jottings: this au...is everything to me. days 6-7 are still in the works at the moment, even though waava week technically ended last week. ah well. every week is waava week if you believe it.

warnings for sexual content in #2 and drug use/references throughout.

(title/lyrics are from stars.)

disclaimed.

your ex-lover is dead

;;

i'm not sorry i met you—

i'm not sorry it's over—

i'm not sorry there's nothing to say.

;;

i'm not sorry, there's nothing to say.

1. immortal

"Raava," Wan starts unexpectedly. He's staring up at the ceiling, voice—slurred—pitching with his own brand of intoxicated philosophy. "Do you ever think about what it would be like to be immortal?"

Oh. Of course.

Raava pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes. The room hadn't been spinning five minutes ago, she's fairly certain. "No."

It's two in the morning.

And Wan and Raava, they're sprawled out on the carpet, just far enough to not-quite touch and let the empty cans of cheap beer and air thick with smoke fill in the space between them.

"Do you think it would be weird?"

She sighs, swallows.

"I'm not stoned enough for this, Wan."

Ha. They'd passed stoned two and a joint hours ago.

He doesn't respond.

It's quiet. The music from one of Wan's usual playlists had stopped long ago, and suddenly Raava feels acutely aware of it.

(Her head hurts.)

It's too static, she can hear the wind rustle outside, softly, and her own thoughts are much too loud.

What is she doing, what are they doing, what is this—

"I imagine it would be lonely."

Wan gives her a lazy sidelong glance. "Hm?"

"Immortality." She breathes out. "It would be lonely."

"Maybe," muses Wan. His fingers pull at the carpet aimlessly. "But maybe you wouldn't…" he pauses, frowns, plucks at the loose fibers in the floor, "have to be the only one."

(It must be the weed talking.)

"So whataya say, Raava? You, me, the next ten thousand years?"

It's definitely the weed talking, but it does nothing to stop the way her chest tightens unexpectedly. Her nails bite into her palm. "I would find a way to kill you before we reached one hundred," she states, monotone.

Wan laughs. "Right."

Her fist presses into the ground.

She gives up; twists to her side, props her head up on one hand, and meets his eyes finally. They're bloodshot, of course, pupils still blown out. It's almost kind of endearing the way he gazes back up at her.

One of Wan's hands snakes into her tangled white hair. His fingers splay out along her skull and pull her gently downward.

(What is this what is—)

She never tells him that she probably wouldn't mind, and he never asks.

2. rhythm

First, they're sneaking off to the closet to work on a new song, maybe share a smoke, before dusting off and going back to class.

Then, they're coasting on a haze of marijuana and the pulsating beat of Porcupine Tree, and Wan's got Raava pinned to the door, a joint hanging loosely from two fingers while the other hand works between her legs.

Who were they kidding.

(He's never been very good at staying on task anyway.)

But this—

Raava arches back, her head knocking bluntly against the door as she grits her teeth and digs her nails into Wan's back, unforgiving.

This he is good at.

Wan smirks. "If you're not quiet, we'll get caught."

"I am not," she hisses into his ear, "loud—fuck…"

She can feel his shit eating grin on her neck, not to mention those two weirdly talented fingers thrusting against just the right spot.

All those years teaching himself to play the guitar really had paid off.

A moan escapes her clenched teeth.

Wan snickers.

"Just…give me the weed," she growls, prying the join taway from Wan's hand. The one that isn't slowly teasing her into dizzying…feelings.

(She's usually so good at blocking those out.)

The music is almost completely drowned out. It wasn't even loud to begin with, but Wan's body still bobs languidly with the rhythm. His eyes are half-closed as he presses his face deeper into the long tangles of white hair that Raava will not doubt attempt to smooth down before waltzing back to class and pretending nothing happened.

He withdraws his fingers, painfully slow, before bracing one hand against the door while the other slides along the underside of her thigh, drawing her leg up higher where it's already curled around his. His hips grind into hers, steadily, and Raava bites down on his pulse to smother the sounds that threaten to rip from her throat.

Wan pushes closer, still rocking rhythmically to the beat.

She's warm and clawing at his back, and even amidst it all, he can't help but start to feel nostalgic for the first time they really met, like a rush of déjà vu. When they were twelve and Raava dragged him out of a closet furiously, and he ended up with two months of detention for cutting class and the weed, but never minded because the pretty girl with dark hair and blue eyes who hated him had remembered his name.

Thinking back to a time when he would've pulled her hair just to get a reaction, and now she's pulling his, raking her nails over his scalp roughly.

Now, she's in the closet with him, missing class and kissing him with a mouth that tastes of marijuana.

How the tables have turned.

He drags his lips over the electric blue ink on her collarbone.

But really. How often do two people find themselves in a janitor's closet more than once?

When it's over, Raava smoothes out the wrinkles in her skirt and pats her hair down primly. Wan watches. Takes the last drag of long-forgotten cannabis.

"Are you thinking again, Wan?" Raava asks, twisting up a tube of blue lipstick and touching it around her lips.

He stubs out the joint on a shelf. "Of course not, Raava."

"Of course," she echoes. "Don't be late for your next class," she says over her shoulder, closing the door behind her.

Wan smiles crookedly.

He leaves with a slant print of blue lipstick on his neck.

3. heartfelt

Wan's twelve, and he fucks up. A lot.

First, it's the little things—the patched up holes in the knees of his Academic Apparel khakis, the untamed mess of his hair, or the fact that he'd entered a class that had been together since kindergarten a month into seventh grade.

Then, it's everything.

He really isn't cut out for private school, but his foster parents insist it's exactly what he needs. Whatever that means.

He doesn't hold too much stock in that, or anything his parents of the week have to say. as long as he and Jaya are still together and they have a place to sleep, he doesn't care.

(About anything.)

So when he's running for his life across the school parking lot, dodging parked cars, it's just another day.

"You're dead, Wan!" shouts one of the three boys sprinting after him.

They're the Chou brothers, and they've hated him from the moment he'd set foot in the well-polished halls.

"Really?" he calls over his shoulder, grinning. "Because I feel quite alive!"

Of course, this is the moment that Wan's fortune fails, as he trips over an untied shoelace. He lets out a yelp, but it's too late. His face collides head-on with the ground.

"Shit," he mutters, pushing himself up on his hands and knees.

It's too late though.

The Chous have closed in around him already.

"Now we've got you," sneers the oldest. One of his baseball glove hands seizes Wan by the collar of his Oxford, yanking him to his feet. The middle Chou forces his arms behind his back.

Wan chuckles nervously. "Think we could…talk things out, guys?"

His treaty is met with menacing laughter. Chou's hand draws back, balled into a tight fist, and Wan braces for impact.

When—

"What do you think you're doing?"

The scene freezes; Chou's fist is mere centimeters from Wan's closed eyes.

The sole of a mary jane taps impatiently on the pavement.

Wait. Wan knows that voice. It's—

"You do realize that violence on school grounds is against the handbook, don't you?"

Raava surveys the site, lips pursed, and hands on her cocked hips.

"Uh…" The youngest Chou looks terrified under Raava's stern glower.

Understandably.

"Of course, class rep," the middle one offers, still holding Wan's arms.

The eldest blinks. "Yeah, we were just enlightening him on the handbook," he says awkwardly. "Right, Wan?"

"Right," Wan parrots quickly. He figures it's the safest answer, considering the very large fist in dangerous proximity to his skull.

"Well that will not be necessary." Raava smiles and it's somehow more terrifying than her scowl.

"But class rep—," protests the middle Chou, before he's sufficiently cut off by Wan squirming out of his grasp.

"You heard her, so I'll just be off," he chirps as he twists away from the four hands vying for him.

"Not so fast," growls the oldest. His fist comes down, and Wan hits the ground again.

And then—it's a clusterfuck.

The three Chous pile atop Wan to form a chaotic pile of flailing junior high limbs.

"Get off of him!" Raava commands. She surges forward, wraps her arms around the oldest Chou's neck and tugs him backward. Hard.

All of them are taken aback by the attack. But Wan moves past the initial shock and takes a stab at the upper hand.

The youngest Chou had taken the momentary lag to retreat, but the middle lunges for Wan. The latter wrestles him to the ground.

Raava's managed to get a chokehold on the oldest. She's merciless.

"Get…off of me," he huffs, writhing in a vain attempt to shake free of her grasp.

"No," she grates through her clenched jaw.

Chou's arm swings haphazardly backward, and suddenly, the smack of skin on skin resounds. Wan's head snaps up.

Raava is knocked backward, losing her grip on Chou. Her knees slam on the ground.

A drop of blood slides down her lip, and she looks positively enraged.

"Don't you touch her!" Wan yells, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He forgets the middle Chou and charges at the eldest.

Chou holds up his hands. "Wait, I didn't mean to—!"

His plea for forgiveness is cut short. Wan punches him square in the jaw. He stumbles back and falls to the concrete.

Wan is the only one left standing.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

He looks down at Raava. Her hair is falling from her usually immaculate braid, and her lip is split, already beginning to swell.

"Yeah," she says, still breathing heavily. She drags the back of her hand across her mouth, and it comes away smeared with blood.

Before they can say anything more, two teachers come rushing towards them. They drag the Chous to their feet, yelling and scolding all of them harshly.

He's surely in for another month of detention.

Wan wipes the blood from his nose on his sleeve. His mouth tastes coppery.

One of the teachers nudges his shoulder with an open palm, ushering him forward, back toward the school where they'll no doubt call his foster parents again.

He looks back over his shoulder, and locks eyes with Raava. Instead of the cold glare and unforgiving frown he's come to expect from every fucking person in the school, he's met with something different entirely.

There's a victorious flicker in her blue eyes as she holds his gaze and pushes back her mussed hair. Her fingers are trembling from the rush, and she smiles with lips stained scarlet.

Wan never forgets.

4. breathing

Harmonic Convergence is a thing.

Sure, it'd taken a month of Wan's persistence to convince Raava that it was a good idea, and longer than that to convince everyone else.

And sure, Wan's never written his own song, and the only place they ever perform at the Oasis, and it's only when Aye Aye can't book anyone else and Wan doesn't have any more lattes to make.

So he plays the guitar and sings, and Raava plays the piano, and it works.

It's a thing, and it's their thing.

It's been a thing for almost six months when Wan realizes—

"I've never heard you sing."

Raava blinks. "Can I get a chai?"

"Not unless you sing," he replies, grinning. He punches her order into the register anyway because it's still sort of his job. "I'm serious."

"Of course you are, Wan," she replies absently. Maybe she should've gone to Starbucks instead.

Wan rests his elbows on the counter, perches his chin on his palms. "Would you sing for me?"

She hands him four dollars and answers no.

She doesn't sing. For anyone.

Wan pouts as he pulls her favorite mug from the shelf.

Raava tugs her back off of her shoulder and slides onto one of the barstools behind the espresso machine. There's a calc test tomorrow; she really needs to study.

Wan appears around the side of the machine. "Okay, but what if—?"

"Wan," she snaps, dropping a hardcover text book on the counter. It lands with a thud and efficiently startles the group of freshman girls lined up by the door. "Do you not have a job to do?"

"Fine," he sighs dramatically. He reaches over the bottles of coffee syrup to set her drink beside her notebook. "Chai with extra nutmeg for my favorite customer."

He grins as he walks back to the cash register.

"I'm still not singing," she calls after him.

He gives a nonchalant wave over his hand, and Raava rolls her eyes.

The mug is hot on her fingertips.

Wan is busy for the next thirty minutes, and she relishes in the peaceful time to study before he inevitably drifts back over.

Which he does.

"So why don't you sing?"

"I simply do not." Raava looks up from the book, not amused.

Wan leans further over the counter. "Why not?"

Because she doesn't.

She plays the piano, and she's good at it, and she knows she's good at it. But singing is…different.

She's never sang for anyone, and she doesn't know, and it—

"I don't know, Wan."

—scares her.

And she hates that.

Her thumb rubs over the blue lip print on the rim of her mug. "I play the piano, and I'm good at it."

"I know,' he says. There's something in his voice that catches her, and she knows he knows what's left unsaid.

She stays until closing.

Wan's turning off the neon open sign when he says, "the piano's on the platform."

Like always.

Raava pauses, books barely stuffed into her bag. "And?"

"And." He shrugs. He's still facing the window. "You should play."

"And sing?" she asks dryly.

"If you want."

She laughs through her nose, and she's halfway to the piano before she even realizes.

Raava doesn't sing, she plays the piano because it's what she knows and she's proud and it's comfortable. She doesn't sing for anyone.

But Wan is…Wan.

Wan who gets on her nerves and is only slightly less annoying when he's under her, but who remembers that she likes chai lattes with extra nutmeg even though she's only told him once, and probably knows her better than anyone else ever cared to.

Wan who convinced her to join his fucking band.

She sits down behind the keyboard and lays her fingers on the keys. She glances to Wan, leaning into the broom he's supposed to be sweeping the café with.

Her lips press together until a reluctant pull at the corners forces them apart.

Raava arranges her fingers into a chord and pushes down. The sound echoes through the Oasis. She lets it resonate before playing another. And another, until her fingertips are gliding gracefully across the keys and the empty space is filled with it, and it feels right.

She takes a breath.

5. touch

Wan's twelve and getting high behind the school.

He leans into the concrete side of the building, eyes closed. No one else ever goes there, especially not after school hours. For once, he's completely alone.

Until—

"So is it true?"

Wan jumps, eyes flying open as the joint slips from his fingers and he scrambles to crush it beneath the sole of his shoe.

"Oh," he breathes, panic subsiding once his eyes adjust, and he takes in the visitor's appearance. "It's you."

Raava straightens her uniform skirt out of habit and crosses her arms. The split in her lip has stopped swelling, but a faint red line still stands out uncharacteristically.

"Is what true?" he asks, plucking his earbuds out and letting them hang around his neck. Nothing had been playing anyway. He doesn't look at her.

Raava's brow furrows. "Are you leaving?"

Wan laughs bitterly. "You mean was I expelled?" He kicks a pebble with the rubber toe of a worn converse. "No, I wasn't. But, the school called my foster parents."

"And?" She prompts, subconsciously shifting closer.

"And they decided I'm too much for them to handle at the moment." His voice is acerbic as he recites the recycled line he's heard too many times already.

Raava blinks, frowns. "So they are—?"

"So they're pulling out," he snaps. "They're dumping us. Today was my last day."

"Oh."

"So yeah. I'm leaving the school." Wan smiles at her and it doesn't reach his eyes.

Raava shakes her head and sighs. "But that's…wrong."

He laughs again. "It's fucked up, that's what it is." But he shrugs and states, "but that's just how it's always been."

And he doesn't expect her to understand.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. She doesn't know what else to say.

"Yeah, well…" His voice trails off and he shrugs again, looking down at the concrete. "So am I."

His eyes drift back to Raava's. He doesn't expect her to understand, and she doesn't, but she's staring back at him with blue eyes clouded in concern and she's trying.

It's something he's never seen from anyone else, and it hits him harder than the punch that left the deep purple bruise around his eye.

Maybe it's because she can't wrap her mind around it or because there's nothing left to say when Raava steps forward unexpectedly. Her fingers curl into his collar as she pulls him closer.

Their lips meet somewhere in the middle for a fleeting second. It's weird, but not unpleasant. Seconds pass, and they pull back as if burned once they come to their senses and recall that they're supposed to hate each other.

Raava pulls away, blinking fast with a scarlet blush spread across her cheeks. "I wanted to say goodbye," she says finally, taking slow steps backward.

"Yeah," Wan mutters. His cheeks burn to match hers. "I guess that's what it is. So…"

"Goodbye, Wan." She nods diplomatically, holding his gaze still.

"See you around," His fingertips brush over his lips unconsciously. "Raava…"

Raava doesn't break eye contact until she turns and disappears around the corner.

The end of a dark braid is the last he sees of her.

Wan never thinks back to the private school, but when he does, it's about the girl with blue eyes and a split in her lip who kissed him on his last day there.