This is the big one. I wrote this the night before Easter, oddly enough.
Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!
The Way We Live Now
-Tales of NDCSH-
38
The assembly ended at noon. Quasimodo, feeling drained and giddy, followed Esme, Phoebus and Clopin to the music room, where they would do a few odd clean-up jobs and generally waste the rest of the day. Having the show over was a huge relief. He had enjoyed it - there was nothing like that feeling on earth- but it had been profoundly terrifying for him.
"Quelle spectà cle," Clopin was gushing, as he took a string of Christmas lights down from the edges of the bulletin board. "I think that may have been our best yet."
"Esme," said Phoebus, "You have got to stop dancing in public. The other guys on the football team are going to kill me. Out of envy."
Esmeralda, who was washing down the chalkboard, paused, looked over at him, and raised a brow.
There was a moment of tension. So soon after their fight, everyone was still on their toes about signs of conflict. But then Esme batted her eyelashes, smirking. "Don't pretend you don't like it."
"Okay, I like it," Phoebus admitted. "I think maybe we should learn how to tango."
She put down the washcloth, slinking seductively towards him, and put an arm around his waist. "I already know how. Want me to teach you?"
"Don't be afraid, you two," said Clopin, raising an eyebrow, "you may as well just get busy right here in the music room. It's not like we're here or anything."
Esme rolled her eyes, and they broke apart.
"Speaking of being here," said Phoebus, "My cousin Alex was in the crowd. Would that have anything to do with you, Clopin?"
Clopin's eyes went wide and innocent. "Oh, no, surely not! I don't know who you mean. Nothing to do with me!" Then he dropped the act, merely looking puzzled. "Actually, I didn't even tell her I was performing."
"What's all this about?" asked Quasimodo, as he wrestled the box that the Christmas decorations were stored in from its place above the instrument cabinets, the same space he and Esme had hidden in at the beginning of the year.
"Clopin's been stalking my cousin," said Phoebus, grinning.
Clopin stuck his tongue out. "She stalks me right back. Anyway, how'd you know about that?"
"She told me, the other day. She said, 'hey, did you know I'm being harassed by your girlfriend's cousin?"
"This is Madame Popcorn Counter, I take it," Quasimodo surmised. "What did she think of the accordion?"
He smirked. "She sold it to me."
The music room door opened, with a mechanical sound, and he glanced over to see who had come in. It was Suzanne. She had her backpack over one shoulder, and looked annoyed, though once she looked up and saw who was there, her expression brightened.
Quasimodo had been standing on a chair so that he could reach the shelf above the cabinets, and he hopped down. "Hey! I saw your picture in the slideshow!"
She broke into a broad smile. "I didn't show you that one. How did you know?"
He shrugged. "The subject matter tipped me off." Then it occurred to him that she hadn't properly met the others. They'd probably tease him about it later, but she would appreciate being introduced. "Guys, this is Suzanne. Suzy- Clopin, Esme, Phoebus." He gestured to each of them in turn, even though he knew she already knew their names.
Suzanne raised a hand, suddenly awkward, and smiled a smile that made her look as though she were in pain. "Um. Hi."
"Quasi's talked about you," said Phoebus, with a relaxed grin, trying to put her at ease.
"Really?" She asked, not quite meeting Phoebus's eyes.
Quasimodo, wishing Phoebus would stop being so charming, searched for a way to change the subject. He noticed her backpack and coat. "You heading home?"
Addressing him specifically seemed to make her more comfortable. After all, she knew him. "I was going to walk home. But then Lindsay ditched me, and the bus doesn't come 'til three."
He knew why she didn't want to walk home without her friend. The back woods were the fastest way towards most of the residential neighbourhoods, but there were stories about them. Every so often a letter would go home from the office. A lone girl in those woods was just asking for trouble.
"You can stick around here, of course," said Clopin. "We will eat, and drink, and be merry. Except for the eating and drinking, unless someone has food. In which case I want it."
She went very slightly pink. "Thank you for the offer, but- I'm so tired... I'd probably be a bit of a drag." She shrugged slightly.
Quasimodo had a feeling that she wasn't saying that because she was tired. He knew Suzanne was shy, and you had to be gently broken into personalities like Clopin's. "Wait," he said, "did you still want to go home? I don't mind walking with you."
"You couldn't be in safer company," added Esme.
Suzanne's eyes widened. "Are you- sure you don't mind?"
"'Course," said Quasimodo, "I wanted to get outside anyway. It's really nice out."
In fact, he had been looking forward to passing the afternoon as uselessly as possible, but he could always continue home after walking her back, and do some work on his newest carving. He'd see the gang the next day anyway.
Suzanne beamed. "Okay. Thanks."
He waved a goodbye to Esme, Clopin and Phoebus, and made sure to open the door for her.
They went to his locker, and he quickly gathered up everything he had to take home. Then they took the back door, onto the path that led a coherent route through the woods. It was lovely out. Fat snowflakes drifted down from a pallid, heavy sky, muffling all sound as they carpeted the tree branches in white.
"They all seem really nice," said Suzanne, smiling.
He loped along beside her, for once kind of enjoying the unevenness of his gait. Normally he tried to keep it even, but now he could move the way he liked. If someone were to come upon their footprints, they would see one smaller set, ordinarily spaced (thought they would turn in a little; Suzanne was slightly pigeon-toed) and one larger set, much more crooked, that favoured the right leg so much it was practically hopping. "They are," he replied, "they're great guys. Hope Clopin didn't come off too strong; he's just really, really outgoing."
"No, it wasn't that. I know what he's like." She looked down at her feet. "I just- well, I probably would have just got in the way of you guys having fun. You know, fifth wheel?"
Quasimodo had not realized quite how introverted Suzanne could be; she'd always seemed so comfortable when they talked. "That's what I always thought at first," he admitted. "They're all a bunch of crazy drama kids, right? You and me, we're shy. We're not much fun."
Suzanne nodded, making a face. All of this seemed familiar to her.
"But, I mean, they don't think that way," he resumed, "and- after you've been around them for a while, you relax, and suddenly you're not so shy."
She cocked her head, and blinked at him. "Does that actually work?"
"Yes, actually." He'd seen it- in the way he acted around Esme, Phoebus and Clopin, and in the way Suzanne acted around him.
"Still... I'm so awkward in situations like that." she seemed to flush slightly, though it could have been the cold. "Thanks for rescuing me."
Quasimodo smiled, and did a small, flourishing bow. "A true Gentleman never leaves a lady in discomfort," he told her, in a false English accent.
"You're a goof."
"I really am. I apologize. From now on I'll be dead boring," he teased. Teasing her was fun.
"No-one'll notice," said Suzanne, with a smirk.
"You're right." he countered, "they're used to you."
"Why don't you do one better and go from dead boring to just plain dead?"
"Then you'd have someone to talk to who wouldn't run away screaming."
This time Suzanne floundered for a comeback. "Uh... They only run away because I'm just so awesome I blow their minds and that's why I hang out with you, because you have no mind!"
Quasimodo raised an eyebrow at her, trying not to laugh. She was so funny when she made a fool out of herself.
"Sorry, that was lame, I know," said Suzanne, as they both failed to contain their laughter. It was one of those odd situations, where the sheer un-funniness of the thing almost made it seem funny again- but the more ridiculous thing was that Quasimodo knew neither of them would have ever said such things and meant them.
There was a brief silence. The snow was thickening, and a faint breeze had picked up. They were making slow progress, but the woods were so pretty that it hardly seemed to matter. He glanced up at the thick, claustrophobic sky, and found himself singing under his breath, a soft, cheerful melody:
"Cloudy
The sky is grey and white and
Cloudy
Sometimes I think it's hanging down on me Let's hitchhike a hundred miles..."
Just as it occurred to him that he might be annoying Suzanne, he was surprised to hear her hesitant, thin voice join him.
"I'm a ragamuffin child
Pointed finger, painted smile
I left my shadow waiting down the road for me awhile
Cloudy..."
Quasimodo turned to Suzanne. "You know that song?"
"Simon and Garfunkel," she replied, smiling, "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. It's so... pretty." She began the next verse, her voice untrained but on-key, and he joined in.
When they had sung the whole song, they gave it a moment, and let it hang in the air. It was that kind of a song, and that kind of a day- the silences were as important as the sounds.
Finally, Suzanne said, "I'm not actually that tired... Do you... want to go into town and do something, instead?"
He wasn't expected at home for another four hours. The idea seemed appealing, especially in its spontaneity. If the guys found out they'd have a fit, but they didn't have to know. "Sure. What d'you want to do?"
She shrugged. "Well, I have a few Christmas gifts left to pick out, but that won't take long. Anything, really. We could go to Chapters, or that arts store on Rue Monique..."
Those would probably have been his first choices too. He grinned. "Cool beans."
It took longer to get into town than it would have just to get home, and as they went, the weather got progressively worse. They talked about Simon and Garfunkel, and contemporary rock groups that didn't suck, and then the art club; and by the time they were close to civilization again the previous breeze had picked up into a wet, icy wind. Suzanne was shivering visibly, and her hands were going numb from the cold, so he lent her his gloves.
As the forest began to disappear, and they arrived at the main road into town, Quasimodo glanced up at the sky. That off-white shade had darkened to grey, and the nature of the falling snow had changed; instead of individual, drifting snowflakes, there was a windswept haze of small, fast-moving particles of dry snow.
Neither of them needed to say that they would get inside at the first opportunity. He hoped Suzanne wasn't suffering too much from the cold. She was shivering, yes, but she looked perfectly happy. They were talking about school, now.
"I loved gym in grade school," Suzanne was saying, "I was all kiddy little games where being able to use your head got you more points than being able to run fast. Like cat's corner. You know, where the cat's in the middle with a blindfold and the mice each pick a corner of the room, and then the cat guesses a corner and whoever's in it is out?"
"That one's new to me," said Quasimodo.
"I figured out that the cat was least likely to pick the corner they'd just picked. So I usually won."
"I've never had a gym class in my life," Quasimodo admitted, "Laverne just used to take me to this hilly clearing in the forest that no-one else really knew about and let me do whatever. I climbed the trees."
Suzanne scowled at him. "Lucky bastard." Then she shrugged. "No, I liked elementary gym, but by 7-8 and high school it just sucked. It was all organized sports. But still, English got much more interesting in high school. We finally stopped doing grammar and got to read some actual books."
"What did you think of Romeo and Juliet?" asked Quasimodo. Romeo and Juliet was the first text grade nines would work on, and his old tutor had generally stuck so close to curriculum teaching methods that he himself had done it at about the same time she would have been.
She made a face. "Not for me. I kept thinking, 'if these two actually wind up together they'll hate each other by the end of the month'. They didn't know each other at all, it was entirely physical. Romeo could have been totally abusive for all she knew."
Quasimodo had really enjoyed it, and he looked at her, slightly shocked. "But- but you have to remember that their acquaintance only seems short because Shakespeare had to make it more dramatic. I always thought they knew each other better than we thought they did."
She didn't seem to want to quibble over it, and shrugged. "That's a good point."
The traffic lights finally changed, and the red 'Don't Walk' hand gave way to the walking man. "Does that guy have a real name?" asked Suzanne, as they crossed.
"The little pedestrian light man? I don't think so," said Quasimodo.
"My mom always called him Fred."
He laughed. "That is epic."
"He kind of looks like a Fred, too," added Suzanne, grinning goofily.
They were now properly in town. All around them, street lamps were hung with evergreen wreaths and trees were wrapped in Christmas lights. The parking lots were full. There was a thin layer of snow over everything. Both of them were freezing cold, and it had not needed to be discussed that they would get inside at the first opportunity. Now, Suzanne pointed to the nearest building, an old stone two-storey that had been transformed into a coffee shop and bakery. "In there?"
Quasimodo nodded, and they went in.
A little bell dinged above the door. After the cold outside, the sudden warmth seemed to burn his ears and face. They knocked some of the snow from their boots, and approached the counter. He was conscious of attracting a few stares, but not many- he was starting to become a familiar sight in town, as in the school. It wasn't enough for him to care.
Suzanne ordered hot chocolate and a brownie. He had tea and a big cookie. She was getting out her wallet when he pushed her hand aside. "My treat."
"Oh, no way," said Suzanne.
"Way." He gave the cashier a twenty, before Suzanne had a chance to object further.
She made an exasperated face. "Nuh-uh. Why did you do that? When can I get you back?"
"Come on, Suzy," said Quasimodo, shaking his head, "I can't help being old-fashioned. Forget about it."
The young man at the cash, who looked bemused, handed them two paper bags with still-warm baking in them, and said, "We just opened a few tables upstairs. Great view."
He turned to Suzanne, who smiled, and then said, "Sounds good. Thanks."
They got their drinks at the other end of the cash, then climbed the narrow, creaky staircase up to the newly-finished second floor.
The second floor was deserted, and Quasimodo had a sly idea the cashier had known he would prefer not to be in the public eye. It was a spartan but pleasant space, with bare brick walls, pine tables and cream-coloured upholstery, and it made him think of the upper storey of a ski chalet. There was a nice view; along one wall, huge bay windows looked out over the street. But everything was half-obscured by the falling snow.
"Ohh," said Suzanne, "It's cool up here."
They picked a table in the corner, directly by the window. Quasimodo took a tentative sip of his tea, which was still both too hot and too weak. "Snow really picked up fast, didn't it? Are you warm enough?"
Seated across from him, her back resting against the brick wall, Suzanne took off the gloves he had loaned her and wrapped her hands around her cup of hot chocolate. "Fine, thanks," she said, with a small smile, "It's all toasty in here. There's supposed to be a storm tonight." She gazed out the window, at the street below. They were quite high up, for the second floor- the building had high ceilings- and below them, the old architecture of the street was slowly being lost under a blanket of white. The sky blended into the horizon, grey clouds veiling everything in falling snow.
He found himself humming a few bars of 'Cloudy'.
"Just in time for Christmas," said Suzanne. "The assembly was great this year."
Being onstage had hardly seemed real. Now, it already felt like the distant past; a fond memory. He smiled. "My first. It was fun."
"Can I see the pin?" she asked.
He nodded, still embarrassed by the whole thing, and unpinned it from his vest front. Then he handed it to her.
Suzanne peered at it, holding it close to see every detail. "First visual art pin ever," she mused. Then she looked up at him, and beamed. "Nobody else even came close to deserving it. Still, I'm glad you got it."
He bit his lip, and gave her a sheepish smile. "Thanks. I feel like it's cheating, since I'm a student organizer and all-"
"No way," said Suzanne, looking almost affronted, "the whole thing was your idea. You do all the work, and you're also our best artist. If they'd given it to someone else I'd have mailed them a goblin."
He gave her a brief, bemused look, wondering where the heck she had gotten such a bizarre expression. Then the full extent of the compliment she had been paying him sunk in, and he felt heat rise in his face. He chuckled. "No I'm not, you shameless sycophant- I - I just got the process going, the art teachers do all the work."
"Hey," she snapped, pouting at him, "I am not a sycophant. I meant that."
He looked at the table-top, embarrassed. "Well, thanks."
Suzanne had started to unwrap her brownie, and now she broke a chunk off the corner. "Are you going into arts after high school? Do you know yet?"
Quasimodo shrugged. In truth, he hadn't thought much about it. "I might do Beaux-Arts at McGill."
She raised an eyebrow, teasing him again. "Whoa, Quasi, pretentious much?"
He rolled his eyes, and shook his head. "I don't know. The chances of making a career out of it are pretty slim... but on the other hand I could go around sneering with my fake Parisian lilt-" -he put on his best continental French accent- "- Saying, 'Oh, Ah am ze suffering artiste, of course Ah am going to be ugly, ze truth is ugly too-"
Suzanne had her hand over her mouth; she evidently had a mouthful of brownie which he was trying not to choke on. After several seconds of sputtering, she swallowed the mouthful, shaking with silent laughter. "You're such a- a-"
"Goof?" he offered.
Suzanne swallowed, her eyes watering slightly. "That too. I was thinking maniac."
He flashed her a suitably maniacal grin over the rim of his cup of tea, which finally tasted fully steeped. Then he set the cup down, and added milk from a little pitcher on the table. "What are you thinking you'll do? After Grade Twelve?"
"I have no idea," said Suzanne. "Maybe Psychology."
He nodded. "Definitely. You'd be great at that."
"Even if I have to lock myself up in a straightjacket?"
"Even then. You can be the female Hannibal Lector."
"Oh-ho," said Suzanne, looking sky, "are you one of those psych.-thriller-movie guys?"
Quasimodo made a face. "No, not really. I'm a wimp. I'm into, like, the old body horror stuff. George C. Romero. David Cronenberg if I'm feeling brave."
Suzanne snorted. "Body horror? Well that's psychologically telling."
"I know, eh? I'm an emotional train wreck. If it's got freaky-looking people in it, I'll watch it."
"You seen The Fly?"
He nodded. "Scared the shit out of me. I'm better at RomZomComs."
"What is that?" she asked, frowning.
"Romantic Zombie Comedy," explained Quasimodo, with relish.
It earned an incredulous laugh from Suzanne. "That's pretty strange."
He was about to respond, but a sudden howl of wind from outside silenced him. Wide-eyed, he looked out the window into the windblown snow outside.
"It's getting really bad," said Suzanne. "I hope we can get home."
She didn't look all that worried, but all the same, he wanted to reassure her. "Don't worry, we will. I'll walk you home whenever you like."
For a while, they both stared out the window, at the storm moving in, and listened to the wind. The air felt charged and heavy. After a few seconds, Quasimodo suddenly became aware of a warm on his hand, which had been resting on the tabletop. He looked over, and saw that Suzanne had put her hand over his.
For a moment, he was utterly bewildered; he didn't understand. He looked up at her, his eyes wide. "What-"
Suzanne's face was crimson, and she bit her lip, looking almost as confused as he was. She did not move her hand. "I- You're amazing," she blurted out, "You're so cool and you don't even realize it and- I really like you. You're like my hero. I know I barely know you and you probably think I'm crazy but I- yeah." She swallowed, and looked at the table. He could feel the muscles tense in her hand.
There was a moment, one which seemed to go on forever. Quasimodo looked at her round, flushed face, and realized that the impossible had happened.
She liked him?
He almost didn't believe it. But then he did.
It was so bewildering. Was he even ready- did he even want something like this? From Suzanne, that funny, awkward girl with her social insecurities and her surprising wisdom? He thought briefly of Esmeralda. But then he thought of Suzanne again. Suzanne the confidante, Suzanne the advisor, Suzanne the crazy fun-poking goofball- and-
Yes. This was something good.
His eyes met hers, their hands still touching. "Really?"
She nodded.
He glanced down at their hands, then up to her face again. "I- I really like you too."
There was a moment, there, when their hands were touching and everything seemed too much, too good, to be real. Then the tension broke, and Quasimodo found himself laughing for sheer happiness.
Suzanne let out a long breath, and then she was laughing too. "I guess that means we're- ?"
"Who would have thought?" Quasimodo murmured.
"Sidney," she answered, matter-of-factly. "He caught me watching you in Art club, the little rat."
Sidney, the boy whose locker was directly beside his, shy old Sid- He'd known about this? And then there was Quasimodo's own circle of friends, who had been implying things even when they'd never met her- "Phoebus, too," he added, feeling stupid but too happy to care. He squeezed Suzanne's hand.
Then it occurred to him how this news would be taken at school, with a sudden plummeting sensation in the pit of his stomach. The whole school would be talking about it, and they'd both get teased and joked about but Suzanne would have it much worse..."Are you okay with people finding out?" he asked, swallowing.
"I've thought about that," said Suzanne, and suddenly she was much more serious. "My friends aren't going to understand. At all."
"We don't have to tell anyone," said Quasimodo, though the idea had a bad taste in his mouth.
She shook her head, resolutely. "There is no way we're going to date in secret. I've decided I really don't care what they say."
She had already been high in his estimation. Now she was a saint. "You're incredible."
She shook her head. "They were never really my friends anyway if they don't even care about me enough to see why this is important. They were just people I hung out with because I didn't want to be a loner- I don't think any of them know me."
"I'm sorry," said Quasimodo.
"Don't be." She grinned. "But you'd better be right about me getting more comfortable around Esmeralda and all them. They seem like much better candidates for friendship."
He smiled. "Sure." But despite all her assurances that this was okay, he was still worried. He bit his lip. "Um- listen- will you promise me something?"
"Yes?" asked Suzanne.
"If my being- you know-" He gestured at his face. "If that ever becomes a problem for you, for whatever reason, will you tell me? I will never think any the worse of you. I just don't want you to be trapped, and-"
"I will," said Suzanne, "But I'll also promise you that will never happen."
Quasimodo looked at her, and for a moment he thought he was going to cry. But somehow he managed to hold it in.
They didn't get to Suzanne's house until four o'clock that afternoon. By that point both of them were soaked, frozen, and on the verge of hypothermia. Yet neither of them seemed to mind.
'Nother chapter I've been planning out forever.
The coffeeshop is based on an ice-cream store we found on a music trip to Quebec city. And Clopin's comment;
"Don't be afraid, you two," said Clopin, raising an eyebrow, "you may as well just get busy right here in the music room. It's not like we're here or anything."
...is based on another real-life even on another music trip. Suffice to say that any couple who chooses to go all PDA in a hotel room with 12 other tired, sugar-high musicians at 1:45 AM should be prepared for the consequences. Which may include vocal improvisation sets by the crazy Polish guy, over top of a very catchy guitar line, on the subject of your behaviour. Said consquences may be very embarrassing, and may last all night, or until the Polish kid passes out.
'Don't Be Afraid' is now the unofficial anthem of our music group.
-Mostly Harmless