a/n: So, I've decided to write for André and Jade, which is a new occurrence for me. It's filled with potential, and this is my take on future what-ifs for these two. Like, what if Dan Schneider actually proceeded on making this canon. If Beck and Jade don't get back together, I'd want Beck/Tori and André/Jade, along with Cat/Robbie, or even Trina/Robbie. Whichever one is fine. Just as long as it makes sense and has actual depth. Here's my take on these two. Reviews are love.
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He finds her, curled up against the auditorium wall, the day after her infamous break up with Beck. Her head is buried in her knees, but she doesn't look sad, she simply looks lost, and empty.
"Hey," he says, tentatively sliding on the floor and sitting beside her. She doesn't turn to face him. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Harris," she snaps, her voice muffled. A silence occurs, and he can hear her long, heavy sigh, and when she looks up to face him, he hates how glassy her eyes look.
"You wanna get some ice-cream?" he suggests, causing her to look up in shock. She nods and he offers her his hand. She doesn't take it.
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"To be or not to be," she recites, clutching Hamlet in her hands. She shakes her head and blows out a breath as she turns to stare at him, looking heavily annoyed. "This is pointless. Who cares about this stuff anyway?" She raises a pierced eyebrow. He resists the urge to smile.
"You cared about Lamb to the Slaughter a couple of years ago," he points out, not taking his eyes from the book, but he can hear the sound of her rubbing her nails together.
"Only because it was the only remotely satisfying story that was ever tested," she replies, clucking her tongue. "Besides, I only liked the blood."
"You're an odd soul, Jade West," he remarks, and she merely smirks in response.
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"I'd write you a nice song if you asked," he says, in the library, as she rests her head against the shelves. Her eyes are tired, baggy, but still brightly gleaming with cerulean blue. Jade's legs cross over André's nonchalantly, but he feels the tingle when he brushes his fingers on her skin. Her gaze is icy.
Her eyes darken. "And what would be the title of that song? Darkness?" Her pink lips pursed disagreeing. He laughs.
"Starry Eyes," he responds, and he catches the smile that tugs on her mouth.
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During the performance, he notices that she doesn't make eye-contact with anybody, just stares at the deep-stretched blue sky, twisting and twirling on her black heels as she sings.
She seems the most secure this way; not under the weight of someone else's gaze, but in her own little world. His gaze trails over to her, most noticeably, and he can see Tori's surprised gaze from below the platform, but when the song is over and the music stops, Jade wraps her arms around him and André forgets to care.
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Words are being written in ink, song lyrics are scrawled on his tabletop, her black nail polish is splattered on his desks, and her jackets are strewn on his bedspread. She's dangerous, uncharted territory, new and different, and something so unlike what he's used to. It's a Saturday night, and she's in his bedroom, legs sprawled on the bedspread and blue eyes gleaming.
"Lyrics are supposed to rhyme in a song," she states, voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's the basic rule of song writing. Orange doesn't seem to rhyme with anything." Her tongue clucks insubordinately and she rests her head on his pillow, bright icy blue eyes staring at him expectantly. He smiles, shaking his head as he racks his brain.
"We'll figure something out," he replies, clutching his pen, his brown eyes glued to the sheets. "We always do."
She smirks in concurrence.
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Their first kiss happens under the moonlight, outside of a concert, in the midst of light, drizzling rain.
He doesn't understand why she instigates it, she just does, leaning in to him and trailing her fingers down his jacket. He runs his hands through her dyed hair, and when she finally pulls apart and looks at him expectantly, all he says is, "I liked it better before."
She raises an eyebrow, shocked, and blinks. "What?"
"Your hair," he elaborates. "I liked it better before. When it was brown and straight, without the blue and blonde streaks, the way it was two years ago. I mean, it's pretty now, but before, it was natural. More tangible, in a way. I—"
"Liked it better before," she finishes, voice blank. He nods, shrugging in his jacket, and she leans in and kisses him again.
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Leaves are falling off the tree branches in André's backyard, and he's forced to scrape it all up into a pile beside the trees, and then let his sister take over from there.
She comes over, her black combat boots are squeaking against the wet pavement, her dark black hair is dancing around her face, and her hands are in her pockets. And then she stops in her tracks, observes him, raising a pierced eyebrow.
"You're... sweeping?" she finally asks, voice tinged with amusement. He nods, eyes focused on the leaves, and breathing in hard.
"Don't make this worse than it already is," he says, not looking up from the ground. She just stands, observes, refusing to help, and he just sighs and continues scraping up the leaves that clutter on the emerald grass below his feet, feeling her blue eyes on him. He can feel her smirking as he bends over.
After a while, when all of the leaves are finally stacked and piled up perfectly, he smiles tiredly as he stares at his completion, feeling accomplished. Her sigh is long and drawn, as she leans against the oak tree, placing her boot against the bark and watching him, her blank expression turning to a bored one.
But then he slips on a wet leaf, falls into the stocked pile, and lands into the pile, resulting in being covered in leaves from head to toe. It sends her off; she laughs and laughs and laughs until she hiccups, but then he leans forward and grabs her by the hips, dragging her into the pool of leaves, and she laughs harder, resting her head in the crane of his neck.
It rings clear like bluebells in the frosty air.
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It's midnight, the stars hang on the dark sky, and the light from the television is their only source of light.
It's raining, pouring with sheets of rain, splattering against his windowpane, and he can see her gazing out the window as she plays, keys and notes formulating in her mind, as she does so. He sits beside her, the calmness of the night feeling refreshing, and as she finishes playing, he looks at her and smiles. He can feel the corners of her glossed lips tug into one.
"I love you," he murmurs, his words getting caught up in the heavy rainfall, but still overall audible. She looks paler. "Jade?" he asks. Suddenly, she's getting up and running out the door, despite of intense, heavy downpour.
He calls after her, but she doesn't respond. So he grabs his jacket and hers, and runs after her.
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It's dark, but he follows the sound of clinking combat boots against wet pavements, and then he manages to find her, running, unsurprisingly.
"Jade," he calls, but the sound of her name on his lips just makes her run faster. He does catch up to her, and when he does he twirls her around, facing her blue eyes - which are bright and glassy, filled with wet tears, and she looks away from him so that he won't catch her crying. "Why'd you run off?"
"I don't know what to believe anymore!" she exclaims, removing his arm from her hands. Her entire body shakes, freezes, and she looks exasperated, exhausted. Her eyes, they look tired and worn-out, like she hasn't slept disappeared. "I told Beck how I felt two months ago, before we got together." Her voice shakes. "He didn't want me. He loves Tori, now."
"Jade—"
"I just need to know why," she interjects, staring at him, breathing in frantically. "I need to know why you love me. Because I can't think of a damn reason why you would. And I want the next person I say it to, to be the last person I say it to."
He draws out a long breath. "You're crazy," he says, suddenly, and she raises her eyebrows in shock.
"What?" she asks, blinking uncomprehendingly.
"You're insane," he elaborates, sounding exhausted. And he is. "You are the only person I know that would willingly run into the heavy downpour." He pauses, rephrases his words, and stares at her intently. "Scratch that, the worst downpour Los Angeles has had in the last ten years."
"Thanks," she responds, sarcastically. He chokes back a laugh.
"You are insane," he says. "You're insane and you drive me insane. I'll just come right out and say it. Jade West, you're a bitch." She raises her eyebrows in shock, and opens her mouth to respond, but then he says, "But you're beautiful. And I love you for being both."
She doesn't know what to say, he can tell, so he walks closer to her, and links their fingers together. "I don't love you despite of who you are, but because of who you are. Dark sides, scar tissues, scissors fetish; all of it. Okay? Do you believe me now?" He leans forward, and she's still inching backwards. It seems almost instinctive.
"There's always room for improvement," she says, but she obliges and kisses him, as rain drips down their clothes, and lighting highlights their surroundings. She breathes those three words, eight letters against his mouth, almost inaudibly, under the coldness of the rain, and he can feel her smile.
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Beck and Tori are skating around the rink, hand-in-hand, and Robbie and Cat twirl around the ice, gleaming, and laughing as they roam around, while Jade just sits at the cafe, just beside the rink, stirring her drink and lazily watching the events that happen on ice.
"Don't you want to skate?" he asks her, and she just scoffs, crossing her arms.
"I don't skate," she dismisses, lifting her mug. Her eyes are ice-cold, chilled, and she's lifting her chin up and glaring daggers at the skaters. But he can see something underlying the iciness and anger; longing. And then suddenly realization hits him like a bucket of cold water.
"Jade," he says, voice gentle and tentative. "You know how to skate, don't you?" When she doesn't respond, he realizes the answer. "I can teach you."
Then, she whips her head at him, eyes narrowed with doubt. "You want to teach me?" she snarls. "If you haven't noticed, Harris, I'm not the kindest student. I'll probably make you cry." He's learned to take her comments with a pinch of salt, and smiles instead, rubbing her arm tentatively and gently as he does so.
"I skate in Central Park every time I visit New York," he says. "I think I can handle it." She merely stares at him, faking anticipation. He draws out a long breath. "Come on, West, just let me do it. I'm a great teacher; kind, compassionate, patient, modest—"
"My ass," she interrupts, and he narrows his eyes.
"Language, Ms. West," he responds, playing the role of a strict teacher. She rolls her eyes. "What do you say? I'll be good, I swear." Her eyes are filled with reluctance and anger, but then she sighs, and wordlessly holds out her hand for him to take. He smiles brightly, goading her to the rink, and fastening her skates for her.
"You'll do great. Trust me." He holds her hand, and they both slowly roam to the ice-skating rink. "Just hold onto the pillar," he instructs.
She does so, moving forward slowly learning how to balance on the ice. When she does, she picks up her pace, and starts skittering around the pillar quicker, and then before he knows it, she's already at the other side of the rink, swirling between Cat and Robbie. He watches her proudly from afar.
At the corner of the rink, she looks at him and mouths the words, "Thank you."
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"Don't forget," he tells her, clutching the song sheets in his hands. He scrawls the words onto the paper, they're in his backyard, it's a Saturday night, and she's writing down the notes and playing the keys on the piano beside him. Suddenly, she looks up, and erases something on the paper, re-writing and playing different melodies that blend together to make a symphony. He smiles, to himself, as he watches her.
"This isn't the first time I'm writing a song about you," he says, turning to face her. She stops sketching.
"You wrote about me before?" she asks, finally meeting his gaze. "When?" He smiles, looking at the song sheets, and piecing together the keys and scales and notes. Her lips are pressed against each other and her black nails tap against the frosty tabletop impatiently.
"Sophomore year," he says, by way of reply. "365 Days was about you."
"I always thought it was about Tori," she says, her attention now exclusively his. He chuckles, shakes his head, and smiles.
Wordlessly, she leans over and kisses him. Holding his hand, she goads him to the middle of his backyard, and he spins her around.
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They sneak into a sold-out concert, climbing over a fence, hoping to catch a glimpse of the band.
As the day ends and night sets in, bright stars glimmer and glow above them. She looks above, during the silent part of the performance, and stares at the shiniest star that hangs in the sky.
"Make a wish," he tells her, and she stares at him in distaste. He raises an eyebrow. "It's almost midnight. You don't want to fail its connotations, do you?"
She doesn't tear her gaze from the stars for three whole minutes.
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A year later, it's Senior Prom, and the florist loses the corsage André orders for Jade.
He wears a tux along with Robbie; although he goes for the grand cape and tall hat, along with the classy stick and eye-glass, and leaves Rex at home. When he gets to Jade's house, her gaze is startling, cold and unwelcoming as ever, but her backless midnight dress is blue with black shimmers and it leaves him captivated. Without a corsage, she looks beautiful, and when he drags her around the dance floor, she reluctantly places her arms around his neck, and sways along to the music.
"One dance," she snarls under her breath, glaring daggers at him. "One dance and that's that." Her voice is slightly shaky. He smiles in response.
"One dance and that's that," he agrees. He holds out his hand for a handshake, she takes it, and pulls her in for a deep kiss.
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They go back to his house. There, he strums his guitar melodically, putting together pieces and phrases, and she lies on his bed and listens to him.
It's basically uneventful, but her fingers link firmly with his when he mentions her name in between the chords, and falls asleep on his shoulder halfway through the night.
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Days spur into weeks, then months, and then graduation day is here.
Tori is in the bathroom with Cat and Jade, Trina, now a freshman at UCLA, is wishing Robbie good luck, so it's just Beck and André left together in the cafe. It's been weeks since the two of them have last spoken, and there is some sort of difference in the atmosphere. But it's graduation, where deals are sealed and goodbyes are said. A time of forgiveness, for saying what was left unsaid, for closure.
"I'm going to miss you," he says, turning to face Beck. It clearly startles him. It's sad, how they used to be best friends, but let girls and relationships get in between them.
"I'll miss you too, man," responds Beck, smiling. He looks a little hesitant. "So, you and Jade. Are you two serious?"
"Well, I told her I loved her," he admits. "She said it back."
A silence - a painful one, achingly long, and then there's a sound of sighs and headshakes. A few minutes later, the clock in the auditorium rings, and everybody lines up to get their diplomas and are all in their graduation gowns. Tori comes along, all flushed and nervous and jittery, holding her speech, and Jade comes along, digging her nails in his arm, but when his name is called, she claps the loudest.
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They go their separate ways by summer.
He releases Starry Eyes and thinks about her every time he plays it, the blueness of her irises that will forever haunt him, and he wonders where she is, when he looks out at the sky, wondering if she's looking at a similar sky. He remembers the dreams she used to think about - her name inked on Broadway billboards and blockbuster movies and daytime soap operas, her face on the cover of magazines, her smile broadcasted on TV.
He wonders if she still believes in them. He knows he does.
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He meets her, again, a year after he last saw her.
Her eyes, though, are still bright and blue and magically beautiful. He doesn't think she's changed at all, not since he last saw her; she's still gorgeous and high up her horse and her guard is still up, but she scheduled to sing Starry Eyes with him. It's almost ironic; because the entire time she's in the recording studio, she never meets his gaze.
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"So, you're trying to become famous," he says, as casually as he can, but then she meets his gaze and something like pride swells up inside of him.
"Yeah," she says, trying not to cringe. "I am." There's a silence, an emptiness, but then she turns to him, and tilts her head to the left.
He doesn't say anything, just trials his fingers down the keyboard, thinking of the notes that blend together, but now it feels more like a broken symphony.
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The song is a hit, and she makes a name for herself, like she always wanted.
He holds her during the premiere, as she smirks for the cameras, and smiles for the journalists. It doesn't look staged, at all—she makes it all look so perfectly natural, like she's been doing this for years, like it's a formula she mastered a long time ago. Her eyes gleam in the mist of champagne and stardust.
"You're beautiful," he tells her, after he drives her home and she's all alone, when they, the security of red-carpet dresses and tall champagne flutes and stars, are gone. Her eyes look emptier, she looks touchable, real.
Without speaking, she lets her gaze linger as he drives away.
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"I want to go back to the way we were before," she asks him, mascara tracking down her cheeks, after a catastrophic audition. "I don't want us to pretend we never had anything." He leans forward, holding her against his chest, and rocking her back and forward.
He pulls her in for a hug, as she clearly forces herself not to cry, and he gently traces their names on her skin. "I never stopped loving you." And then she's silent, just for a little while, as she rests her head on his chest. He leans down and kisses her, and it feels like coming home, as he links their fingers together firmly.
"Okay," she whispers, shakily, so softly and so quietly that he has to strain to catch it. But he does, and it sounds like she's scared, scared that he might leave again. So he kisses her one more time, for good measure, and this time, she never lets go of his hand.
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"I'm done with writing songs for the night," he tells her, in the midst of the cold season, and Paris is filled with elegant snow and lovely lighting. She raises a pierced eyebrow, crossing her long legs and dangling her combat boots in between her fingers.
"Yeah?" she asks, sounding bored, but he's known her long enough to catch the tinge of interest that lingers in her voice. He fights a smile.
"My first draft of Starry Eyes," he says, handing her a crumpled note. "It was sort of my unsent love letter. To you."
He sees the way she bites her tongue to avoid spiteful words from leaving her mouth. Instead, she opens up the paper, and after a few seconds into reading it, she actually smiles.
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leave me mesmerised,
here in the fallen leaves.
star in the making,
leave me,
with an image of your starry eyes.