent.
He'd long since learnt the power of words. How it came in part from knowing when not to use them.
Steff had often been bored in high school, and college was no different – it either came too easily to him or just wasn't worth the effort. Why bother trying at anything when the way has already been paved for you? (Why bother trying at all when every step of your life's been mapped out?)
It had taken a cold threat of creating as public a scandal as possible before his father gave in and agreed to fund his sojourn at Brown instead of continuing the long-standing McKee tradition of matriculating at Princeton.
Princeton was 262 miles from the Massachusetts College of Art and Design.
Brown was only 50.
An hour's drive away; maybe even less in his Turbo.
He'd found himself plotting routes in Geometry, calculating how to shave minutes off the journey.
He'd planned the journey to MassArt a dozen times, a dozen different ways.
A journey he knew he'd never take.
It reached the point where he could no longer ignore the sensation; it was a struggle to conceal the pain.
The laws of proximity meant he wasn't shocked to walk into the party and find her there.
Surprised, but not shocked.
Since when were frat parties her scene?
The fond but wary eye she kept on a drunken girlfriend nearby answered that question.
She looked a little older, her hair a little longer; her clothes were still a disaster but she had this way of wearing them that made you forget that.
She had never let herself be ruled by what others might think or say.
A few days more and his struggles were useless: there was no denying the swelling of his jaw.
He gave in.
She was looking away, but he saw her tense slightly as if aware of someone's regard.
She turned to look.
Her eyes met his.
Thankfully, the drill hadn't made an entrance. Instead, Dr. Keen was prying the seed out with some kind of hooked metal instrument. "You were lucky, Steffie." His cheerful tones grated almost as much as the drill would have. "It's grown a little infected but a little gargling with salt water, some antibiotics, and it should clear right up. If you'd left it much longer I would have had to take the tooth out. Or worse."
Steff raised an eyebrow at him in enquiry, a rare invitation to continue talking. He was saying something that sounded like it might be interesting for once. "Leave something like this too long and the infection can make its way into the bloodstream. By the time it reaches that point, it's near impossible to stop its spread. That's when it's dangerous."
She raised an eyebrow. Unintimidated. Unbothered.
Unimpressed.
He'd almost forgotten how those molten brown eyes could tear holes through him.
How their indifference could burn.
His hands shook. His brain whirled.
His heart stuttered.
Only Andie had ever been able to make him feel these things.
Weakness. Inadequacy.
Bone-deep longing.
Realisation swept over him in a wave of dizziness.
She'd never been dislodged. She'd never left his system.
The infection had been left unchecked for years.
It was too late to root her out.
He'd never be rid of her now.
fin