Silver Lining.
Peyton won.
Standing in her empty room with dirt on her hands and her hair mussed, she's won. Flecks of white paint splattered on her floor from a frantic paint job remain resistant to her scrubbing, even though the walls have turned another shade completely. She sleeps with his voice in her head and his arms bruising her shoulders. She's won. She has a new ache that throbs fresh in her chest and a smudged drawing of herself, and she's won. There are new locks on her doors and new locks on her heart, because people have appeared and then disapeared just as quickly. She hasn't touched Brooke in months, not even a brush in the hallway, and the hole in her heart stretches and pulls every single day. They are talking, but they're not speaking.
She has won.
Lucas loves her. Or at least, he's trying to. She loves him, but it's not enough anymore. Maybe it never was. It doesn't matter, because she's won, remember? She has tiny aches on her body from holding down her ex-best friend and she can still feel the brunette's arms against her own, legs tangled. It's sick and it's pathetic, but that's the closest she's been to Brooke Davis in months and she wants- she wishes -for it again. It's sad and it makes her feel weak and tangled, but she can't be strong all the time. And she's still not used to having to be when it's just Brooke. They're supposed to be getting better. They're not.
When the door clicks open, she's surprised. If it had been a year ago, a month ago, hell, maybe even a week ago, she wouldn't have been. They've never gone this far without turning back once, so she doesn't know what comes next. She is lost and weak and Brooke is there. That part she knows, that part she's lived through all her life. She just doesn't know what happens after that; lines are smeared. She finds out when Brooke steps into her bedroom with mascara streaks lining her face; a leftover memory twisted into that vision softens them both. It takes Peyton a second to realize that there are streaks of cold and salt against her face as well. She brushes her fingers against her cheek and meets her girl's eyes.
Brooke is standing- hovering -on the other side of the bed. She looks unsure, she looks broken, she looks scared. She has dirt in her hair. Peyton is everything the brunette is, with a little bit of twisted revenge and raw fear mixed in. When Brooke says her name it sounds like a prayer, when she moves it looks like a vision, and when they touch it feels like an echo. When Peyton slowly leans her back onto her bed, they are so lost they have forgotten to think at all.
And even though this will never work, this will never get off the ground, this will not fix anything, Peyton prays to God that it will never stop. They fight and they injure, they snarl and they slap, they hit back because they cannot just grin and bear it. They always come back. Stumbling, fighting every step, and falling into each other- they always come back.
It's quick and it's dirty and full of angst and love and pain. It's not perfect, but then again they never were. It's not even good, but no one ever said they were. Peyton's straight blonde hair feels foreign between Brooke's fingers, but her body is so familiar she can't even distinguish it from her own. Peyton knows every inch of Brooke's curves. They collide. There is no other word for it, except, perhaps, destruction.
Slowly, Peyton starts to care. It creeps back in, slides between them and deep into her, refreshes the pain and then eases it, simply, with Brooke's gliding hands. They are so good at this now.
Brooke leaves, when they are done, which doesn't surprise either of them. Peyton stares at the ceiling while the brunette dresses and she aches a little harsher, a littler deeper. They are still mad, still shattered, still lacking. But they have broken the barrier again, and it's a good thing. It could have ended there, perhaps.
Only, Brooke pauses by the door on her way out. She moves back to Peyton like she can't stop her feet and she can't hurt herself. Like the force brimming in her eyes has manifested in her bones, her movements. She leans down and kisses the girl's mouth, softly, softly. She whispers three words into Peyton's ear. Three words that make it all worth it, that move them even closer. Peyton tightens the covers around her as Brooke walks out the door, and grasps onto the half-sentence that she took for granted for so many years.
And, somehow, she's won, with another dead mother and a crazy stalker and no Brooke.
She's won, because of three words and another beginning.
Too bad it's never quite that easy.
