A/n- I wrote this months ago, and I decided that I needed to publish it. It might be rocky, because I didn't really feel like editing, but I hope it's okay anyway. Obviously, I'm finicky about this, but reviews would definitely cheer me up. I must thank my Hannah Banana (in the jungle dances) for always being encouraging and everyone else on this archive who has been so cool (Angela, Tash, Alex, Emmy, JayFaye, Nikolette, Ana, Mo, Lisa, Tinsley, and so many more). And, yes, this fiction has flashbacks. Apparently, I have an obsession with them, even though I didn't know it. Anyway. The flashbacks will be signaled by the retro italicized word that says Flashbacks. Just like that.
Disclaimer to any brands, songs, and-of course-to Lisi's characters. /salute
Pairing: I guess we'll see.(;
Rating: T.
home and love
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Harris found himself in sticky situations too much for his liking, though he supposed it had never really bothered him that much, considering he always got back into them repeatedly.
Of what kind of situations, many wondered, but he was never one to stay in the past nor cower in a corner like a spanked child; Harris Fisher was a big boy, even if he didn't make it through college and dropped out due to utter stupidity. I'm a bad boy had been his unspoken excuse, and he had hard damn proof that everyone would believe that, because how couldn't they? He was Harris Fisher. Reiterated a hundred more times, and he might have finally realized that it meant nothing.
College was a pleasant experience for him, since he couldn't really recall anything that happened, besides the constant downer of bad grades, naughty things on shiny motorcycles, and wet towels. He wasn't sure what the latter even meant.
But as his self-esteem could not spiral any lower, he decided to head down to his good, none bad-asser-y hometown of Westchester, where if the air even dared to frizz the proper ladies neat updo's, they shook their manicured fists at the sky and shot a demonic bird to the Sovereign.
He was always really himself there. There was never any facades for him in Westchester.
.
He hummed to the ancient rock song he forced himself to like, because all the guys had told him he should, since chicks want the whole package, dude. But then he realized none of them were sitting next to him in his Mustang, and that there was really no point to suffer through more Journey songs, so he clicked the radio off and reclined dutifully behind the wheel.
He wasn't expecting anything when he got home, seeing as no one even knew that he would be gracing them with his slouchy presence in approximately; he glanced at the neon time on the radio- two hours, though a Taco Bell break would assuredly have to come first. He'd just heard that they had a new burrito out and he was gravelling to try it out.
He began a stoic observation of the silver ring he had slipped on just after leaving his dorm. He had been shoving clothes into his duffel, sweeping the room quickly with a hasty gaze, before a glint of silver hanging on his bed hook captured his attention. The memories it brought were bittersweet- late night car hook-ups, dips in glittering lakes, quick food at Sonic, because they had just wanted to, and the murmured promise of their love "forever."
It would always sadden him to think of his relationship with Skye Hamilton.
Flashback
He was late for AP Lit. again. He threw his fresh, eighteen year old self off of his new glossy toy, and swept his mop of dark hair behind his ear.
"Harris!"
His brother Cam jumped out of a bubblegum pink minivan and loped towards him; he tried to stifle his laugh, but just couldn't quite muster the self-control.
"What the hell, Cam?" he snorted, "is Barney in there? Has he gotten his satisfaction with you yet?"
His brother's sweaty face turned down into a scowl, "Derrick had to borrow-whatever-that doesn't matter," he started, "you won't be laughing when I tell mom that you're late again; you knows what happens if you don't make it through your Literature class-"
"Yeah, yeah, Cammie boy, I know," he scoffed and added helplessly, "but who seriously wouldn't let me into college? They should be honored that I even applied."
"Oooh, Mister high-and-mighty, don't let us simple kids stand in your way," he teased, eyes rolling, hands pulling at the bagging in his jeans.
Harris shook his head at his insolence and decided to let it go, ignoring his brother's exclaimed, "Barney has talented hands, ya know?" and strode towards the embellished entrance of the school.
.
"Harris Fisher?" The hoarse, and definitely disgruntled voice of his teacher interrupted his reverie of pretty girls on pretty motorcycles; he flicked his fingers up in the air, not coincidentally letting the others shrink back down, and the middle remain erect. Giggles erupted, and he stifled his smile, while lowering his head and jiggling his pen.
He heard the measured sigh of his teacher, the click of her heels, and then, "Skye Hamilton?"
"Here," the voice was a muted whisper, and even he couldn't contain his curiosity.
Reportedly, his friends had been buzzing about the new girl in town and how she was just so hot, and damnnn what they'd give for some of that, along with some promiscuous rumors, but the angelic voice couldn't be another give-me-what-I-want-and-I'll-screw-you-to-Mars kind.
Desks distractedly squeaked, as the whole population of the class assessed the poor new girl; even he couldn't resist after a moment of whispers and the scribbling of pens for future note passing.
The teacher was calling attention, so he waited until she turned to the board to blindly fawn over more of Poe's lyrical poetry and how no one could ever match his use of personification or hyperbole, to check out this Skye for himself.
He first penned his choppy locks of hair back with a pencil, winking at the flushing girl opposite himself, before casually sliding his legs out in the aisle and dramatically flinging his head back. He peeked out of his peripheral vision, skipping over the diffident hopefuls, the shifting jocks, and the artfully arching cheerleaders, before something very pretty caught him.
His hearts rate accelerated; a blush wound a curious way around his cheeks, not accustomed to being let loose; his pencil slipped out of his suddenly sweaty hands and clacked noisily onto his desk. He quickly adjusted his position, like a perfect saint, and matched his teacher's assessing glare with a conspiring look of innocence, before she finally continued the class, motioning towards the portrait of Poe as if he was Jesus himself.
He slid his head onto his desk and exhaled; the new girl wasn't important right now. He needed to concentrate on Edgar and his alluring style and haughty, good looks. Yeah, before Poe wasted himself in too much vodka and thought of how the world ends, until he couldn't take it. Real chipper, that one.
He shook the wavering image of Skye out of his head and reluctantly took to his work.
.
Delicately drumming his car-callused hands on the glossy overdo of his car, he finished his burrito in one bite and the little thoughts of Skye, he expelled into the chill of the night air. The skies were sparkling here and there with little stars, clouds invading to stream and conceal the virtuous beauty behind them. He almost liked these days, when the stars weren't really out, but were covered by a thick blanket of moisture, because they were actually helpless.
He gave himself credit for being pretty damn deep when he wanted to; he definitely hadn't got that from Skye, though she had always been complicated. She had appeared so simple and pretty and normal, but she really hadn't been. Damn, how he wished for those days sometimes, when he wasn't soaking in hazes and hangovers and bras strewn over his stomach. One day he would let the nostalgia take him for a depressing day or two, but now- he had a mission to mooch off his parents until he figured out what to do with his life.
He couldn't help but grimace into the air at the measly possibilities.
.
Driving into Westchester was easier than he had thought. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, but a clear, pure blue coloring that refreshed his spirit; the air was fresh and the imminent presence of autumn scented the air, sending leaves in tumbling crunches and pubescent teens running with sudden vitality. He saw himself on the corner, slouching against the drugstore's walls, constructing graffiti articulately on the finest marble statues, on the most historic items possible, and on the walls of the salon and country club. He shook his head at how naïve Westchester had been; they had assumed it to be any newcomer, because no true citizen of Westchester would even dare to do such a thing and become an atrocity.
His phone suddenly sang with the screeching cacophony of Aerosmith, a courtesy of his buddies back at college. Maybe he wouldn't miss them so much, after all. A glance at the caller id showed "Cam3"; he grinned at his drunken terms of endearment to his brother and flipped open his phone. (He stuck with flip phones, because he thought iPhones were overrated and the click of hanging up on someone, especially a screeching chick, gave him no more satisfaction then the nice, concluded sound of it flipping close.)
Another example of how deep he was.
"Cammie," he happily greeted into the phone, "what's up, my boy?"
"Are you still in your Lil Wayne phase? You know that guy's no good, right? He's got-like-five baby mamas-"
He laughed, "Calm down; Weezy will always have a place in my heart, but you come first," he pronounced, squinting his eyes in the rearview mirror. His eyes looked a bit shadowed today, "so, what are you-"
"You're in Westchester, and you didn't even tell me!" Cam yelled suddenly, a static on the line protesting, seeming to echo Harris's thoughts exactly.
"Damn, bro, cool it; I was just gonna surprise you," he paused, "and how did you know?"
"What? That you were back in town?" Cam scoffed, "no one drives a '67 anymore. haven't you heard that Mustangs are out, dude?"
"I choose not to listen to that kind of shit," he complained, "and you shouldn't either. You shouldn't jock on Charlotte; she's done nothing to you."
"Charlotte, Harris? Really?"
He stared at a passing group of attractive girls, that he estimated to be about fourteen, trot across the street. One stepped out, a very daring one for sure, and did the booty shake, apparently to impress her friends, or humiliate them; he wasn't sure which one.
"Harris!"
"What?" He asked, feeling a bit exasperated.
"Get your ass home, or I'm telling mom right now that you're in town-"
"Nah, nah, Cam, don't do that!" He pleaded, the hopeful image of banging his brother's head into a wall consoling him, "and why are you so mad?"
"Because I could've planned a damn party already, douche!"
"Calling me names won't help; it's not very nice. And Mom didn't raise you like that; oh. Did Barney have a dirty mouth? Because he seemed like the type-"
"Enough, just get home," his brother mumbled; a moment later and "End Call" flashed across his screen.
He chuckled to himself, observing the girls giggling in an united rhythm, limbs splaying across each other in glee.
He hooted out of his window, suddenly remembering doing the same thing a few years back, and how Cam had called him a fucked-up pedo. He grinned.
Flashback
Harris barreled out of Literature, thoughts scattered, as his main priority was to get to Spanish II, and kill the conjugations until his teacher was fawning over his undeniable talent. Mouth set in a firm line, he jogged around the corner and slammed into a soft body; he couldn't help thinking as he bent over to help up the blonde that this was another cliché and-really-of course, it was going to happen to him.
He grasped her small, slender hand, pulling her slight weight up easily, and bent down to gather her books, having not even bothered to glance at her, studying instead her structured edition of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.
"Isn't this one of Poe's novels?" He asked interestingly, scanning the cover, "you can't find this in the library."
"Um, yeah.; I bought it on Amazon," he froze in mid-air at the timid whisper, slowly ascending until his eyes met hers.
"I'm Skye, by the way."
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A/n- I hope that this story won't consist mainly of flashbacks. I think that they'll just be thrown in there. This is gonna need a lot of work and suggestions, because I'm hoping this won't be horribly cliched. Reviews would mean a lot. And CC definitely. Plot ideas and even pairings would be great, though I do know what pairing I want.(: Review?
-Livvy