'I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't.'
~ Dylan Thomas ~
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"...I miss you..." she says finally, after a few minutes of awkward, forced silence. "Lavender's been having 'Dean' problems and you know, I've been stalling on my homework and you've been with other people and…and I really miss you."
He undoes his scarlet and gold tie and throws it ceremoniously over a plush chair. "I miss you too," he adds. "We don't see each other much anymore."
It's a hard, solid fact with little emotion added in for fluff. She doesn't giggle at the comment; it's loaded down with substance and truth and serious stuff.
"It was supposed to be me and you, and Dean," she adds hastily. "Me and you...all seven years and for all time after."
He smiles slightly; she's sitting on the floor near his feet. Her skirt lay out over her knees, she tucks a strand of hair away from her eyes. He takes off his vest and sits down beside her.
"I know," he whispers into her apricot-smelling hair. "I know, baby."
"We were like best buddies," she adds as arrays of tears streak her candy-cane cheeks. "Like best buddies."
"We still are," he says tightly grasping her hand. "Still are."
And he tickles her.
So she giggles.
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