Here's the next one my lovelies. This one is about Fitz' past. I hope you'll like :)


He is looking at his feet, as they move effortlessly along the concrete, gliding almost. He walks in a straight line; he always has; ever since that day when he was five; the day when He yelled and She cried. The day his father's face became that rare shade of red; his lips a thin line, a slit; his voice a burning hiss.

He was five. He doesn't remember much.

His suit is too tight, too tailored. It's a suit for photos, not for five-year olds. His mother pulls on the folded black satin, centering it; making sure the bowtie is just perfectly reaching the folds of his collar; making sure it's perfectly aligned. It's too tight and too stiff; he hates it. He reaches his little hand up to his neck, trying to loop the fingers behind the button that grazes his neck every time he takes a breath; but she slaps the hand away.

"Don't touch that!" Instantly she bows her head; her one hand on her knees, holding herself; the other one covers her face – her thumb and her index finger pushing into her eyelids. Grants, Grants don't cry and she, she is a Grant. She takes a deep breath, then looks up into the small face. His eyes are filled with understanding, understanding beyond his years, as he lays a soft kiss on her cheek.

"It's OK mommy." And his small thumb wipes away the lone tear rolling down her cheek. She's not a Grant, and she knows it. She kisses his forehead running her hand over his gelled hair; his curls cemented into place.

"I'm sorry Fitzy." She says quietly, getting up from her knees, extending a shaky hand to him. "Let's go, your father is waiting."

His father is in the far corner of the white tent, trying to impress some men; because men, men are meant to be impressed, women, they're just ornaments. And children, they're not children, they're heirs, the bearers of family names. So he sits in the shade, sipping his lemonade, trying not to fidget. Because, Grant men, they don't fidget.

His mother occasionally motions to him, between her champagne glasses. Every time, he gets up, walks over to whoever his father is talking to, stands there quietly, until he is noticed. He smiles politely, extends his hand, nodding courteously. He flashes his smile; the one his father loves; the one that is too wide, the one that never reaches his eyes. The ladies in expensive dresses and heels that dig into the soft grass pinch his cheeks and exclaim, "He's so precious Gerry." Because they, the complete strangers with a cloud of perfume around them; their husbands with possessive hands, but wondering eyes; they get to call him Gerry. Big, Big is only reserved for his family. Only they need to think of him as big, bigger than life and bigger than God; more than a mere mortal. Only they have to call him Big, because he, he needs them to be small.

The Sun is too bright, it's too hot in the tent, and there is no more shade under the old oak. He's tired and he wants to go home. But he's too scared to ask; he's terrified, because the last time he interrupted his father to ask something, last year on Christmas Eve, he didn't speak to him for two weeks. It was a quiet Christmas, and an even quieter New Year. So instead of asking he just decides to go down to the creek; he can sit under the willow tree and watch the fish; as they swim in and out of his view, so freely.

He was five. He doesn't remember much.

He remembers a strong pair of hands pulling him up; his feet dangling above the ground. He remembers His face, almost scarlet. He remembers His hand; the burning after He slapped him. He remembers the voice, hissing, "You embarrassed me." He remembers his mother yelling. He remembers fighting back the tears, because of fear. So much fear. He remembers her hugging him shakily, squeezing him until he could no longer breathe; sobbing soft whispers of – sorry.

He was five. He doesn't remember much. But he remembers thinking he should have stayed; he should have listened; He told him to stay there. He knows, from now on he will always do as he is told; not because of the burning of the skin after the firm hand meets the soft cheek; no, but because of the burning of the skin under his mother's tears.

His father drags him back. An icy smile plastered on his face. He introduces him to a pretty girl, with a bow in her hair; a girl in a pastel, poofy dress. A girl with a smile as wide and as empty as his. Mellie. Her father, the leader of the Republican Party, smiles politely and then dismisses them; heirs. Before him, Gerry, suddenly doesn't seem Big; he's just Gerry, forever greedy, forever unhappy.

"Mr. Grant, come on in," the frail looking woman tells him.

"Fitz, please." He extends his hand and she shakes it softly; her grip weak.

"Alright, then, Fitz." She says as she picks up an open folder from her desk, "I had a look at your file; so tell me, what can I help you with?"

"I…" He pauses. He's never done this. He's never discussed money in public. He's a Grant, and Grants; they don't discuss money; especially not in public. It's there, it's always been there; omnipresent in the every conversation they've ever had, together with power and influence; it was always there, in the air, unsaid. But he's never actually talked about it. He doesn't know how to talk about money. But now he has to, because he's going off the trodden path; he's cutting himself off from being a Grant. "I… My fees. I was just… I guess I was wondering, if-there's-a-way-to-pay-them-in-installments?" The last bit comes out in one breath; incomprehensible and barely audible.

She chuckles, a friendly smile lingering, "I didn't quite catch that Fitz."

"Is there a way to pay the tuition fees in installments? Like a loan-thing?" He says, fidgeting.

She looks at him over her thick glasses, tilting her head sideways. "Are you asking for yourself?"

He wants to retort – of course, in a snarky voice; but he can't, not when he needs her help. So he just swallows the attitude and nods his head.

"But, I don't quite understand." She says, flipping though the file once again; pausing at a page; her eyes narrowing. "It says here your fees have been paid in advance."

Shock followed by relief. Relief flooding over him. Relief. But then, there's that nagging feeling; the burning curiosity. He tries to control his voice, trying to sound disinterested and detached, "Oh, right. Well in that case, I guess, there's nothing else." He gets up. He's not going to ask. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice." He shakes her hand again, and turns to leave; pausing at the door. The damn curiosity. "I was just wondering," and he looks at her questioning, as she nods him, encouraging; "What's the payment date?"

"I don't understand." She says, panic suddenly in her eyes.

His hand shakes as he picks up the envelope; not because it's heavy, but because of what's inside. He knows, he already knows, because of the size; he knows it says – Congratulations. His father takes him into his study; for the first time in eighteen years; and he hands him a letter opener from his desk; elegant and silver; delicate, yet heavy. "Open it." And he does. He pulls out the letter and hands it to his father. He watches him. His eyes take in the words, moving down the lines of neatly typed letters. He watches him. His eyes; there's something in them, something he hasn't seen before - pride? He almost smiles as he reaches the bottom of the page; laying a heavy hand on his shoulder.

He pours them two glasses of scotch. The finest single-molt. The one he keeps for people who get to call him Gerry. They drink. And it burns; his throat feels dry and tight; tears stinging in his eyes. But he doesn't cough and he doesn't cry.

The phone rings and he dismisses him, but then calls out as the young man reaches the door. "Fitzgerald," and he turns around, "You are going to Harvard. Grant men, Grant men do not go to Yale." He looks down, and he swears, for a moment, he can see a glimpse of regret. "It was always going to be Harvard, son." He pauses, before waving him off with his hand, "You were going there, from the day you took your first breath."

He climbs up, up to his room, staring at the deep blue. He applied without telling anyone; he applied and he got in; not because of his name, but because of him. It's the first thing he's ever achieved. He crumples the paper and throws it in the bin, a wistful smile, lingering. "It was always going to be Harvard, son," echoing in his mind.

"The date all the fees were paid? Everything, college, law school, everything, when was it?" She just looks at him, her mouth opening and closing silently. "Was it October 12th 1968?" She just nods her head.

He should feel relief. Relief flooding over him; but instead, instead he's suffocating. It was all decided. The day he was born. The day they knew he was a boy; an heir; an heir to great Grant men. Great Grant men. He can't breathe. His whole life was decided, everything pre-planned; everything organized, strategized. He knew that already, he did; but suddenly it's suffocating him. It's not the lack of choice that's constricting his throat; it's his own lack of rebellion. It's the feeling of cowardice; of complacency because of fear. He needs to get out of these clothes, to get home. He steps off the path; onto the wet grass and he runs.

"He didn't mean to." She says as she wipes his tear away. He just nods. They both know, know that he doesn't believe her, know that he can hear right through her broken tone; they both know that he meant to; of course he meant to.

He gets up. His cheek still on fire; a hand-print on his arm. It burns; but more than that it stings.

"You need to make it right with Mellie." She says, her voice almost a whisper. "Big Gerry, he, he needs you to make it right with Mellie."

"I don't love her, mom."

"No. But you love your father." He shakes his head. "And you love me. So you will make it right with Mellie." She props herself on her toes and kisses his cheek.

"Did you ever love him?" She looks up at him; a sudden sadness in her eyes.

"I did," She smiles, almost bitterly; "He just never loved me." He sees the glint of anger in his eyes; a quiet fire, set alight; "He's not a bad man Fitzy. He's just unhappy. This, this isn't the life he wanted."

The melting ice in the crystal glass reminds him of his mother's eyes; the light; the ever-elusive light.

She was right – he was unhappy. But she was also wrong; he is a bad man. The unhappiness, it made him bad.

The scotch no longer burns, no, now it soothes; it numbs. And he likes Harvard; he enjoys it – like the Grant men before him. He tilts his head back, leans it against the cool wall. In three years, or five; maybe ten, ten if he's lucky as hell; he will wake up and realize that he hates his life. Because it's not the life he wanted, with the woman he loves. Because if he follows, follows his father's plan he can't have Olivia. He can love her, be with her now, but at some point, along the way she will stop loving him, because he won't be able to love himself. So if he wants her, if he wants even a shot at happiness, a mere shot, he has to gather the courage to break away, to forge his own path. It sounds so simple to a free mind; but to him it's the scariest thing in life. Because Fitzgerald Grant, he was brought up to believe he was better than others, but never good enough.

There's a soft knock on the door. He looks at the clock. It's late. Damn. They were meant to meet. He was meant to meet her.

"Hi." She says, her eyes taking in his face; the dark circles; the heavy sweetness of his breath. "Are you alright?" There's no anger in her voice, just concern; a hint of love too pure; love that makes him feel even worse.

"I just…" He can't explain it. She won't understand. Because all people see when they see him is fortune and success; privilege. She won't understand. But before he can stop himself, "They paid for Harvard the day I was born. For everything, college, law school; for admission. They set it all up and they didn't even have to manipulate me, I just went along; I never questioned, never complained. I never wanted to be the president, I never wanted Law School, I didn't want the Navy, I didn't want any of it. But I never said anything. They didn't force me. They just gave it to me, and I took it." And he wants to say – and now I hate myself for it. But he doesn't he just takes in a sharp breath.

She steps in, her eyes never leaving his. She closes the door behind her back and then puts her hands on his shoulders. She wants to tell him that of course they manipulated him, he was a child and they expected obedience for their love. Of course they forced him, maybe not overtly, but they never gave him any choices. She wants to tell him, but she knows that he couldn't hear it; not right now. So instead of absolution, she offers him relief, a possible out; she offers him future, without dispelling with the burdens of the past.

"What do you want to do?" Instantly he thinks of writing. But it's silly; childish really. That, that's not a realistic dream.

So he just kisses her instead of answering. "I want to be with you." He's deflecting; using her as a shield, a safety net. He is tying his dreams to her, counting on her to make the losses OK, to counterbalance his mistakes; counting on her to give his life meaning. He's counting on her love to give him purpose in life. It's a burden too heavy, too unfair, for any love to bear. And he knows it; deep inside he does. He knows that for them to survive, he needs to grow up.

And she knows it too. It frightens her.

But she lets it slide. Tonight she lets it slide. She kisses him. Running her hand through his unruly curls – their messiness is what she loves about him. She kisses him. Slowly, tenderly. Her tongue lazily teasing his. And she frees him from his clothes. She kisses a trail down his body, taking him in.

They lie on their sides, their elbows under their cheeks, their eyes glowing – battling sleep.

"You can be great, you know that?" She asks, her knuckles brushing against his cheek.

"I got accepted to Yale." He says; pride in his voice; pride she never heard before.

"To study what?"

"English literature and politics." He smiles as he says it; kissing her quickly. "I used to like writing. When I was in school, I used to like writing."

The next morning he wakes up and she's gone. On the kitchen table a typewriter with a note – "It's not about being great. It's about being happy. And you like writing, so maybe, maybe this could be a beginning of happy."


"Hello, Fitzgerald."

"Hi, Alice. How is she today?" The nurse nods her head, but there's a look; a look he knows, a look he's become accustomed to. "Can I see her?" She doesn't say anything, she just leads the way.

"Mom?" She doesn't look up. She just rocks, back and forth, back and forth; her face traveling from deep shade into the morning sun, and then disappearing again. He kneels down, and takes her hands in his, "Mom, it's me." She looks ahead, into the light; the ever-elusive light.

"I met a girl." He breathes in, and lifts himself up to his feet, pulling up a chair. "I think I'm in love with her." She stops. Instantly, and looks at him.

"No." She shrieks almost. "Love, love will break your heart. Love, love will break your mind." She looks at him for another moment and then her eyes go blank. They glide. Effortlessly. Getting lost in the distance.

It's the first time she speaks to him; the first time in a year. The first time since the scandal. The first time since love broke her heart, her mind, her life.


So that last part was a bit of a curveball, huh?

More about that scandal to come. And thank you so much for following/faving/reviewing - I love reading all your reviews, they honestly inspire me so much!