Hey everyone, I'd like to thank you for your support thus far and your contributions to the "end sucky OTH fanfic" movement – you all rock steady. My reviewers – you know who you are – mean a world to me. I've finally finished watching the episodes after the first three (or the rest of the season) and now I see how little this fic and the show even share in terms of plot; but plot's not what I'm getting at really anyway. I'll leave the baby mama's dramas to the Wb.

Keep living in this world. It's a better one.

Luce

Wednesday

He's started working on her dad's old car.

It's a 68 Mustang, red, any teenage boy's wet dream. Enough horsepower under the hood to make you really feel it where it counts when you rev up the engine. Low-slung sharp-cut chassis with curves like a Playboy centerfold and leather bench seats. She likes the way he runs his hands over it like he's making love to it; it makes her giggle. She sits on the front porch and watches him work, content with admiring the sheer architecture of his body it its movements. She twists up her legs and crosses them twice, chin in her hand, rattling the ice cubes in her empty glass.

School has let out for the summer. Girls are lying in their front yards covered in baby-oil on lawn chairs, tanning and drinking iced tea. Lila Slater has resumed her infamous Wednesday night summer pool parties. Brooke has resumed wrecking as many of them as possible. Other people drift in and out at the periphery of her consciousness; Nathan, with that fresh-faced little girl on his arm, Haley, and the other members of the ball team or cheer squad who she's known since first grade. Just people. They've lost their real-ness somehow, compared to him, and the up-close wire-taut silent pull he has on her.

She watches his unhurried, patient hands.

A lot of the time, she examines herself closely and worries, worries about what he sees.

She doesn't like her face. It is too wide, flat, childish looking. The fake doll curls that are her only solution to a head of massively thick, frizzy hair make it even more so. Her mouth is barely a paper-cut, a line, a gash colored in with uncertain lipstick.

The glass she's set on the porch is fogged over, beads of condensation running down. In the frost she writes I love You with her fingers and watches it roll down to the bottom, staining the wood.

He slams the hood shut, sweat gleaming on the back of his neck and temples, and catches her staring. They grin and look away from each other. He rolls a screwdriver from one hand to the other.

"It's hot out here," he says suddenly, in that quiet, matter of fact way of his. "We should get in a pool."

She cocks one eyebrow suspiciously.

"You mean……."

"It's Wednesday," he continues, just as nonchalantly. He wipes his hands on a rug.

"Ok," she says. She's surprised at the simplicity of all this. Her heart beats a little faster though. Her throat rasps a little when she speaks.

"Aren't you a little…..afraid?"

He turns around and looks at her, evaluating her question.

"You don't have to be," he answers, smiling slightly. "I'm with you."
That's all she had wanted to say in the first place.

The screen buzzes. Testing. Testing. Brooke coming through.

The redhead sits at her desk, whirling around in the chair once. She slams her feet down, and attacks the keyboard; in two seconds, music is blaring through the speakers, hip-hop with a heavy bass beat and a cocky percussion section. She gets up and throws off her shirt, and starts dancing.

Peyton can't dance. She'd like to, but there's too much of her, arms and legs and elbows. All she can do is rock out, but that's hardly dancing. But Brooke, she swivels and coils and curves in and out like a snake, her neat, compactly- muscled little body moving between the rhythms and beats with sharp grace and careless cheekiness, and just the right amount of sex.

The blonde just watches her, putting on makeup in the mirror.

"Video ho," she calls out, and the redhead just dances over and starts grinding on her shoulder. She shrieks and pushes her away, laughing. It feels good, this lightness from the heaviness of being with him, the intensity. "What disaster are you planning for tonight?"

Brooke shrugs, doing a little half-step.

"You coming is disaster enough," she grins, dipping to the floor and winding her way back up again. Her red hair flies in front of her face. "I'm just going to aggravate the situation."

Peyton pushes Brooke's booty away again.

"Brooke I've got to beg you not to."

The other girl looks at her incredulously, and throws her arms above her head, curling her hips sinuously.

"Oh Peyton, I'd love to oblige you, but you know me when I'm drunk. And I've simply got to be drunk."

Peyton puts down her eyeliner and stares at Brooke's Harlem-shaking shoulders.

She opens her mouth and closes it again.

Then, "Why?"

The redhead stops abruptly, facing away from her.

"I think you remember why. Or has it been too long in Lucasland?"

The song ends. There is silence for a moment.

"Brooker….." she starts, then stops.

"You're happy, which is cool, and I'm happy for you," comes Brooke's voice, and the tears glimmer beneath its surface. The lilt of it is stinted.

"Oh Brooke," she says then, moving quickly, wrapping her arms around the smaller girl. "Nothing lasts Brooke, except you; you know that. You and Lila's hatred, which will stand firm until Hell installs ski lifts or the Cubs win the World Series or ….or …Brooke……"

The soft, desperate tone of her voice seems to unlock Brooke. Her shoulders finally slump and she turns around, wrapping her arms tight around her neck.

"Just don't leave me behind, Peyton," she says fiercely. "Leave no cheerleader behind. Leave no man behind, ok? Leave no Brooke. Cause I didn't leave you and you better remember, your ass had better remember-"

"Shhh," the other girl cuts in, patting her back. "Shut up. No one's leaving nobody."

They part. Brooke looks away, a little teary, embarrassed, sullen.

"Ok," she says softly. "Ok."

Then,

"I'm going to make us Tom Collinses. Where's the bourbon?"

She watches Peyton closely.

And Peyton relents, relents to assure her, to prove herself for the last time.

"Under the bed."

He knows she's been drinking the moment he looks at her. She just slams the door shut to the red Mustang, and pops a piece of gum in her mouth. She doesn't look at him.  Her jaw clenches a little. In front of them, Brooke's Bug spits gravel and tears out of the driveway.

"Should she be driving?" he asks quietly, and she feels a little sick. She hasn't even thought of that.

"I'm not sure," she mutters, looking away.

"This isn't a good start," he says, after a pause. She flips down the mirror sharply, pumping a tube of lipgloss. Her slightly unsteady hand fills in her mouth, creates lips colored a feverish, transparent pink. He sighs, and pulls out of the driveway, following the red taillights in front of them.

At Lila's the music is pouring over the hedges, lanterns lit, Jacuzzi full, all patio doors open; the pool glimmers a pale, unearthly blue. A girl wearing only soaked undergarments brushes past them, followed by a boy nervously looking over his shoulder.

"Julia Ashley's cheating on her boyfriend with Kowalski. Kowalski, I think, knows he's going to get his ass kicked before this night is over," narrates Brooke nonchalantly over her shoulder as they weave through the crowd, jostling a few cups. " Dabney Gray caught them last Wednesday in the china cabinet screwing around on the Slater's monogrammed linen, which if it wasn't so unsanitary, would be pretty funny. There's Ginny looking for a duvet to throw up on again, Hollings Wentworth blazed out of her mind on the weed that Mickey Santori's been selling for two months now, and Lila in person – hello Lila – praying she'll get some tonight."

"Fuck you too, thanks for coming," responds the other girl sweetly. They all stand there facing each other, tensed, waiting. Lila cocks her hip like a loaded gun and glances at Lucas over the rim of her plastic cup.

"Good to see you," she mouths silently to him. The music blares close to them over the shouts and yells coming from the patio. She throws Brooke and Peyton a narrow look, and seems to immediately forget them. Brushing past him carelessly, like a ghost, she drops one hand to his leg where they both can see it, and throws a dulcet smile over her shoulder.

He looks at Peyton quickly. Her narrow shoulders are level and stiff. She won't look at him.

"Let's leave," he says simply.

But she turns to him with fevered eyes and her smile is overbright and pink and bourbon loose; she puts her cup down abruptly, a little spilling over the side.

"No, let's stay. You wanted to come; here we are. You wanna see Peyton in action? Have you ever seen Peyton in action? Oh wait, yeah. Last time we were at one of these things we almost fucked in Nathan's spare bedroom."

Brooke suddenly looks away.

"I'm gonna go push Lila in the pool," she says cheerfully, and disappears. They don't even notice.

"Peyton," he says, in a low, quick voice.

"Maybe you got tired of waiting? Cause I'm in the mood now, drunk as hell. Let's do it and do it quick before I change my mind."

"Peyton, let's go," he says firmly, and his hand is on her arm.

"Not even," she says, yanking away. "We haven't gone swimming yet."

He steps away then, silent, dropping his hand. Pulling back into himself. She feels her heart suddenly contract in fear. He's looking at her, but differently. Like he might have looked at anyone. At Lila.

The lights from the pool, flickering, cutting through the night make her dizzy. People push around her. There is heat, sweat, bodies jammed together, beer spilling on her arm from someone's cup. She feels the drops, two, falling off her elbow. She stumbles a little.

She's on the parquet. She thinks of that summer day. Brooke's red anemone hair. Blinding sunlight and Lila's bourbon glass shattering in a thousand pieces, glinting. The water is in front of her and she yanks off her dress with one abrupt motion and her body, like an arrow, pierces the water.

It's silent underneath. Blue. Blind. She opens her eyes for a moment and they sting, cloudy, a leg to her left. She can hear her heart drumming in her ear in the thick, watery silence. She wishes she could stay here forever in this private, cold place.

Her head bursts the surface. A gasp of air. More dizziness.

Then back down underneath.

When she comes back up again, he's gone. She feels heat in her eyes welling up.

She pulls herself out, soaked cotton undergarments cooling on her skin at contact with air. She wrings her hair out and rubs at her eyes. She knows her eye makeup is ringing them like a bruise.

And Lila's there, standing before her, her pale hair hanging to her waist like a perfect piece of silk cut in just the right shape, flanked by a few girls.

"You should come with me," she says sweetly. "I'll get you a towel and an aspirin. You don't look so good."

And she sees herself stumbling along after Lila, as though from a distance. As though she's not in her body anymore, in that tall, lanky bruise-kneed body that's shivering, following obediently. She is just tired, so tired. She has to keep moving to somewhere.

Pressed to Mickey Santori's chlorine damp body on a lawn chair under a citronella lamp, lifting her eyes from his neck, Brooke sees her go.

It's cool in the Slater's spare room. A fan is on, although the air conditioning is freezing. She feels the icy droplets slipping from her hair. She's tired, her mouth thick and dusty with the taste of bourbon. She thinks about lying down.

Lila's standing behind a small lamp, her face cast in shadows. Two girls watch from the door. Dim light and noise are coming in from the hallway, where she can hear people yelling, dancing.

"So how'd you get him to fuck you?"

She hears the words coming from far away almost.

"Excuse me?" she whispers.

"How'd you get him to stick to you?" comes Lila's hard, thin voice again. "Suck his dick? Blackmail? Got his kid? Let him do you up the back? Cause I don't see any reason in hell why he'd want to play house with a skank like you."

She feels vomit welling up in her throat. Lila's face is coming closer. She sees her hands fly out, and feels her back hit something hard. Pain. She stands up weakly, thinking slowly. Too slowly. Lila's palm is biting her face, stinging her skin.

"Cmon bitch, do something. You don't deserve shit! You don't deserve somebody decent like that! You think you're somebody? Then c'mon, prove it! Win for once and for all! Kick my ass Peyton!"

A blow to the side of her face. She feels herself coming alive suddenly, like a sudden roar of blood in her head. She dives for Lila, body curling like a wildcat's, and the impact carries them both into the hallway, scattering the other two girls at the door. They hit the wall. People have stopped and turned to stare; Lila's grabbing at her face, her hair, nails cutting into her neck, but she grabs Lila's shoulders and shoves her hard and they're suddenly in the living room, on the floor, tearing and crashing into things. A girl screams, there's the sound of crystal breaking and the dull thud of blood in her ears.

They wrestle with each other, and she feels Lila's weight come down on her, a fist to the eye. She thinks about curling up, but her arm swings out suddenly and helplessly and in shock, she watches blood coming out of Lila's nose suddenly, warm drops spraying the side of her face. There is a sudden stillness and silence as she sees Lila lifting away from her like magic, seeming to float upwards. She sees Brooke's face behind Lila suddenly as the other girl seems to fly in slow motion towards a wall, hit it, and fall. Brooke seems to be floating down towards her like magic, as though through water, her red anemone hair floating behind her, her eyes and mouth so wide open and scared.

Am I drowning? She thinks.

The music has stopped. There's nothing but silence in her head. She wonders if she's still under the water. She thinks about the sparkle of sunlight, the quiet afternoon, the dance of light in the blue liquid like lightning connecting and then fading, trembling, coiling on the bottom of the pool. Brooke's hands are on her skin now, her voice far away, begging.

There are arms lifting her now. She knows them, the particular and exact feel of them; they are his. She lets her head fall against his chest. Her eye is throbbing, pounding, screaming deeply, and then everything goes black.

When she wakes up again, she sees her driveway in front of her, the edge of it, the grass, a dim porchlight. She feels her stomach heave violently, and her knees scrape the ground suddenly, then vomit in front of her in a puddle on the ground. Her throat constricts, hot and sticky, nauseous. She can feel herself trying to stand up again, his arms catching her, and then everything is black again.

The air is cool. Wet when she breathes it in. Clean.

The room is dark, blinds closed. She sees his head in the periphery of her vision, his face hidden by his arm. He's asleep in a chair with a pillow. She can't tell if it's evening or morning.

She sits up cautiously, wincing. The pain suddenly hits her on her temple like a hammer. She feels her eye throb mercilessly.

The pale girl staring at her from the dresser mirror has a black eye. Her lips are dry and colorless. Her narrow shoulders look bony and bruised, two sets of scratches marking her neck.

Stiffly, she makes her way to the bathroom, forcing herself to drink a glass of water. Her stomach contracts, and for a moment, she leans over the toilet, afraid she'll vomit again. Her hair is damp; he must have washed me off last night, she thinks.

He saw me naked, she contemplates oddly, inappropriately, pointlessly. It's her only thought. A moment passes and she realizes the stupidity of it. Still, she's never been completely naked in front of him.

Her eyes want to tear up, but they are too dry, inflamed. She feels sudden sadness at the loss of this intimacy she can't even remember. She had wanted to be there for that, to watch his hesitant fingers fumble with her buttons, trying to untangle her from her shirt, see his forehead wrinkle a little puzzling over the clasp on her bra. To see him catch his breath, stare a little dumbfounded at the whole picture, trying to take in, to memorize all of her standing before him like that, with nothing to hide behind. To see the questioning, the curiosity, the fascination in his eyes as he reached one hand towards her and lightly traced her bare skin.

All of this she had wanted to be there for. She had missed it.

When she comes back from the bathroom, wiping her mouth, he's awake, and looking at her. She sits on the edge of the bed lightly, brittle, fragile, and is afraid to look him in the eye for fear that she'll see the look. The look that is devoid of caring, intimacy. The look of pity.

She feels his arm slide under her legs and behind her back, picking her up and lying her down. His hands pulling the blanket up to her chest, tucking it a little around her. His hands pushing away the hair from her face. The weight of his body, shifting on the bed, settling down next to her. His fingertips lightly tracing the edge of her jaw.

"You're so beautiful," is what he tells her. "And I wish I had gotten there sooner. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm so sorry – Peyton please –"

There is nothing but lightness and silence inside her at that moment, as though she is made of air, in the darkness of that room under those covers she feels…..clear. Delirious. Thankful. Like a child after a hard crying jag, when they're done sobbing, how they feel release. Lightness. Tiredness, but comfort. Calm.

"Shh…." she whispers. "Be quiet. This was all my fault. And I'm sorry too."

They curl into each other, retreating under the darkness of the covers. She can't see anything, only up close pieces, a mouth, his eyes, his neck, their skin pressing together, the dampness of her hair, the throbbing of her bruises, the dark-shaded whiteness of the cotton around them. His heart is beating against her collarbone. He kisses her forehead.

"I know," he tells her.

And somehow, she senses that he does.