Title: "Even in Enmity"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Gilmore Girls"
Rating/Classification: 'R', slash, angst, second person pov, D/J
Disclaimer: Amy Sherman Palladino would have a heart attack. I do not own them, Sam I am. I do not own green eggs and ham.
Summary: They hate each other.
"I hate you," he whispers, raggedly against your throat, tracing over old bite marks with new as you bow over, nearly bent in half, in the back seat of the mammoth, old, piece-of-shit car. It was made for make-out sessions with delicate, porcelain-skinned girls...the remnants of whom are still here, evident in the torn, dirty, suspiciously damp, copy of _A Separate Peace_ that is lodged between his thighs...where you were only moments before.
"Hate you more, Man," you gasp as his fingers close around you and you jerk up, hit your head on the ceiling, the sagging upholstery sinking down over your hair like a hat. Your hands bite into the thin skin above his hip bones and you marvel at how short he is, how small and wiry, and how when you hold him like this...when you fumble in the dark and slam into the counter after Luke's is locked down...at how effectively you can shut up his huge, smart, fucking mouth with just a kiss.
He stares over your shoulder as you slump against him, absently tracing circles underneath your t-shirt. His eyes are focused out the back windshield and you wonder if he expects her to walk up...to discover you...to be heartbroken over this the way she was at the Dance Marathon. You wonder if he pictures her when you're fucking. And you don't care, because you can yank at his spiky hair until his head snaps back on his scrawny neck and make him swear and remind him of everything the two of you brought to Star's Hollow from the big, bad, city. Everything the two of you share that Rory Gilmore couldn't possibly comprehend...everything that is far worse, far darker, than the love you both have for her.
You can remind him of just how good and sweet and pure you never were.
"I killed a guy back in Chicago," you told him after the first time. He messed up a lunch order for Taylor and you were so pissed that you found him smoking out behind the diner after dark and slammed him hard against the dumpsters. He slammed back and you hit him and he bruised your mouth when he kissed you and called you a "sissy." You showed him how you had *that* in common, too. "We got in a fight...I hit him so hard, he bled internally for a week before his heart just gave out. They called it an accident and my family moved me to this stupid little town and pretended like it never happened."
He was so surprised, laying underneath you, there, in the shadow of trash, thinking you were lily-white and good and big and dumb...no match for his James Dean act. You bit his neck like a vampire, felt the blood rush up against the skin, and were secretly glad when you came into Luke's the next morning and he was telling Miss Patty something about burning himself on the grill. She laughed like a lusty hyena and said, "I didn't know Rory was such an animal!" Your eyes met and he smiled. Really smiled at you. For the first time.
"She's not," he said, dark, mocking, gaze never leaving your face. "That grill's a demon in the sack, Miss Patty."
Other kids park out by the lake. Park with a capital "p". The two of you drive out to the middle of nowhere, craft mall parking lots are a dime a dozen, and he always climbs into the back silently, after switching the radio to some corny pop station so when his head hits the door over and over again, it's to the tune of "The Power of Love" by Celine Dion. Afterwards, you buy a knickknack for your mom, cow salt shakers or wind chimes, while he finds a book for Rory at the thrift store. You've had sex with him on Camille Paglia, Kafka, and Don DeLillo...and sometimes you think the words leap off the page and the ink has tattooed your brain because you raise your hand in class the next day and rattle off the years of the Vietnam War or the socio-political effects of hubris on a novel's protagonist with no problem.
He was surprised to find out you're in Honors Lit. That you sit in the back, pretending to sleep, and think of the bruises beneath his collar...the bruises that you put there...and you fantasize about the way he says he hates you. All breath. All lies.
"Dean...?" His voice is deceptively soft, lips brushing your chin as he stops wishing for fairy tales and comes back, inside the car, into the sticky-sweat warmth between your bodies.
"What?" you demand, harshly, over the straining sounds of some Luthor Vandross song that was popular when you were nine.
He hooks his ankles around your calves, burying his hands in your hair, reminding you why you don't get it cut even though Taylor insists you look like a 'hooligan.' "You don't really hate me," he says with a smug little smirk.
You nip at it, hard, drawing blood, and he leaves scratches on your back that you know you'll feel for days. "I don't hate you at all," you tell him. "In fact, I think I'm beginning to like you, you little punk."
All breath. All lies.
"I found it. I found a single sustaining thought. You are even in enmity. You are both coldly driving ahead for yourselves alone.. I felt better. Yes, I sensed it like the sweat of relief when nausea passes away; I felt better. We were even after all, even in enmity. The deadly rivalry was on both sides after all."-- _A Separate Peace_, John Knowles.
--end--
February 11, 2003.
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Gilmore Girls"
Rating/Classification: 'R', slash, angst, second person pov, D/J
Disclaimer: Amy Sherman Palladino would have a heart attack. I do not own them, Sam I am. I do not own green eggs and ham.
Summary: They hate each other.
"I hate you," he whispers, raggedly against your throat, tracing over old bite marks with new as you bow over, nearly bent in half, in the back seat of the mammoth, old, piece-of-shit car. It was made for make-out sessions with delicate, porcelain-skinned girls...the remnants of whom are still here, evident in the torn, dirty, suspiciously damp, copy of _A Separate Peace_ that is lodged between his thighs...where you were only moments before.
"Hate you more, Man," you gasp as his fingers close around you and you jerk up, hit your head on the ceiling, the sagging upholstery sinking down over your hair like a hat. Your hands bite into the thin skin above his hip bones and you marvel at how short he is, how small and wiry, and how when you hold him like this...when you fumble in the dark and slam into the counter after Luke's is locked down...at how effectively you can shut up his huge, smart, fucking mouth with just a kiss.
He stares over your shoulder as you slump against him, absently tracing circles underneath your t-shirt. His eyes are focused out the back windshield and you wonder if he expects her to walk up...to discover you...to be heartbroken over this the way she was at the Dance Marathon. You wonder if he pictures her when you're fucking. And you don't care, because you can yank at his spiky hair until his head snaps back on his scrawny neck and make him swear and remind him of everything the two of you brought to Star's Hollow from the big, bad, city. Everything the two of you share that Rory Gilmore couldn't possibly comprehend...everything that is far worse, far darker, than the love you both have for her.
You can remind him of just how good and sweet and pure you never were.
"I killed a guy back in Chicago," you told him after the first time. He messed up a lunch order for Taylor and you were so pissed that you found him smoking out behind the diner after dark and slammed him hard against the dumpsters. He slammed back and you hit him and he bruised your mouth when he kissed you and called you a "sissy." You showed him how you had *that* in common, too. "We got in a fight...I hit him so hard, he bled internally for a week before his heart just gave out. They called it an accident and my family moved me to this stupid little town and pretended like it never happened."
He was so surprised, laying underneath you, there, in the shadow of trash, thinking you were lily-white and good and big and dumb...no match for his James Dean act. You bit his neck like a vampire, felt the blood rush up against the skin, and were secretly glad when you came into Luke's the next morning and he was telling Miss Patty something about burning himself on the grill. She laughed like a lusty hyena and said, "I didn't know Rory was such an animal!" Your eyes met and he smiled. Really smiled at you. For the first time.
"She's not," he said, dark, mocking, gaze never leaving your face. "That grill's a demon in the sack, Miss Patty."
Other kids park out by the lake. Park with a capital "p". The two of you drive out to the middle of nowhere, craft mall parking lots are a dime a dozen, and he always climbs into the back silently, after switching the radio to some corny pop station so when his head hits the door over and over again, it's to the tune of "The Power of Love" by Celine Dion. Afterwards, you buy a knickknack for your mom, cow salt shakers or wind chimes, while he finds a book for Rory at the thrift store. You've had sex with him on Camille Paglia, Kafka, and Don DeLillo...and sometimes you think the words leap off the page and the ink has tattooed your brain because you raise your hand in class the next day and rattle off the years of the Vietnam War or the socio-political effects of hubris on a novel's protagonist with no problem.
He was surprised to find out you're in Honors Lit. That you sit in the back, pretending to sleep, and think of the bruises beneath his collar...the bruises that you put there...and you fantasize about the way he says he hates you. All breath. All lies.
"Dean...?" His voice is deceptively soft, lips brushing your chin as he stops wishing for fairy tales and comes back, inside the car, into the sticky-sweat warmth between your bodies.
"What?" you demand, harshly, over the straining sounds of some Luthor Vandross song that was popular when you were nine.
He hooks his ankles around your calves, burying his hands in your hair, reminding you why you don't get it cut even though Taylor insists you look like a 'hooligan.' "You don't really hate me," he says with a smug little smirk.
You nip at it, hard, drawing blood, and he leaves scratches on your back that you know you'll feel for days. "I don't hate you at all," you tell him. "In fact, I think I'm beginning to like you, you little punk."
All breath. All lies.
"I found it. I found a single sustaining thought. You are even in enmity. You are both coldly driving ahead for yourselves alone.. I felt better. Yes, I sensed it like the sweat of relief when nausea passes away; I felt better. We were even after all, even in enmity. The deadly rivalry was on both sides after all."-- _A Separate Peace_, John Knowles.
--end--
February 11, 2003.