Disclaimer: I don't own Victorious. Title totally belongs to Ke$ha.

A/N: I have no idea. This is quite possibly the most out there, disjointed thing that I have ever written. But I wrote this thing over four freaking times, so I'm posting it. (I'm so lucky that I found wifi over here in the middle of no where. :D) Reviews are love.

Love Looking Like Diamonds

(the songs that he writes about her always become number one hits.)

:-:

she knocks on the door to his apartment soaking wet, with lightning flashing behind. she always comes into his life with a bang (not a whimper) and this time is no exception. the only things that she has with her are dirty flip flops, a black dress, and an oversize jacket with holes in it.

she has no bags.

"please," she pleads, eyes begging him to do whatever she asked. andré has to wonder if she knows what her eyes to do him, and he has to figure that no, she doesn't. all it takes is one glance from those brown eyes and he's putty in her hands. "i just need a place to stay."

"okay." he lets her in the door and back into his heart.

(it's almost like she didn't talking to him three years ago; they just fall back into that easy rhythm of give and take, he gives and she takes.)

:-:

it isn't until she takes off that jacket, the one with holes in it, that he notices the bruises on the crook of her elbow and the bags under her eyes, the ones that not even the most talented make-up artist could fix.

this is what hollywood has done to her. he should have seen this coming, one way or another. any sort of goodness, any ray of light, and hollywood would find a way to contaminate it, to make it just as pure as everything and everyone else in there. in other words; not pure at all.

he fixes her some food that she doesn't eat, gives her some water that she doesn't drink and asks her, "tori, are you okay?"

(he's pretty sure that he knows the answer.)

she smiles at him, a tired smile. "no, not really," she answers, truthful as always.

:-:

he wakes up to her screaming one night. running as fast as he can he leaps over all the clothes in his room and finds her on the couch, tears streaming down her face, rocking back and forth, back and forth. "my heart," she moans, "it's going to beat out of my chest. i'm going to die."

andré tries to think of all of the symptoms of drug withdrawal that he looked up right before bed and he realizes that this is one of them. this isn't the tori he knew, the one that always knew the right thing to say that would make his heart go pitter pat, the one that had been his best friend right up until she had gotten that movie role, the one that she had almost gotten that oscar for. this is tori, the addict.

"you're not going to die," he tells her and she grips his shirt with shaking hands, her eyes darting back and forth.

"promise?" she asks as if he has all of the answers that she needs, as if he's sure of anything anymore.

(the only thing that he's sure of since she walked back into his life is that he's actually not sure of anything at all.)

"promise."

:-:

after a while it's almost like they're a married couple. andré goes to work and tori stays home and they do almost everything together. anyone from the outside looking in would have thought that they were in love or something like it.

it's kind of sick, really, how well together they fit, like pieces of a puzzle.

(and yeah, maybe it could have been like that, if tori actually wasn't addicted to heroin and andré had become a workaholic just to get away from loving her all over again.)

:-:

one day he comes home to hear tori sobbing in the kitchen. he rushes over to her, only to fine shattered glass and some sort of food all over the floor and a broken tori in the middle of it all. he kneels down with her, ignoring the glass that digs into his legs through his jeans.

he places a hand on her shoulder and notices that her hands have red and angry burn marks. "i fuck up everything," she screams when she looks up to find him staring at her. "everything!" and then she starts crying harder.

tori has never been a pretty crier, except for when she cried in movies. her cheeks are red and her eyes are bloodshot and maybe this isn't her best angle but andré feels like maybe this is the best that he's ever seen her because for once she isn't pretending.

(he's always been pretty good at taking care of people.)

:-:

"i'm a liar," she tells him, bandages on her hands and her head in his lap. "that's all hollywood is, a bunch of liars. and i'm the biggest one of all. some all american girl i am."

(andré can't deny it but he also knows that it's not the whole truth, not really.)

:-:

she decides to thank him for taking care of her for all of these months. he didn't really need to do that for her. but she has no money after spending it all on her stash, and she has nothing left. he's the one that bought the clothes on her back and forgave her for letting him go.

(for not loving him back.)

there's only one way that she could thank him properly. it's the only currency that she has.

so she kisses him one night on the couch when they're watching america's next top model. he kisses her back but he pulls away after a while, questions in his eyes.

"to thank you," she tells him and watches as the smile leaves his eyes.

"not like this, tori."

he walks away.

:-:

(he's always kind of known that she could never love him back. right?)

:-:

(once again she's fucked everything up. god, why can't she just die?)

:-:

she dies on a thursday. official cause of death; overdose.

(he can't act like he's surprised.)