to the moon and back
At twelve, she was small. Cat/Andre.
A/N: new favorite crack style, new favorite crack pairing. i am insane, and this proves it. also, in my canon (and this story, though it's hard to tell), cat has a crush on andre that he's aware of but doesn't reciprocate. i'm getting more into the angst now. i don't know. i am strangely proud of this, as well, i feel like i'm finally getting back into ~my writing. hope everyone likes and please don't favorite without reviewing because that's been happening to me a lot lately, and i do like hearing what everyone thinks!
Twelve, she was small. Smaller than most of the girls and all of the boys and once she beat him at basketball, shoots, scores, ball swooping through the hoop like magic, curving with the wind.
At twelve, she calls him Andy, not as a joke, and no one had ever done that before, called him a nickname, changed his name so that it was almost unrecognizable and no one had ever thought to mark him like that. (Andy.)
Twelve, she kisses his cheek and runs inside, cheeks flushed from what he can see, glimpse, and.
At twelve-
he is hers.
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-once (just once), he buys her a popsicle from the ice-cream truck, tongue licking at the corner of her lip, wiping away the heat from the summer sun-
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His mom, or someone, he can't remember who- said it once, called them sixth-grade sweethearts.
That's all anyone thinks of their relationship, no one ever thinks about him and Cat long enough to say those three words, "sixth grade sweethearts", like they mean something. Like they mean anything at all.
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You could call it friendship, maybe. If you wanted to.
When something happens, to him or to her- the other is always there- waiting in the wings, never really there but- you know- there, nonetheless.
He sings, and she throws her arms around him, and through her eyes, he's a hero, he's a prince, through her eyes he's light and bright and-
through her eyes, he wears wings.
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Monday, April, or something, he's not completely, exactly sure- she's not at school and he's worried. Kind of, in the back of his mind, like he's forgotten something but he can't remember what he's remembering he's forgotten- he hears from Jade she's sick. Robbie won't ditch school, Beck and Jade have rehearsal so he takes his mom's car and drives to her house. He's fifteen and he makes breakfast for her because her parents are at work and they eat it in bed, make a mess all over the sheets, all over her, and she tastes like eggs and orange juice against his mouth.
Later, she touches his wrist and says thank you, anyway, even though he's sure it wasn't very good and they don't talk about them kissing because- your parents are going to be home soon, he says.
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Doesn't lock the door on his way out, she'll be okay, he thinks, she always is, right.
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There was a time-
it's been a while, now-
it occurred to him how easy it would be, how natural because she's sitting next to him, always, mouth curled into a grin, eyes wide and she leans into his arm a bit like she wants to.
He wonders if she's thought of it at all.
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(except he knows she has because of the way she watches him sometimes-)
(when she thinks he isn't)
(looking, that is)
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They don't hold hands because they aren't BeckandJade and that's not what they do.
Cat leans against the lockers, biting her lip-
"Feeling all right, Little Red?" He asks, his mouth fumbling, never quite as easy even with practice.
She smiles. "Walk to class with me!" She exclaims, it's like a question even though it's not, really but she always feels like she has to ask- maybe she does, what if she just told him,
He falls into step with her- it's quiet, they've never needed much talking, and they can't fall back into old sixth-grade conversations anymore- maybe that was the last time they ever really talked-
Her eyes are too bright and he wants to steady her. They linger near the doorway before Sikowitz's classroom, and she doesn't turn around- her fingers are touching her throat and she looks cold but he doesn't ask because it's Los Angeles in the springtime.
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"do you remember when we met?" simple question, simple answer, innocence spilled like paint all over her skin, sweet-
"not really." because of course he doesn't,
when he plays the piano later he thinks of her, palewhite, ivory keys-
(simple- no, more like-
easy, yeah, that's it)
(come on, sing it with me)
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Cat looks younger with her eyes closed, Andre doesn't remember how he knows this except he's sure that he does.
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fin.