I like commas and run-on sentences and the word "and." Seventy-five percent of events that happen in this fic are from Peyton's podcasts with my own little twist of course.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
xxx
He and Peyton hung out a lot. In the summer, anyway, when it was just him, and her, and the beach. They bought ice cream at the pier, and visited the old bookstore, and talked and laughed because there was no one to watch and tell them that they couldn't.
And somewhere along the line, that impetuous, passionate, aching sort of feeling twisted into something awkward, forced, and platonic. There was tension, perpetual tension, lasting longer than the easy smiles and simple flirting that seemed only natural when they were together. Because Brooke was there, Brooke was always there, coming through the front door unannounced, or lurking somewhere in the back of their minds, and they were kept apart by a nervous silence and that edging guilt that they couldn't be friends. Not really, anyway.
Reality started, and now he could stay away from her, watch her from afar, ask Nathan and Haley how she was doing because he couldn't do it himself. She was listless and she rarely smiled. She was tired, always tired, she said. That was it; nothing's wrong. She was studying for an upcoming physics test and didn't get any sleep last night.
She was a liar. She was a good liar, too, but she stopped trying to be good a long time ago. (It wasn't like anyone really cared, anyway. Her efforts would be wasted.)
He knew she missed Brooke. He knew she couldn't let her go, because when they were little, they clung to each other like their lives depended on it. He knew it hurt her to not have Brooke, to see her living in a world that was so far from her. Because once, they were best friends, and once, they only had each other.
When her mother died, she had to be strong. She stood next to her father at the funeral, hiding her face a little in his arm, holding his hand; warm, stiff, tight. She could feel the tears pricking the back of her eyes, but she wouldn't cry because she knew if she did she wouldn't be able to stop. So she was strong. She was strong for her father, she was strong for her mother; she was strong for everyone.
He knew, because he was riding his bike around town when he passed the cemetery that day. Keith had fixed the bike chain, (it kept locking and falling off when he went down a hill,) and he hadn't stopped riding since 9:45 that morning. The world was a cool blur around him, and he only glimpsed at the crowd of people standing at the edge of the churchyard, but his eyes caught something gold in the sea of black clothing, the world slowed, and he remembered seeing her staring straight ahead, her lips set in a firm line, and with her blonde curls and her neat black dress, he remembered thinking that she was the most startling and prettiest thing he had ever seen.
Later, much later, during one of their random conversations on first impressions and whatnot, he brought it up. (Casually, of course, because anything more would borderline creepy.) She didn't remember him, or the dress she wore, or how her curls looked like gold. She remembered calling Brooke at three in the morning and asking her to come over, and crying together until they fell asleep on the floor of her living room because they hadn't quite reached the couch before Peyton broke down.
She missed Brooke. She missed Brooke terribly.
At the beginning of the summer, he came over to her house, and they drove to the park down by the river. He brought his basketball and she brought her messenger bag with her art portfolio in it. She had turned the radio on soon after they left, and when they reached the rivercourt, something slow, and melancholy, and smooth floated through the speakers.
She turned around, reaching for her bag in the backseat, singing softly to herself to "Joey" by Concrete Blonde. He was singing along too. She sat back on her legs and gave him a quizzical, amused look; there was an absurd smile on his face, and when he turned to look at her, he was still singing, and there was something happy and sad in his blue eyes. She looked away first.
They stayed in the car, singing along to the song, loud and horribly off tune, like it was the happiest thing they had ever heard, and afterwards they laughed and she gave him such soft, appreciative look, it was all he could do to lean back in his seat and tilt his head away from her when all he wanted was to pull her into a fierce hug.
They didn't have time to hang out much anymore. They both led different lives, different schedules, and Brooke was insecure.
So every once in awhile, he gave her books, poems, CDs to make up for it, and they were always underlined or highlighted or marked to a page that reminded him of her. She would come across it and smile softly, sadly, and remember why they were friends.
Friends.
Last time it was The Picture Of Dorian Gray sometime on a Thursday night. She was having a hard time accepting Ellie. She wasn't there, though, and he waited for half an hour on her front porch before slipping it into her mailbox and returning home. He spotted her the next day at school, lost in the sea of people, and for a moment she gave him a grateful smile, and he just knew. But someone walked in front of her, and then another, and for some reason or another he strained his neck to catch another glimpse of her. She was lost in the sea of people again and the moment was lost.
This time it was a poem by Henry Van Dyke when he found out that she had been ditching first and second period for the past several days since the funeral. He had study hall next, so he decided to pay her a visit, but when he reached the parking lot, she was already exiting her car, pulling her bag over her shoulder and forcing a collected disposition. She was shocked to see him, and in that instant her guard was down, her eyes wide and scared and hurt.
It quickly disappeared.
She forced a strained smile, avoided his gaze, and when he offered a hug she involuntarily flinched.
"Lucas-" her voice cracked, and she took a deep breath in surprise, gasping a little and biting her bottom lip as his name died on her lips.
She quickly looked down and away, trying to dry the tears blurring her line of vision. They stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, with nothing but space and time and yearning between them, and when she finally gained control of her emotions and lifted her eyes, he was still there. He hadn't moved. There was no pity in his eyes.
She wanted to cry all over again.
He walked closer to her, wrapping his arm around her, loosely, than tighter, and she held on to him; held on to him, and hid her face in his shoulder, clutching the brown leather of his jacket in a fist.
The bell rang, their grips loosened, the tips of their fingers brushed each other's at a last attempt, and they never knew each other all over again.
She found the poem sticking out of her locker door at the end of the day, and when she read it later at home she smiled and she cried, because she missed Ellie, and her mom, and her dad, and Brooke, and now she missed him too.
She wasn't good at disclosing her thoughts, so she rarely gave him anything in exchange. Sometimes songs, lyrics, quick sketches that meant something and nothing at the same time. Some of them were silly and cute, and others poignant, but he stored them all the same in a shoebox he kept in his closet because it would be crying shame not to save it.
He had to be there for her. Always. And more than once he just wanted to hold her hand, because he was there.
But he couldn't. It didn't work that way.
In the summer, they told secrets in the dark. He would come over sometimes at night and they would turn off the lights and sit on the floor next to her bed, draping a light quilt over their laps, and Peyton would turn on the flashlight, shining it on her face and smirking at him until he smiled back.
They avoided the awkward stuff. Like how he still thought she was the most startling and prettiest thing he had ever seen, or how, when he was in the hospital, she told Haley that she was in love with him.
He told her he thought she looked cute in her cheerleading uniform, and she told him she used to be scared of the dark.
They couldn't touch it, and they couldn't think about it, and their relationship was limited to shy, grateful smiles and secret presents back and forth. But it could be more; it was more; it was something fighting beneath the surface, waiting, waiting; that impetuous, passionate, aching sort of feeling.
It was a crying shame not to save it.