my fic for the coppertone wars halloween exchange. this is for you, lily (indie misery)! i assumed by "the xx," you meant the band, and please note i've only read until bratfest at tiffany's (and haven't read it in a while). title from crystalised, by said band. i'm sorry it's late; feel free to hate me forever.
prompts: "where's my mind?," shattered smiley faces, chamomile tea bags, the xx.
"And you've got the faith
That I could bring paradise."
In June, she graduates from college, tossing her hat off and screaming with the rest of the Pretty Committee. They'd lost the name somewhere in the summer after senior year of high school, calling it out and childish, because they're mature people now. They kiss like nobody's business and they still march through crowds that part around them like they're celebrities. Maybe they are. Still, she calls them the old name in her head out of habit.
(For three anxious, tissue-filled days, she locks herself up in her house and spends most of her time trying not to eat the chocolate sitting in her cupboards. Claire Lyons doesn't emotionally eat like a girl on her period, and she certainly doesn't want to meet Cam looking like she's doubled her weight.)
Three days afterward, she finds herself holding Cam's hand, a bright-eyed smile on her face. She's happy, she's healthy, and she's beautiful—she's never felt so confident in her life. The shred of a plane ticket quivers in her hand, just a little, the letters spelled out in bold that glares up at her.
"We're going to Paris," she giggles, hanging onto his shoulder. They watch Mean Girls on the plane and she compiles a playlist that blares in her ears. The music is ugly and loud and she's watched the movie a million times, but she doesn't care. It's wonderfully romantic anyway.
Cam makes good on his promises to take her traveling.
Paris, France.
Claire isn't a fan of traveling—though the plane to LA for Dial L for Loser was lovely, sometimes it's a bit tiring to wake up at three in the morning and drag a suitcase with you through an airport, you know? She's not even rich; she can't just be buying plane tickets everywhere. Borrowing money from Massie is a habit of hers, though, and she's made a fair amount of money in a few part-time jobs.
She changes her mind about traveling when she sees Paris in its nighttime glory, strings of lights circling the buildings like it's already holiday season and a distinct bakery smell wafting through the air. Her arm loops shyly around Cam's as they step off, the sleep gone from their eyelids to be replaced with wonder.
Romantic, she repeats to herself. Romantic.
In high school, she took a few basic courses in French, which is enough to tide her over for now. French is a beautiful language, and she talks as much as she can with her limited vocabulary until the passersby begin to give her strange looks. The words taste like honey on her lips.
"This is just the beginning," Cam promises when they collapse into their (one-bed) hotel room together. Their bodies fit together perfectly in the night, and she dreams of the boy beside her. He feeds more promises into her ear as she sleeps.
London, England.
(Claire likes to pretend that she's philosophical and deep. Really, she can be. It's just that when they step off the plane and into the rain, well, rain's supposed to be romantic. She likes rain. But the fact it's practically dragging itself down like it hates its very existence and the color of the sky is the color of ashes—well, that's honestly depressing.)
In England—the United Kingdom, she reminds herself, wondering where her mind's gone as of late—they kiss in the rain. Never mind that they'll probably both get a cold; they fall over themselves laughing in a tangle of limbs when they try to imitate the local accents, and she calls it a fairy tale. This is just a journey around the world, around her life, and nothing more, but it's still a fairy tale.
Just a short one.
(She checks the bank balances and wonders how many stops they'll have left.)
Claire Lyons is the happiest girl in the world. She might just be a Westchester girl with debatable amounts of money who clings too tightly to her friend, but here, she is not. The British are polite, and the tea is lovely.
She stares into her cup of chamomile tea, watching the tea bag drip water when she fishes it out. When she drinks it scalding hot, it burns her throat. It feels a little like Cam kissing her and leaving her with swollen lips.
The feeling of airplanes is starting to give her the feeling of getting too close to the sun.
Unnamed, Ireland
They land in Dublin, and she's piecing little smilies and hearts with bits of colored tissue paper. It looks almost like glass to her as she stumbles out of the car, trancelike, to write Claire + Cam.
(Her eyes are fixated on him until they barely even blink, but she pretends she's not that anxious.)
He leads her into a taxi and mumbles something—it might even be in another language; she barely remembers whether the Irish have a different language from English—to the driver that makes the man sigh. The numbers she's watching rocket upwards, but he turns her face so she can watch the sloping hills instead.
Ireland is beautiful. It's not her type—outdoorsy and so green it hurts her eyes—but it's beautiful. The green that covers everything is beautiful.
(If nature has makeup, they need it.
Shut up. It's beautiful.)
Her mosaic is complete when they reach a small town so run-down and unnoticeable it's never plotted on even the most detailed of maps, and it's entirely nameless. Little pieces of tissue paper float away when she rubs too hard and rips it a bit, but she fixes it up with Scotch tape.
He brings her to the seaside, the only reason he would take her to such a town. The sand is too wet and patchy with brown where water washes over it, but the foamy blue of the waves is amazing. He splashes water on her, and they're laughing, always laughing. Saltwater washes over her lips, but he kisses her anyway. Kissing. . .well, she's never going to get tired of it.
(Her mosaic smiley face is washed away by the waves and wind when she leaves it in its spot, and it splinters into pieces.)
By the end, salt makes her skin itch and sand is crusting under her fingernails. It's not just a whisper in the back of her mind—even fairy tales have a few unpleasant aspects. When she stares into the mirror, pruny wrinkles decorate her hands. She looks like a mermaid, melted into the sea, but far less pretty.
"You're always beautiful," he tells her, and it (almost) makes up for it. There's a ripple as she surfaces, and it's like she's not quite drowning.
Washington DC, United States.
"Washington DC?" she asks, incredulous. Her fingers curl around his like he's a key fitting into her lock that was just formed, and she plays absently with a few bits of tissue paper. "What's so great about Washington DC?" What's so great about everything? Paris was beautiful and I was airsick the rest of the way.
"These," he says, reaching up and plucking a few white blossoms from the branch hanging overhead. He sticks them into her hair, (and it looks horrible against the dark blonde color) and she manages a smile. "By the way, don't listen to the nonsense that the politicians spout."
Claire manages a laugh this time, a real, wide-open one, and it's not at his joke. She twirls him around daringly in the middle of the sidewalk, and for once, her cheeks don't burst into color when the people milling around stare. Someone shouts derisively, "Get a room."
"I miss the US," she confesses after a few seconds. Their feet dangle as they sit on a half-built brick wall, almost touching the sidewalk. The red brick chafes at her arms when she drags it carelessly over the taller section next to her, but it feels a little more like home. The people passing by don't have odd accents. She understands them all.
Cam looks out into the distance, seeing nothing but traffic lights and cab drivers. He still has wanderlust that isn't entirely satisfied, still is not content to see nothing but a few crumbling buildings every day. "I didn't." He smiles. "I'd stay here for you, though."
She discovers where her mind (and her heart) is—it's at home.
Westchester, New York, United States.
"I'll miss you," she hiccups, running her hands over his chest. She realizes she's almost as tall as he is, something that surprises her. He's so big to her, so much more; when she sees his shadow, it's bigger than she could've imagined.
Tears streak her shining face as she stands by the window; it's nighttime (and not three AM, thankfully), and the glimmering lights look a little like Paris'.
"I'll be back as soon as possible," he promises, taking a moment to glance up from his papers about bank balances. He has enough for one more trip. "Back before you know it, I swear. Us not being together—that's fiction."
She doesn't need to be in the sea; it feels like when he smiles at her, she really is melting.
"I'll always be back for you," he tells her.
"But burn down our home,
I won't leave alive."