Chapter 26
A/N: This begins on the same night as Ch. 25 ended, but don't worry…there's a time skip in the next chapter. I'm moving along faster now, but I'll try to still do all the character development I can. As you can see, this chapter is quite a bit longer...stuff happens. And its slightly more fun than all the steady stream of angst you've been getting. Slightly.
Please keep reviewing, following, faving, etc. If enough people comment, I might hit the 100 mark! (Victory dance—hey, they say to celebrate goals as you go along.) And to all of you who have been so awesome, muchas, muchas gracias!
Responses to Guest reviewers:
Pandicorn: (love the name btw. Dunno why, it's just awesome.) Gosh, you people are being so amazing...reception for this fic has been off the charts IMO, especially considering the age of this fandom! I suppose it says something when even the guests are leaving gushy reviews Thank you so much!
Guest #2: Here's the update you so nicely asked for! And thank you for making my day with your CAPSLOCKY COMMENT XD
Gwyneth
The darkness of the room met my eyes when I woke and opened them. It cocooned me in a warm blanket, and I rolled over.
Then I gasped. My body balanced on the edge of the bed. I scooted back, and my back hit something solid. I sighed and started to nestle into the cushy but small pillow beneath my head.
Wait. I'd barely scooted back before my back hit something solid. My bed wasn't so narrow.
I'm not in my own bed.
Electricity shot through me. For a few terrifying seconds, I lay stiff as a board, my harsh panting filling the silent room, my heart thudding almost as loudly in my chest.
Where am I?
Memory slowly, sluggishly began to return. I remembered coming to the Peace's apartment in the middle of a winter storm, the call, the hug, and sitting on the couch in the warm, glowing living room, watching the Hunchback with Warren, and I relaxed.
Okay. So I was on the Peace's couch. No need to panic. I was fine.
Except that I needed to use the bathroom, and badly. So I fumbled on the nightstand for my glasses, slid them on, then got up and stumbled towards where I thought I remembered the hallway.
"Ow!" I nearly jumped out of my skin, out of startled fear more than pain, when I slammed into a table. Swearing under my breath, I rubbed at my aching shin.
Taking several deep breaths, I closed my eyes. Come on, get a grip. Nobody's here.
Even thinking that didn't help my nerves as I reluctantly powered up one hand. It took skill, and I felt a little steam coming off my other hand anyway, but it worked. The white glow enabled me to see a few feet, and I managed to find the bathroom without killing myself.
After washing my hands, I opened the door and powered up my hand again. I passed an open door—probably Ms. Peace's bedroom, and a closed one which had to be Warren's.
What was that?
Stopping dead, I listened carefully, and I heard it again—a faint creak and low mutter, coming from behind Warren's door.
Then a faint moan sounded. I stared. Wait. No way had I just heard...was that Warren? My mind almost dismissed it on the spot.
"No...!"
Okay. Now that couldn't have come from my imagination.
Even though part of me wanted to investigate, the saner half told me I didn't need to. Any normal person would get angry if their friend came poking into their room in the middle of the night, and Warren would be even more so. Plus, opening his door and peeking inside might lead to something that should not be dealt with at this hour of the night. Or morning. Whichever.
Chewing my lower lip, I shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other. In the end, curiosity won out, and I turned the doorknob to Warren's bedroom, and even more cautiously opened the door halfway.
Peering inside, I could only see darkness at first, lit by the faintest glow. But then as my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw the dim glow coming from Warren's bed.
Holy...no way...
I pushed the door open a little further and hesitated, hands shaking. What was I doing? This was stalking and creepiness, and I had no business knowing even if Warren did glow when he slept.
God, you freakin' stalker. Jeez. Yes, you. Forget about the moan, or the mumbling. God, I need to go back to bed.
I rubbed my face in a single weary sweep of my hand as I turned and started back towards the living room.
"Dad!"
The sound of Warren's voice stopped me dead. My heart pounded harder as I listened, and heard the faint but telltale sound of the mattress moving under a restless body.
"Dad! No, please don't…,"
Oh my God...
Guilt seized me. I shouldn't even be hearing this. I. Needed. To. Leave. This was way too private, and much too much of an issue for me, an outsider.
Even as my feet turned automatically, against my will, bringing me back into Warren's room, my brain screamed guilt at me. This was wrong. I shouldn't listen in, especially to someone's dreams. What could I do to help? How would I even do that? Warren just recently started counting me as a sort-of friend.
From where I stood, transfixed, I could see Warren now, lit by the faint moonlight from the window and a reddish glow that rose, barely visible, from his skin. He looked like he was trying to fight something, even in his sleep. Oddly enough, Warren's face appeared beautifully, deeply calm in sleep, his long, thick hair spread out around him in a slightly rumpled black halo.
In this moment, my eyes flickered down to Warren's torso for an instant, and my stomach did a little flip.
I should have been prepared-after all, Warren was a guy, and guys tended to be casual about this sort of thing. Besides, he didn't seem like the pajama type. But still, the knowledge that Warren slept at least partly nude definitely took me by surprise.
Warren muttered something again, and I looked back up at his face. For once, the tranquil features had tightened, and his muttering rose in volume. "No...no please no...leave'im alone...," then his voice rose in a moan so anguished, even in sleep, that I felt a stabbing ache in my own chest. "No! No, no, no!"
I couldn't hold back any longer. My hands reached out and settled gently on Warren's lower arm.
The pyro's hand shot out and clamped down on my wrist. I cried out in pain and sudden horror as Warren's hand glowed blazing hot, flames dancing around our hands and searing me.
"Ah!" I twisted in his grip, gasping as his hand grew hotter and hotter. "Warren, let me go! You're dreaming, dude, wake up!"
Warren's eyes shot open, fixed straight on me. The raw, stark fear in his eyes almost made me forget that he currently had ahold of my wrist with his red-hot hand. Almost.
"Ow!" I twisted, and this time, Warren actually let go. I held up my wrist, hissing in pain. Tiny stinging heat needles lingered in my skin, but I couldn't see well enough to examine it.
"Oh, shit. M'sorry. M'sorry." Warren's deep voice sounded groggy but more obviously horrified than I'd ever heard him.
A faint sparking hiss brought a golden campfire glow into the room. Warren had lit up one hand, and was struggling to sit up. His hair stuck up a little on one side, and his eyes were blurry with sleep, but the firelight brought in lights and shadows to highlight his cheekbones, and make his skin glow golden. As he sat up, I saw his shoulders flex and swallowed. Did he seriously have to sleep without a shirt?
"D'I burn you?" He leaned closer, bringing his flaming hand forward.
"Yeah," I said with a tight smile. "Warr-! What the-,"
Warren had reached out with his other hand and grabbed ahold of mine, and pulled it in. I swallowed, forcing myself not to focus on his hand. Chill out.
Warren held his blazing hand up close to my hurt wrist and squinted at it. From his alertness level, I had a feeling he couldn't see much, so I leaned in for a look. The firelight didn't give the best visibility, but I saw enough to realize that he hadn't actually hurt me. No redness, no blistered skin, nothing. Why had it hurt so badly?
"I don't see anything." Warren still didn't let go. His large fingers almost encompassed my entire hand. "Your...core temperature must 'a saved you, I guess."
"Yeah." I said it casually enough, but my voice came out as a little too light and high-pitched. The warmth of his hand spread through my fingers and halfway up my arm. I almost felt regretful when he let go and extinguished his other hand.
Stop. Focus. And not on his hands.
"Are you okay?"
Warren's dark eyes turned on me. All he did was look for a long moment, before lying back down. I shifted sheepishly under his gaze. Yeah...probably a stupid question.
"I...um...," I felt myself flushing. "Do you want to talk about it? I...I've had bad dreams, too, and-,"
"How'd you know I was having a bad dream?" Warren's voice went up, and he actually sat up.
Crap. I fumbled for an excuse. "Well...I mean, I...heard you saying something, like 'No, stop,' and you sounded pretty freaked out. I just...figured you were having a nightmare."
I fully expected Warren to kick me out, and as several long, awful seconds ticked by, leaving seemed like a better and better idea. But then Warren sighed in a long, ruffling sound. He folded his arms behind his head and laid back, closing his eyes. "Yeah. But I don't wanna talk about it."
I nodded. Slowly, and very cautiously, as if I were approaching an alley cat, I sat down on the bed beside him. "Yeah. I get that."
"Do you?" Warren opened his eyes. They looked wide and dark as if he were thinking of sad things-which was almost certainly true.
"Well...I don't know what you were dreaming about, exactly...," Well, it's not a total lie, "...but I've been having nightmares lately and...and I know how much they suck. It's like, even when you think you're okay, your brain sticks everything ugly into your dreams to remind you that, guess what? You're not."
Warren let out a dry, one-syllable sound that I realized meant he'd laughed. "Yeah."
He closed his eyes and lay still for so long that I thought he might have fallen asleep.
"Warren?"
His eyes snapped open. "Wha'?"
Okay, not asleep yet. "Do...," I hesitated. "Do you want me to stay or to leave? If-if you want me to go-,"
Warren didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then his eyes looked up into mine, vulnerable and pleading. I had never seen Warren Peace like this, and I knew a lot of it came from the fact that he was not totally awake. The ordinary daytime Warren would have sent me out of his room long before now, and insisted he was fine. Now, however, his defenses were shot, and he was vulnerable. And this Warren made me feel unexpectedly...warm, and important, needed. Above all, it made me, Gwyneth, the myopic pacifist, the still-grieving, broken girl, a protector—which was insane. And it presented me with a trust I could never, ever dream of violating.
"Stay-," his voice barely achieved a whisper. "Please?"
Six seconds later, I lay on the bed next to Warren with my head resting on his bare chest. That was entirely his doing-I hadn't pulled me down and tucked me up against his side, holding me there with both arms like a human teddy bear.
Immediately, a pleasant wave of heat soaked through my body. I had to admit, this felt…nice. Really really nice.
Then, all at once, I remembered myself, and I freaked out. Ms. Peace had lent me one of her old t-shirts, so the thing covered my torso, maybe half of my thighs, and not much else. I liked to take off my bra and underwear when I went to bed—a habit which had never bothered me or anyone else. But now, of all times, I was completely freaking naked under my shirt.
Oh. My. God. WHY ME?
The calm, steady breathing, causing my head pillow to rise and fall, reassured me. Slightly. Warren hadn't noticed. But still, it was pretty damn hard to relax when my insides were shaking from terrified anticipation of total humiliation, and-
Wait, what? No. No, no, it can't be…
The low throb way down in my body, and the moisture slowly collecting lower shocked even me. This shouldn't be happening…this could not. No way.
I'm pressed against Warren, and I'm raw naked except for my shirt. This is messing with my head. Oh shit. Oh shit. Holy crapola, I'm…shit. I need to get out of here.
Warren's breathing rhythm gave me something else to focus on, so I breathed deeply, concentrating on matching my breathing to his. I couldn't exactly flee without waking him up and giving him a reason. I couldn't even imagine telling the truth, and what else would convince him?
For once, I silently blessed the genetic twist that gave me small breasts. Between that and the loose shirt, Warren actually might not notice my…er, state. One could only hope.
As the minutes ticked by, I began to relax, despite the voice in my head, warning me that Warren might be all cuddly now, but he sure as heck wouldn't be once he fully woke up in the morning. If he found me here tomorrow, I actually might get roasted.
I better slip out once he really falls asleep. Who knows? Warren might not even remember this in the morning. He's probably too sleepy for the memory to really stick.
I shifted my head on his warm, solid chest until I felt most comfortable, then I settled down and really began to relax. A steady thump-bump, thump-bump beneath my temple told me the precise location of Warren Peace's heart.
This is…really nice. I smiled against the smooth, hot skin, and closed my eyes. I hadn't felt so good around so much heat in so long. A few more minutes ought to do it. Warren would be asleep then. I could sneak off later. But in the meantime, he felt so…comfortable, and warm…
Most mornings, after I've fallen asleep, I regain consciousness in my bed, in my room, inside my own house. However, I discovered a new favorite way to wake up when I gradually regained consciousness.
The first thing I noticed—sweat had dried on my body, which hadn't happened since summer. Eww. Why am I so friggin' hot?
Then I'd noticed that I was tucked up against something extremely warm, and my head rested on something a little more solid than the pillows on the Peaces' couch.
I lifted my head and managed to screw my eyelids open. And then my eyes focused on a lean body next to and slightly below me, and I really woke up.
Now mind you, every morning of my life did not typically find me waking up next to a toned, tanned, very hot, and very shirtless guy about my age with long dark hair. But if my world were perfect, you better believe it would.
Then his eyes opened. Right about the same time, my brain actually woke up and kicked into gear, and I realized exactly who I'd spent half the night asleep on.
And realizing, as if for the first time, that Warren was not just my friend, but a boy—and an unusually fit and muscular boy, for fourteen or fifteen—did not help me figure out what to do.
Oh God.
Warren's eyes opened fully. For a moment, a sleepy grin spread across his face, and he looked dreamily up at me.
Despite the situation, I felt my heart melt. I'd already seen Warren's incredible full smile, and here, it looked even more heart-warming and…and…despite the fact that temporary horror had me paralyzed, I couldn't stop staring. A warm liquid feeling stole through my stomach, and into my chest.
Oh, shit. Aargh! Shit, shit, shit, shit SHIT! Get it together, Gwyneth! Come on DO SOMETHING! What the HELL is the matter with you?
Then Warren's eyes went wide with recognition. His face froze.
Oh FUCK.
The full situation came crashing down on me right then, and nobody has the right to blame me for doing the only natural thing-that is, freaking out and scrambling away as fast as I could.
"Holy ahh!" My voice rose into a shriek as I scooted a bit too far and fell backwards right off of Warren's bed.
"Oh, shit. You okay?" Warren leaned over the side of the bed.
"Yeah. Ah, yeah." I struggled to my feet, stubbornly ignoring the burning feeling spreading throughout my face and down to my neck. I couldn't look at Warren for fear it would get worse. Was there any chance that J.K. Rowling's obliviation spells were real? If so, Warren Peace would get the shit obliviated out of him in the next five seconds.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?" From Warren's voice alone, I knew he was severely pissed, not to mention completely weirded out. Great. Then something else occurred to me.
"Wait—you don't remember last night?"
"No. Why, what happened last night?!"
Of course. His sleepiness-induced partial amnesia had kicked in the one time it couldn't benefit me. If only I hadn't fallen asleep. If only I'd had the willpower to stay awake and keep my eyes open long enough to sneak out…
My face got even hotter. I hadn't believed that to be possible. Could someone's face spontaneously combust? Of course, I suppose it could if the person went by the name of Warren Peace—but he could only make his arms and hands burst into flame, at least as far as I'd seen.
Focus. I tried, only to realize why my brain had scurried to come up with other things. Warren apparently didn't think twice before throwing off the covers and climbing out of bed to stand in front of me, revealing himself completely. Little had I known that he'd shed not only his jacket and shirt, but his pants as well, leaving him in nothing but a pair of black boxers slung low on his surprisingly trim hips.
Holy mother of God…why? What did I do to deserve this?
"Well?" Warren's voice rose in volume. "What the hell happened last night, Gwyneth?"
I started to try and explain, then Warren mentioned my name and I paused. In all the time we'd known each other, he had never actually used my real name. It sounded completely different from the way his mother, or my friends, or my parents said it. And that was not at all a negative thing. The way Warren's voice rumbled in his chest when he said it—
Wait. Wait. What the hell was I thinking? Why in the name of all things holy was I getting so distracted by Warren's voice?
"Forget it." Warren's growl snapped me out of it, mercifully. "Just—get out. Get out right now."
It said something for my complete and total flusteration (if that was even a word) that I actually started to obey. But then my brain and my anger reined me back in and took over.
"Okay, fine." I turned and deliberately started towards the door. "I'll forget about how you were the one who invited me to stay in here last night!"
I could almost hear Warren freeze, his anger brought up short by shock. A moment later, his voice came, tight and much more careful, with less emotion. I didn't know whether or not to think of that as a good thing. "What?"
"You heard me."
"And why," I could hear Warren's breathing speeding up and growing louder, his voice rising in volume while the calm tone grew more and more forced, "exactly, would I invite you to sleep on me?!"
"You tell me." Just to be contrary, I figured I'd let Warren try and squirm a little more, put the pieces together on his own. He had a brain, after all.
Warren swore. Explosively. I didn't understand a word he said (he must've switched languages—I hadn't known he spoke more than one) but the general idea seemed pretty clear.
Oops.
"How the fuck am I supposed to tell you, Ice Cube? I don't—fucking—remember what happened last night! Either you tell me what happened, or—you get out."
I took a breath, reluctantly preparing to explain, only to find myself staring at Warren again. God…it wasn't fair. If Warren were only a little more skinny, a little less muscular, a little paler, a little fatter, something other than…
Shaking my head, I forced myself to focus. Again. "I…I had to go—and…and I walked by your room, and…," I stopped again. Oh, crap. How would he react to hearing about his dream?
The knowledge that Warren would not accept anything but total honesty forced me to continue. "I heard something, and you sounded a little freaked out…so I came in, and…and I touched you, and you accidentally burned my hand. And then you woke up cause I yelled, and…and you asked me to stay." I figured the short version would sound the least embarrassing, and the least dangerous.
"Really?"
Before last night, I would have interpreted the odd tone of Warren's voice as skepticism. And while I definitely sensed a touch of that, I also recognized that impossibly rare vulnerability that I'd seen in him last night, when the leftover terror of his dreams and residual sleep cobwebs had shot his defenses to Hades.
"Yeah." I suddenly felt very aware of the fact that I was standing before Warren Peace, in the middle of his bedroom, in nothing but his mother's borrowed nightshirt, which fell to about mid-thigh. This was all so utterly embarrassing and odd and impossible that I almost smiled. Awkward didn't even begin to cover this.
"You know, if I wasn't so embarrassed," I states flatly, "I'd probably be laughing my butt off. This is completely weird. You do realize that, right?"
Warren didn't say anything, which made me nervous again. He didn't say or do anything, just stared at me like I'd just sprouted an extra head and he couldn't quite believe it.
His face darkened into a scowl, and I felt sure he was going to get pissed and tell me to leave.
"You called it, not me," he grumbled, and ran a hand across his hair.
I couldn't help laughing, and I felt the tension burst. True, I still hadn't totally relaxed. Our clothes-or lack of them-made my skin prickle, especially when Warren's eyes fell on me. But the fear that we wouldn't be able to talk anymore, wouldn't be friends...in an odd way...any more had gone.
Warren's face cracked in the hint of a smile. But then he gestured roughly at himself and me.
"Could you leave now? And…and put some fucking clothes on, too."
I narrowed my eyes at Warren even as they strayed down across his tan, smooth skin, with hints of hard muscle underneath. My stomach tightened and down lower, I felt a tingling, collecting in a faint but steady throb down in my core.
Then I remembered what Warren said and his statement made me snort. Oh, that's rich. "Look who's talking, boxers boy."
Holy crapola, I did NOT just say that. How did I even call Warren 'Boxers boy' with a straight face?
"I…should. Yeah. I'll…um, go." I turned and all but ran out of Warren's bedroom.
Once outside, I put my hands over my mouth and screamed into it as loudly as I could, pouring all my frustration and mortification into it.
Holy mother of…it is way too early in the morning for this CRAP!
Warren
The bed felt so comfortable, the covers warm with my body heat. I shifted further down, allowing my eyes to fall back shut.
Something moved against me, and then I heard a soft gasp. Even through my drowsy haze, some part of my mind finally awoke and sensed something out of place. Something off.
The tickling brush of soft strands against my bare chest nudged at me again. I frowned without opening my eyes. Whoever or whatever the hell that was needed to leave me alone-
Realization shot through my brain like a lightning bolt, jolting it almost completely awake.
I'm not alone. Somebody's here. In bed with me.
I forced my eyes open and squinted briefly against the light. When the blurriness cleared, I found myself staring directly into a very familiar face.
The blond hair looked rumpled, and the wide eyes made me smile. Gwyneth's deer-in-the-headlights expression should have shocked me the rest of the way awake, but it actually made her look…adorable. Dorky and adorable and…Gwyneth.
Gwyneth.
I bolted upright, shock and violated anger roaring through my body.
What. The. HELL?!
Gwyneth must've seen something in my eyes, because she scrambled away from me. Problem was, she backwards-crawled right off the edge of the bed and fell with a short scream.
"Oh, shit," I remarked under my breath. Leaning over the edge of the bed, I peered down at a dazed-looking and red-faced Gwyneth. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Ah, yeah." Gwyneth scrambled up onto her feet, her face turning even redder. She barely even looked at me.
Then I forgot about Gwyneth's embarrassment in a second wave of outraged fury. What the hell was Gwyneth doing in here? And why—how—had she wound up asleep and flopped on my chest? I racked my brains for any memory of the previous night, but I couldn't bring anything up, and that made me feel more exposed and freaked out than ever. I could take Gwyneth coming into my life, and staying at my house, I could talk to her and train her and be her partner in class. But this was my fucking bedroom. What made her think she had the right to come in here while I was defenseless—asleep? What…just, what the hell?
"What the fuck are you doing in here?" I didn't have to fake one bit of the venomous rage in my voice.
Gwyneth's eyes widened even more. "Wait—you don't remember what happened last night?"
"No." A hint of desperation crept into my voice unbidden. I flung off the covers and got out of bed, stepping closer to Gwyneth. "Why, what happened last night?" I swear to God this had better be a dream…
Gwyneth's eyes got even bigger and more frightened looking. In them, I clearly read the message Oh, shit. That did not help.
"Well?" My voice rose several pitches. "What the hell happened last night, Gwyneth?"
Gwyneth still wasn't answering. She just stood there, watching me with dilated eyes. The delay pushed my frustration and anger even further.
"Forget it." I pointed at the door. "Just—get out. Get out right now."
Gwyneth turned and started for the door, then stopped.
"Okay, fine." I could hear the angry sting in her voice. "I'll forget about how you were the one who invited me to stay in here last night!"
I started to make a retort out of instinct, then her words froze everything I'd been about to say. No way had…
"What?"
"You heard me."
"And why, exactly," I spat out every word through gritted teeth, hoping my real frustration would hide my growing uncertainty and panic, "Would I invite you to sleep on me?!" Why would I do something like that? There's no way. But…what if I did?
"You tell me." The sudden coolness in how she spoke gave Gwyneth away. She was…baiting me, the little twerp. She might not enjoy the awkward situation any more than I did, but she clearly had said that just to get a reaction. She got one.
I let loose with a torrent of swearing, both English and Cantonese, which would have awed my cousin Lin, our colorful language queen, herself. Gwyneth probably understood about five percent of it, but at the moment, I didn't care. It took nearly two minutes before I calmed down enough to switch to English and form a coherent sentence.
"How the fuck am I supposed to tell you, Ice Cube? I don't—fucking—remember what happened last night! Either you tell me what happened, or—you get out."
Gwyneth had turned around to gape at me as I went off, and now she swallowed. She didn't seem to want to look me in the eye, but her eyes traveled down my body.
My skin prickled, and I shifted uneasily. All at once, I remembered that I'd just charged out of bed in nothing but my boxers. Oh, great…
"I…I had to go—and…and I walked by your room, and…," Gwyneth swallowed. "I heard something, and you sounded a little freaked out…so I came in, and…and I touched you, and you….accidentally burned my hand. And then you woke up cause I yelled, and…and you asked…me to stay."
The room went absolutely still, except for the sound of my heart thundering in my ears. Gwyneth…had heard me having a nightmare and...she saw me. What exactly had she seen? What had she heard? What the fuck happened to make me ask her to stay with me?
"Really?"
"Yeah." Gwyneth glanced at me, and then down at herself. Apparently she hadn't realized she was dressed in my mom's nightshirt. All of a sudden, the full weirdness of this whole thing bore down on me.
"You know, if I wasn't so embarrassed," Gwyneth stated, "I'd probably be laughing my butt off. This is totally weird. You do realize that, right?"
I resisted the urge to snort. Do I realize it? What am I, stupid?
"You called it, not me," I muttered, raking a hand across my hair.
Gwyneth laughed, and I stared at her. But then I realized just how weird this was. I was in nothing but my underwear, Gwyneth half-naked, and both of us feeling awkward as hell. No wonder Gwyneth had laughed. She'd had to, or the tension would have driven us both crazy.
I actually allowed myself a smile, before I made a vague gesture between us, trying not to look Gwyneth's way. "Could you leave now? And…and put some fucking clothes on, too."
Gwyneth narrowed her eyes at me, then they slid down my body. I shifted, suddenly wary, feeling all kinds of exposed.
Then suddenly the look vanished, and she snorted. "Look who's talking, boxers boy."
I snorted out a laugh, but I couldn't help myself. Holy hell. Did she seriously just say that?
Gwyneth's cheeks slowly turned redder. She shifted from foot to foot, suddenly looking totally awkward.
"I…should. Yeah. I'll…um, go."
She turned and practically bolted out of the room, yanking the door open but forgetting to close it behind her.
I closed it, and then I sank down on my bed, breathing heavily.
Goddamn, this was insane. Why couldn't I at least remember what happened last night? Gwyneth's story implied that she'd heard me making noise in a dream. Had I talked? Had I said anything? What had I done? If I could remember anything, anything at all…
Wait. I thought I had something. A vague fragment floated through my head. I'd woken up…from a nightmare, which I thankfully couldn't remember. Gwyneth had come in, and we'd talked for a minute…about what, I couldn't quite recall. And then I'd pulled her down to lie against me, and I had nothing until this morning, when I woke up to find her still there.
Burying my fingers in my hair, I twisted them into fists. Why, why, why, why? Why had I done that? Because of a stupid dream? God, was I that pathetic? I didn't need comfort. I should be stronger than that. I thought I was. I didn't need Gwyneth or anyone like that—okay, at times I needed my mother. But that didn't count. Since when did I let down my defenses enough to invite somebody into my problems, and hold on to their presence like a teddy bear?
I didn't even want to know what I'd dreamt about—Anna or my father. Having Gwyneth know the first would be bad—but if she so much as mentioned "daddy issues," or "You should talk about things," because it was "healthier", I would personally fry her eyebrows off one by one. I Did. Not. Talk. About my father. Hell, even my mother only mentioned him at times. The only time she ever asked if I was okay and demanded an answer was the anniversary of Dad's capture—and usually, I lied and said I was fine. Sometimes that worked.
But the whole issue just lingered in the back of my mind, a perpetual factor like having a blue sky. Unlike Gwyneth with her friend, however, I'd gotten along just fine without talking about it more than maybe once in a blue moon with my mother—and that was usually her talking, coaxing and encouraging, and me listening silently until she got the message. Hell, I'd made it for nine years by almost never talking about my father, period. Besides, most of the people who mentioned him did it by associating me with him in a not complimentary way. I wasn't stupid. I could overhear the whispered comments at school—hell, even Principal Powers had said something of the kind that one time I got detention. I knew what people said about me, what they thought I'd do after graduation, and why.
Gwyneth doesn't think like that. She wouldn't talk about it to compare me to him, she'd talk about it because she cared. About me.
I stood up, snarling softly. No way was I going there. I didn't need to talk about my father, and I definitely didn't need a talk about my "issues". If I didn't talk about it, it didn't bother me as much.
That's what Gwyneth said she used to think.
I'm not Gwyneth.
I stripped out of my boxers, then began dressing in fresh clothes. Obviously I needed to get the hell out of my bedroom and out of my head. I had to face Gwyneth over the breakfast table eventually.
The next Monday soon turned into one of the most uncomfortable days of my entire life. Gwyneth walked into the room, and her eyes landed on me. Instantly, the flood of memory came back, and I felt exposed and on edge all over again.
Innocent as could be, Gwyneth walked in and set her stuff down next to me. "Hey." She smiled at me.
I didn't meet her eyes. "Hey."
Without looking, I sensed Gwyneth tensing. She obviously realized something had changed, for we didn't talk again until we had to partner up.
In the middle of the project, she leaned over and whispered, "I'm sorry about…last weekend, you know? I just…I figured you were in trouble, and you wanted me to stay-,"
"Drop it."
I hadn't meant it to snap out that angry hiss, but it came out first. Gwyneth's eyes widened, and then hardened. However, this time, I looked away.
"Okay." Her voice sounded unexpectedly cold.
You fucking idiot, one half of me hissed. She had no right...the other half echoed, still repeating from that morning.
The rest of the period went wonderfully, of course. Since Gwyneth would barely talk to me except in minimal sentences when we absolutely needed to communicate, and I did the same, the feeling of barriers between us only increased.
She shouldn't have come into my room. If only she hadn't come in, we wouldn't be acting all fucking awkward!
The idea that I just contributed to that awkwardness definitely occurred to me, but I kept up my frozen demeanor. I was not letting my guard down, especially since doing so might lead to Gwyneth asking about things I might have said in my sleep, and wanting to know if I wanted to talk, and I'm sorry about your dad/friend…and no way in hell would I go along with that. Not gonna happen.
After we finished, I turned and opened my latest book. I also deliberately let the temperature around me rise a few degrees, reinforcing a clear hint that I did not want to talk.
Gwyneth took it.
When the bell rang, she got up and left the classroom in record time. I made a rather halfhearted attempt to catch up with her, but she showed startling skill in losing herself in the crowd ahead of me.
Goddamnit—thank God my signals for space seemed to be working.
You keep telling yourself that.
Shut it.
Fine. Just don't blame me when you're all lonely and bitching about how nobody talks to you-
Shut. Up.
By the time our daily fight session rolled around, the tension felt even worse.
Then Gwyneth came into the closet with an expression halfway between nervous and determined, and I knew I was in for it.
"All right, let's get going." I dropped my bag and jacket to the floor, and cracked my knuckles. "We don't have all afternoon."
"Wait." Gwyneth did drop her stuff but then she came closer to me. She looked both frustrated and hopeful at the same time. Oh, great. Here it comes…
"Warren, I'm sorry about the other day," she began in a rush. "I didn't mean to make you feel awkward. For one thing, I just wanted to help you. And I didn't mean to make you feel weird—I definitely didn't mean to fall asleep on you. I-,"
"Forget it. Just drop the whole thing, okay?"
A wary look entered Gwyneth's eyes. "Does that mean let's actually forget it, pretend it didn't happen, or have me try to and you still act all pissed-off and jumpy around me? Cause you're still acting like that. No offense."
"Let's just forget it, okay?" Anger made my voice volume rise. What the hell was Gwyneth trying to do?
"You didn't answer my question." Gwyneth clearly wasn't baiting me now, but the shaky spark in her eyes showed that she meant what she just said. And that actually felt more intimidating.
I closed my eyes and counted to ten, breathing in shallow, harsh pants. This whole thing, and the skittish awkwardness I couldn't stop having around Gwyneth had me wound up already. And Gwyneth sure as hell wasn't making it easier to keep my temper in check.
"Well, Warren?"
"I don't know!" I exploded, my eyes flying open. Gwyneth looked startled, and a little dwarfed by my outburst, but yet, somehow, not truly afraid.
For some reason, that infuriated me. I don't know why-maybe because her determination to get real answers out of me became clearer the more I saw that damned look, or maybe because she just wouldn't do anything the way I'd expected. That I could predict, and thus counteract.
"Are you happy now? Huh? Are you? Is this what you wanted? To prove I can't handle myself?"
"No!" Gwyneth exploded. "Jesus Christ, Warren! Why would I be happy? Because you won't tell me a thing, and just because I helped you and happened to fall asleep on you or whatever, you suddenly piss off and act like...you won't talk to me, or accept my apology!"
She took a breath, and I could only stare at her, unable for the moment to say anything.
But Gwyneth didn't stop there. She went on, her voice rising and her eyes blazing into mine. Sometimes, I forgot that Gwyneth's sweet and reasonable personality only fit part of who she was. The other side enbabled her to stand up to Coach Boomer, dare Sped and Lash to a showdown, and call me out right to my face.
"Look, I know you're upset about that night, but I don't know exactly why. If it was about me sleeping on you, I'm sorry already, plus you don't have the freaking right to blame me for something that you asked me for! If it was about me seeing you in your-," she stopped and blushed. "Okay, I kind of get that one. But I wasn't perving on you or anything! You're my friend—or at least I thought you were. And I don't care. Besides, what do you have to be ashamed of?"
"…I know you didn't just say that."
"Was it because I saw you having a nightmare?"
"None of your business!" I snarled. Fire boiled along my nerves, and sparks rose through my gloves.
"Bullshit!" Gwyneth yelled right in my face. "That's bullshit, and you know it! I have the right to know why you're acting like a complete dick after I did what a good best friend is supposed to do! Which is help you when you need help!"
"I don't need help. And we are not best friends, Ice Cube!"
"So what? I think I…I deserve to…," Gwyneth broke off, panting hard. To my shock, her eyes glistened, as if…
Oh, shit. Oh, no. Oh God…
"I think I have the right to a civil explanation after you start acting…," Gwyneth took a shuddering breath, and I realized it was tears.
"Gwyneth?"
"You know, what—no. Forget it. Just…I'm done. Screw this." Gwyneth turned, snatched up her backpack and flung it over her shoulder. "It wouldn't kill you to open up, you know. Especially after I put my bleeding heart on display for you back in—whatever. Fine." Gwyneth stormed out the door.
And I stood there like a complete idiot, staring at where she'd left.
Fuck. She was right. As my blood pressure sank back to normal, it slowly dawned on me. She really just wanted to help. All Gwyneth had done was walk into my room and stay when I asked her to. She hadn't asked me about anything sensitive—she just wanted things to go back to normal. I'd bitched about her knowing even that one little thing, and she'd told me the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
Holy fuck. I am an idiot.
The thought of my mom's face when she found out propelled me out the door.
Gwyneth had made it down two hallways before I saw her and caught up. She only turned, saw me, and then forged on ahead, a little faster than before. Her eyes looked red, which made me feel even worse.
"Ice Cu-," I decided to go for her name, hoping it might help. "Gwyneth, I'm…God, you were right. I am an idiot. I just…,"
"Go away."
I flinched at the single choked sentence, but didn't back down. "I'm not going away until I've apologized. If you want to know, it was a combination of the three."
"Forget it. You had your chance. You said it—we're not friends."
Shit. I let out a frustrated noise and grabbed Gwyneth by the shoulders, spinning her around to face me. She twisted in my grip, but kept her face turned away. "Let me go!"
"Not until I apologize. I'm-," it cost me a bigger effort than I thought, but I forced myself to say it. "I'm sorry, okay? You were right. I was a dick." I felt both heavier and lighter for having said that. "I didn't…I didn't mean what I said back there. I—I mean, I wouldn't say we're best friends, but…you know me, when I'm pissed off, and I don't really think, and-,"
Gwyneth turned and looked me right in the eye. A tear had already made its way down one cheek, and her eyes simply stared at me. I hadn't imagined two wet, red-rimmed blue eyes could make anyone feel about ten inches tall.
I let go of Gwyneth's shoulders with a sigh. "I'm not helping, am I?"
Gwyneth sniffed, and brushed a hand furtively across her eyes. I pretended not to notice. "You…you're not very good at apologies." She sniffed again and swallowed hard, but despite her hard expression, I heard her voice melt a little. She'd started to crack.
"Yeah." I thought about the last time I'd apologized to somebody besides my mother…when had I done that?
Oh, right—when I apologized for collapsing the bleachers on Gwyneth's friend.
"I meant it, though." I looked her right in the eye.
Slowly, the pain and anger started to waver. Another tear started to escape Gwyneth's left eye, and she wiped it quickly away.
"Are you crying?" It sounded like a stupid question. All right, it was stupid. But I couldn't help asking.
"Why would I be crying?" Gwyneth sounded loud and indigant, but the nasal, choked tone gave her away. "Why would you even care?"
For several seconds, I didn't know how to make her believe it. Then I thought of the most obvious answer in the world, and I allowed a smile to creep into my voice. "Why would I follow you?"
Gwyneth opened her mouth to retort, then shut it. She stared at some point on the wall behind me that I couldn't see, and I could see her struggling. So I stood still and waited.
"All right." Gwyneth looked up at me, and the mixture of hurt and hardness in her eyes had mostly vanished, replaced by a kind of wary acceptance. "I forgive you. But-," she held up her hand. "You have to promise. Don't ever go off on me like that again because I did something nice."
Just as I opened my mouth, she held out her crooked pinky, a wavery smile on her face. "Pinky promise."
You've got to be fucking kidding me. I stared at the pinky for several seconds before I finally gave in. I'd barely gotten her forgiveness, and I couldn't afford one more screw-up. It wouldn't kill me to can my attitude for five seconds—especially since I'd just done so, shamelessly, for the last minute or so.
"Okay." I held out my own pinky, and Gwyneth hooked hers around mine.
"You have to say it."
"Oh. Uh, right. Sure." It felt like trying to swallow cotton, and I felt beyond weird saying it, but I finally got out, "I pinky promise not to do that again."
"I accept," Gwyneth replied solemnly.
Then a jolt of pure cold shooting straight through my little finger made me yank back my hand, shaking it and staring at Gwyneth in disbelief. "What the hell was that?"
"Just think of it as compensation." Gwyneth grinned at me. "Now let's go, Hothead. We still have practice."
For a moment, I couldn't believe it. She'd just accepted my bad excuse for an apology, and once she made me sweat a little, she acted like the whole thing hadn't happened. I had a penchant for holding on to grudges way longer than my mom said I should. Yet after I'd pissed Gwyneth off—made her cry—she forgave me and moved on after a few minutes and a pinky promise.
It felt…much, much nicer than I'd ever admit. Warm and fuzzy kind of nice, which I did not get often.
It also made me feel a hundred times guiltier. But I probably deserved it—scratch the probably, in fact. So I'd just have to suck it up.
"Yeah, we do." I gave her just the hint of a crooked smile. "Especially with a big game coming up eventually. Wouldn't do to be unprepared."
Gwyneth smiled, rather shyly, at me. "Yeah, I guess not."
A/N: Oooh...what a horrible, evil, cruel bitch I am to leave you with that! I know I am, and I'm sorry…but never fear, I'll be back! And you'll have some more delicious bonding/fighting it/angst.
And I know I need to start skipping more in time like I promised. And I will. I'll do bigger skips next. But the dream thing came into my head, and it seemed really sweet. And then a potential embarrassing aftermath came, and…you know the rest. You just read it. Just accept the DELICIOUS mental image of a mostly-naked Warren as a gift from me, for being so nice and helpful with your favorites, follows, and reviews! (evil smirk.)
And for you Unmasked readers, the next chapter is in the works as we speak!