This one's been a long time coming. It is, as a remarkable number of these stories are, based off of my life. Just a little bit, not too blatantly this time. I am ending 2011 single, and happy about that, but it does make writing romance a little tough.
I completed NaNo, by the way, winning with 50,001 words on November 27th. Since then I have not written a word of creative writing. Literally, not a word. But I started thinking about this boy and then I couldn't not write anymore, you know? It's always the best when the story just comes out of your fingers effortlessly, demanding nothing more than a keyboard a few cups of tea.
Different style, because y'all know how I love playing with style. I hope you can actually follow this, as it is a non-linear timeline (I'm quickly falling in love with reading fics like this, so I thought I should write one or two).
Word count: 2,097
"You are my sweetest downfall,
I loved you first, I loved you first."
-Regina Spektor 'Samson'
"Something got you down?" He asks. It's late at night, her eyes glazed over in thought as the fire crackles with quiet irregularity. She's sitting on a large velvet chair, curled up so that her chin rests on her knees.
Five years ago, the two of them met on a sunny afternoon. She had bumped into him while walking with Katy Dean, the girls chatting animatedly about some silly nonsense. He had stopped abruptly, turning around to chime in on their conversation. Katy had giggled and Rose had looked at him like he had two heads, finding his contribution to the discussion both incredibly rude and incredibly idiotic.
He'd never forget the way the sunshine made her eyes sparkle or the way the wind mischievously toyed with her hair, musing it and causing the wispy strands to tickle her face.
"Nothing's wrong, I'm fine." Her voice is hollow. She doesn't turn her head to look at the boy she knows is standing right behind her. She knows he's wearing a black cashmere sweater, the luxurious fabric emphasizing the creamy paleness of his skin. She knows his fingers are pale, his circulatory system always failing to warm his extremities sufficiently. She knows that he probably had the turkey for dinner, though she hadn't looked towards him, not once, during the meal. And she knows that he'll keep standing there until she either fesses up or the sun rises. He's always been a stubborn one.
He sat behind her in Defense Against the Dark Arts, a class taught by an old man with a tired voice. They'd talk before class began, exchanging pleasantries with the easy smiles of children. She made friends and he made friends and some of the friends were the same, so the two found themselves together frequently. They began to talk, sticking to shallow subjects or debates that always were finished with rosy cheeks and broad smiles. They were a match for intelligence, both smart. He was funny and she was friendly and they were kind of opposites but also almost identical in that way that seems impossible until you see it for yourself. And somewhere down the line, they became friends.
"Are you sure? You don't look too fine." Her face is pale, that glittering smile long forgotten. Her fingers nervously twitch at her sides, drumming the air with manic imprecision. Those long lean fingers, accustomed to cradling a harp and extracting music that sounded angelic now pull frantically at the air, unconsciously looking for a beautiful sound and the accompanying tranquility that came with music. There is silence.
They had just been kids, wide eyed to the world, innocence overflowing. They had been best friends, playing hopscotch outside while the older students exhaled smoke and tried to look cool. They had worn ratty sweaters and dirty sneakers and honestly didn't care what anyone said. Her hair fell, long and chocolate brown, down her back. His blue eyes always had a light in them, and his lips were always quick with a joke. They didn't think it was strange to be friends; the two were far too young for the knowledge of the politics of relationships. He liked her and she liked him and so they played games outside and pretended that they didn't realize that at some point they'd be too old for all of that.
"I'm fine, I swear." She tells him. He moves closer, coming around the chair to face her. She looks down at the fire to avoid his knowing gaze. His arm twitches, muscle memory demanding he raise his had to brush the wayward strands of hair out of her face. He didn't move and she didn't meet his eye and they both exhale loudly at the same time.
Days of friendship had become weeks, then months. Mara Dean lost her first kiss to a boy in third year. The scandal had rocked the first years, reminding them of the world of teenage possibility that awaited. Eyes fixed on the happy brunette and the grinning blonde, whispers were spread and the two were literally pushed together. Boys and girls just can't be friends, they were told, we think you should date. That word followed Rose, echoing in the hallways where the two tried to walk in peace. Date, date, date, just kiss him already.
"What's wrong, Posie?" He asks, and the nickname, so reminiscent of their shared past, slips right in. His voice is deeper now, of course, but it still sounds just like it always used to. She blinks back a tear, fighting the urge to scream or cry, though she doesn't know which.
It had been raining that day, the two were trapped inside of the spacious library. He had been showing her an equation she couldn't understand. They both leaned over the parchment, heads bumping as his fingers, pale from the cold, indicated to the various processes involved. She lamented the day math became letters and not numbers and he ruffled her hair and made a crack at her intelligence. She corrected his grammar and everything was completely as it had always been until all the breath left her body and her palms began to sweat. They were quiet for a moment, so close she could taste the peppermint on his breath.
She sighs, her lips twitching downwards, "I told you," she says, just as stubborn as he always is, "I'm fine. I'm just thinking, that's all."
"There you two are!" Katy had whipped around the bookshelf that been protecting them from the demands of the outside world. "I've been looking all over. Rose, could you explain the History essay to me? I don't even know what to write about!" Katy was a small girl with silky dark hair and skin the shade of hot cocoa with too much milk. She was animated, almost cartoonish in her absolute excitement for anything and everything. She spoke in all exclamation points, her smile always wide and her hands always dancing about, illustrating to the air exactly what she was trying to say.
The moment shattered like glass. "Yeah," Rose said after a moment, her cheeks flushing, "I'll get out my notes and see what I have so far."
Katy's smile grew impossibly larger, "thanks!" and Rose reluctantly gathered her belongs and left, giving Scorpius one last apologetic look. He breathed shallowly, only recovering his wits once she was out of sight.
He quirks an eyebrow, "you've always been an awful liar, we both know you can't think" And she chuckles just a little, the low laugh teased out of her only for old times' sake. The comment is so him, so everything he always has been and always will be, and that makes her smile but also makes the hole in her heart seem infinitely larger.
A few nights later they sit by the fire, their ears filled with the scratching of quills and the snapping of the fire. The common room has long emptied, students drifting towards the dormitories with drooping eyes and shuffling feet. He was studying math and she was studying him.
"Do you think they're right?" She asked softly after a few minutes.
He looked up at her, ink smudged on his cheek, "'bout what?"
"About girls and boys not being able to be friends." It felt like a pivotal moment to her, her heart racing a little as her mind whirred in a frantic attempt to keep up with her mouth.
He thought for a moment, tapping his quill against the table, "but we're friends, right? So they must be wrong."
She thought to herself how daft he was, how thick and oblivious and utterly stupid. "Do you want to be friends?" She asked carefully.
"Of course!" He said quickly, "you're nice, even if you are sometimes a humorless old hag." He smirked, obviously trying to get a rise out of her, but she had already decided the path of the conversation and she refused to let him skirt around the issue.
"But is that all you want to be? Because," her voice wavered a little bit wit nerves, "I like you."
"I like you too," he said after a moment.
"I guess we just proved them all right," she said, a relieved smile splitting her face almost in two.
"Yeah, well," he grinned, reaching out a hand towards her, "be my girlfriend?"
Of course she said yes.
"I guess I just always figured that you'd be a big part of my life and it just kinda sucks that this is all we are. That's all." She can't hold back the hitch in her voice, and it cracks in all the wrong places. She feels like something inside of her is shattering, just admitting how much she misses him out loud seems to break every stitch that held her scarred skin together.
They had been too young, playing with fire before even understanding how much it could burn. They could talk for hours and laugh for even longer, but their lips never touched and their hands never roamed. They were children, playing dress-up in roles far too mature for their few years.
Nothing made it fall apart, really. Days turned to weeks, then months, and they talked a little less, only having quick conversations between classes. They grew up, going in separate directions very, very slowly. He came to her one day with an apology, telling her he couldn't play act, carry out the make-believe that he was ready for this, any more. He was too young to hold her heart, too scared to drop it. She was devastated, but, in the way of a child, healed soon enough. But the stitches holding her heart together were crooked and broken, she was not as flawless as she had once been.
"Rose," he says helplessly. He is not good with emotion, never has been. It's one of the reasons they didn't work out. He looks awkward, unsure of how to carry himself around the crying girl. He pats her back stiffly and she leans in to his touch, her breath catching as she tries to control the flood of emotion before it overwhelms the two of them.
"I miss you," she whispers.
"I'm right here," he points out, ever literal.
She smiles a watery smile, "that's not what I meant, idiot."
"I know," he says after a moment. She sits up, pushing herself off of his chest in an attempt to recover some dignity. "I miss you too." But that's all he says and it's not enough, they both know it'll never be enough.
She bites her lower lip, stands up, and walks away. "Goodbye, Scor," she tells him, her back to him.
"Goodbye Rose," he says, his heart sinking because it sounds so forever, so permanent.
Days turn to weeks, then months. They don't talk and it kills both of them a little bit but girls will be girls and boys will be boys and he has a new girlfriend, a pretty fifth year with bright red hair that cascades down her back like a waterfall and she has a boy whose eyes are the brightest blue and hands are always tender when they touch her.
"I miss you," she had told him one night by the light of the crackling fire.
He had said he missed her too, but not a word beyond that. She was devastated, but recovered from the blow eventually..
She never forgot him.
He finds himself unable to forget her.
