Author's Note: This is from the point of view of Nathan Scott. He and
Peyton were never dating, and have never been in a relationship. I thought
it was time to introduce other characters, but expect more Jeyton
flashbacks in the next chapter, followed by appearances from Lucas and
Haley.
We were perfection. Brooke and I. Tree Hill High's reining monarch and temptress. Every available opportunity fell into our laps, as if by magic, or courtesy of the endeavors undertaken by Brooke's underground corporation of assassins, every knee bowed before us, every pair of lips we deemed worthy of making contact with our asses did so promptly...and often. We were gods. Myself, the exalted captain of the basketball team, and Brooke Davis, the legendary matriarch of the Raven's cheerleading squad.
Despite the overbearing entourage constantly clamoring for my attention and the awe of every male in Tree Hill who publicly, or privately (if he valued existing), praised my many attributes that had undoubtedly swept Brooke off her feet during our introduction and Brooke for indubitably being 'the epitome of lays,' I, Nathan Scott, had more depth than my ability to seize control of all events that transpired in my throne room (a basketball court), and the various techniques I had acquired over the years guaranteed to leave the ladies bellowing my name long after their children have children of their own.
Nathan Scott and Brooke Davis have identities and aspirations that range far beyond the restraints of the jock strap and the pon poms. We cherish moments on the weekends that are completely removed from the stereotypical teenage vortex of vodka, flavored condoms, and deafening melodies blasting from too-close-to-imploding-for-comfort speakers. Our discussions about the future contain topics outside of satin sheets, rose petals, and birth control.
We remain perfect because society depends on something, someone to be unchanging. Like the Star Spangled Banner that continued to ripple in the breeze following the final volley of musket fire, Nathan Scott and Brooke Davis will forever maintain their status as Tree Hill High's "power couple."
I knew Brooke, better than I know myself. For, what components merged to form Nathan Scott? Solely that which his father, Dan Scott, local tyrant and automobile dealership owner, allotted him. Dan commanded that I pursue basketball before anything else by convincing me that my entire future was riding on my innate talents, so, I, the obedient and cowardly son, assented willingly. I suppose I am just a jock strap. Somewhere during the preparation for 'my glory days' I fell out of love with the game, and lost the passion for striving to achieve greatness.
Brooke, however; had parents who were MIA since her mother miscarried five years ago, opting to delve into their work over acknowledging that one child was very much alive and vibrant and independent and intelligent and fun-loving and desperate for their acceptance.
Brooke still had a dream, a vision that sustained her throughout countless parties and endless nights of purging her body of toxins, while I held her chestnut hair away from her beautiful face (caked with smudged make-up), observing helplessly as a torrent of tears cascaded ever downwards. Brooke dreamed of becoming a psychiatrist. "One day, Nate," she snuggled comfortably against my chest, "I'll be able to advise people against embracing perfection. I'll spread the gospel of the individual." "So," I cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, "you're goal is to convert individualism into the newest trend? If everyone is an individual, doesn't that mean the individuals are just following the masses?" She mock slugged me before cheekily vowing to withhold sex for the rest of our lives. Resisting my charms was an impossibility of course, exactly like our fellow Ravens appreciating this facet of Brooke's humor. Anything not related to belittling a 'nobody' was reserved for conversations behind closed doors.
I knew Brooke, in an indefinable way. I had seen her form this bubbly, boozehound facade. I let her convince our world that she had changed to better serve her loyal subjects. Outwardly, Brooke was poised, fashionable, bitchy, worldly, experienced. Inwardly, Brooke had an irrational fear of squirrels. "They are part of a government conspiracy to take over the world, Nate! Don't let those bushy tails fool you."
I knew about her tendency to throw tantrums with the best of them when she was four-years-old and her mother made her leave the house when she wasn't wearing a dress. Apparently one of her friends from preschool, some girl named Hillary, began a trend of dress-wearing that Brooke NEEDED to participate in. One of those telepathic challenges which is widespread among children that age.
I knew Brooke would never wear shoes if her parents didn't have a rule that any staff member who failed to retrieve footwear for her daughter the instant toes were sighted. 'Shoes as if your life depended on them' was the Davis concept of proper parenting.
I knew the names and personalities of each of Brooke's stuffed animals. We frequently joined them for a spot of tea and a plate of crumpets when storms raged through North Carolina. When Brooke was younger, she and her mother enjoyed tea parties every Sunday in their 'secret spot' on the Davis grounds. The tradition died along with the baby. Then money became synonymous with love in Mrs. Davis's opinion.
I knew Brooke had an unhealthy obsession with All My Children. She claimed this was due to a female prerogative, but I knew the truth. The soap featured a vast quantity of gorgeous persons encouraged to err. The more heinous the atrocity committed, the more enthusiastically the audience responded. Brooke desired release from perfection.
I knew Brooke, better than I know myself. Then, I became a victim of THE ACCIDENT. The most talked-about event since Karen's Café began serving 15 types of pie, and thereby putting Tree Hill on the map. My best friend Tim was behind the wheel, making out furiously with a girl he'd met 5 minutes before. Tim never understood the movements necessary for effective snogging in a vehicle. Thus, he accidentally shifted from "park" to "drive," and his Hummer roared out of the driveway of Dan's beach house (our party central for the evening) and plowed into the driver's side of my BMW as I was returning from the liquor store.
It was Brooke who broke the news that fateful night. It was Dan's place, but he was adamant about giving the silent treatment to the young man who would never play basketball again, the young man who would never walk again, the young man who would be confined to a wheelchair for the remainder of his days. Brooke told me I was paralyzed, crystalline tears cascading down her cheeks, mascara running horrendously, grasping my hand as if I were her lifeline, although, just by pulling up a chair and sitting next to me throughout the night, she was mine.
"Hey, Boyfriend," she croaked, cheerfully as could be managed with her cosmetic reparation utensils elsewhere. "Brooke..." I stabbed dismally at my eggs, "Shit! If breakfast is this fantastic, I can't wait until the jell- O." She sniffled uncontrollably as I held her close, ever closer. "Come here. Get into the bed with me." Mutely, she executed a few moves that professional contortionists would envy, skirted the various tubes and dials that separated us, and settled herself oh-so-gingerly against my torso. The clanks, whirring, buzzing, and humming of the machinery stifled any urge she might have had to comment about my request that she join me in the sack so soon after my near-death experience.
"Nate, I..." I held up a hand to silence her before she made the speech both of us would regret. "I know you think you want to be there for me, Brooke. To hold my hand during my recuperation period, to proudly push my wheelchair around for the rest of your life, but I won't let you! You are the last person I need pitying me. Dan can handle the My-Life-Is-Ruined- Because-My-Son-Is-An-Invalid Department by himself." "But, Nate, you almost..." she interjected shrilly, clearly panicking. With all the willpower I possessed, I restrained myself from collapsing against her, succumbing to the fears for my future that were obviously consuming her. "I'm aware that I almost died Brooke. But, that doesn't mean you have to. You've struggled so valiantly to ascend to the peak of the social ladder. You will not be shoved back to the bottom rung on my account."
Eyes blazing, Brooke catapulted out of the bed and charged out of the door, yelling an enraged, "If you honestly think I value popularity more than our relationship, I wish you had died in that crash!," over her shoulder. I cried myself an ocean then.
I knew Brooke Davis, better than I know myself, but it took her leaving me in this wheelchair, alone in this beach house, alone in life, for me to realize that maybe I didn't know her as well as I originally thought. Day after day I am stationary by this window pondering if giving up on Brooke was a brilliant move. Could we have proven together that Brooke Davis, legendary matriarch of the Ravens cheerleading squad and myself, Nathan Scott, exalted captain of the basketball team, were perfection in a manner in which stereotypes pale in comparison?
We were perfection. Brooke and I. Tree Hill High's reining monarch and temptress. Every available opportunity fell into our laps, as if by magic, or courtesy of the endeavors undertaken by Brooke's underground corporation of assassins, every knee bowed before us, every pair of lips we deemed worthy of making contact with our asses did so promptly...and often. We were gods. Myself, the exalted captain of the basketball team, and Brooke Davis, the legendary matriarch of the Raven's cheerleading squad.
Despite the overbearing entourage constantly clamoring for my attention and the awe of every male in Tree Hill who publicly, or privately (if he valued existing), praised my many attributes that had undoubtedly swept Brooke off her feet during our introduction and Brooke for indubitably being 'the epitome of lays,' I, Nathan Scott, had more depth than my ability to seize control of all events that transpired in my throne room (a basketball court), and the various techniques I had acquired over the years guaranteed to leave the ladies bellowing my name long after their children have children of their own.
Nathan Scott and Brooke Davis have identities and aspirations that range far beyond the restraints of the jock strap and the pon poms. We cherish moments on the weekends that are completely removed from the stereotypical teenage vortex of vodka, flavored condoms, and deafening melodies blasting from too-close-to-imploding-for-comfort speakers. Our discussions about the future contain topics outside of satin sheets, rose petals, and birth control.
We remain perfect because society depends on something, someone to be unchanging. Like the Star Spangled Banner that continued to ripple in the breeze following the final volley of musket fire, Nathan Scott and Brooke Davis will forever maintain their status as Tree Hill High's "power couple."
I knew Brooke, better than I know myself. For, what components merged to form Nathan Scott? Solely that which his father, Dan Scott, local tyrant and automobile dealership owner, allotted him. Dan commanded that I pursue basketball before anything else by convincing me that my entire future was riding on my innate talents, so, I, the obedient and cowardly son, assented willingly. I suppose I am just a jock strap. Somewhere during the preparation for 'my glory days' I fell out of love with the game, and lost the passion for striving to achieve greatness.
Brooke, however; had parents who were MIA since her mother miscarried five years ago, opting to delve into their work over acknowledging that one child was very much alive and vibrant and independent and intelligent and fun-loving and desperate for their acceptance.
Brooke still had a dream, a vision that sustained her throughout countless parties and endless nights of purging her body of toxins, while I held her chestnut hair away from her beautiful face (caked with smudged make-up), observing helplessly as a torrent of tears cascaded ever downwards. Brooke dreamed of becoming a psychiatrist. "One day, Nate," she snuggled comfortably against my chest, "I'll be able to advise people against embracing perfection. I'll spread the gospel of the individual." "So," I cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, "you're goal is to convert individualism into the newest trend? If everyone is an individual, doesn't that mean the individuals are just following the masses?" She mock slugged me before cheekily vowing to withhold sex for the rest of our lives. Resisting my charms was an impossibility of course, exactly like our fellow Ravens appreciating this facet of Brooke's humor. Anything not related to belittling a 'nobody' was reserved for conversations behind closed doors.
I knew Brooke, in an indefinable way. I had seen her form this bubbly, boozehound facade. I let her convince our world that she had changed to better serve her loyal subjects. Outwardly, Brooke was poised, fashionable, bitchy, worldly, experienced. Inwardly, Brooke had an irrational fear of squirrels. "They are part of a government conspiracy to take over the world, Nate! Don't let those bushy tails fool you."
I knew about her tendency to throw tantrums with the best of them when she was four-years-old and her mother made her leave the house when she wasn't wearing a dress. Apparently one of her friends from preschool, some girl named Hillary, began a trend of dress-wearing that Brooke NEEDED to participate in. One of those telepathic challenges which is widespread among children that age.
I knew Brooke would never wear shoes if her parents didn't have a rule that any staff member who failed to retrieve footwear for her daughter the instant toes were sighted. 'Shoes as if your life depended on them' was the Davis concept of proper parenting.
I knew the names and personalities of each of Brooke's stuffed animals. We frequently joined them for a spot of tea and a plate of crumpets when storms raged through North Carolina. When Brooke was younger, she and her mother enjoyed tea parties every Sunday in their 'secret spot' on the Davis grounds. The tradition died along with the baby. Then money became synonymous with love in Mrs. Davis's opinion.
I knew Brooke had an unhealthy obsession with All My Children. She claimed this was due to a female prerogative, but I knew the truth. The soap featured a vast quantity of gorgeous persons encouraged to err. The more heinous the atrocity committed, the more enthusiastically the audience responded. Brooke desired release from perfection.
I knew Brooke, better than I know myself. Then, I became a victim of THE ACCIDENT. The most talked-about event since Karen's Café began serving 15 types of pie, and thereby putting Tree Hill on the map. My best friend Tim was behind the wheel, making out furiously with a girl he'd met 5 minutes before. Tim never understood the movements necessary for effective snogging in a vehicle. Thus, he accidentally shifted from "park" to "drive," and his Hummer roared out of the driveway of Dan's beach house (our party central for the evening) and plowed into the driver's side of my BMW as I was returning from the liquor store.
It was Brooke who broke the news that fateful night. It was Dan's place, but he was adamant about giving the silent treatment to the young man who would never play basketball again, the young man who would never walk again, the young man who would be confined to a wheelchair for the remainder of his days. Brooke told me I was paralyzed, crystalline tears cascading down her cheeks, mascara running horrendously, grasping my hand as if I were her lifeline, although, just by pulling up a chair and sitting next to me throughout the night, she was mine.
"Hey, Boyfriend," she croaked, cheerfully as could be managed with her cosmetic reparation utensils elsewhere. "Brooke..." I stabbed dismally at my eggs, "Shit! If breakfast is this fantastic, I can't wait until the jell- O." She sniffled uncontrollably as I held her close, ever closer. "Come here. Get into the bed with me." Mutely, she executed a few moves that professional contortionists would envy, skirted the various tubes and dials that separated us, and settled herself oh-so-gingerly against my torso. The clanks, whirring, buzzing, and humming of the machinery stifled any urge she might have had to comment about my request that she join me in the sack so soon after my near-death experience.
"Nate, I..." I held up a hand to silence her before she made the speech both of us would regret. "I know you think you want to be there for me, Brooke. To hold my hand during my recuperation period, to proudly push my wheelchair around for the rest of your life, but I won't let you! You are the last person I need pitying me. Dan can handle the My-Life-Is-Ruined- Because-My-Son-Is-An-Invalid Department by himself." "But, Nate, you almost..." she interjected shrilly, clearly panicking. With all the willpower I possessed, I restrained myself from collapsing against her, succumbing to the fears for my future that were obviously consuming her. "I'm aware that I almost died Brooke. But, that doesn't mean you have to. You've struggled so valiantly to ascend to the peak of the social ladder. You will not be shoved back to the bottom rung on my account."
Eyes blazing, Brooke catapulted out of the bed and charged out of the door, yelling an enraged, "If you honestly think I value popularity more than our relationship, I wish you had died in that crash!," over her shoulder. I cried myself an ocean then.
I knew Brooke Davis, better than I know myself, but it took her leaving me in this wheelchair, alone in this beach house, alone in life, for me to realize that maybe I didn't know her as well as I originally thought. Day after day I am stationary by this window pondering if giving up on Brooke was a brilliant move. Could we have proven together that Brooke Davis, legendary matriarch of the Ravens cheerleading squad and myself, Nathan Scott, exalted captain of the basketball team, were perfection in a manner in which stereotypes pale in comparison?