Disclaimer: The Lion King belongs to Disney, I believe. I don't own GG. I own little, in fact. Big surprise, isn't it?
A/N: This? This was written because of the simple fact that lits can't die. (smiles) I love you all. [[Btw…it isn't quite as random as it might seem. And that's all I'm saying.]] One shot, italics are flashbacks.
To all the wonderful people I know, for a gazillion different reasons. And a huge thanks to Elise (another speed racer beta) for causing this insane crazy smiling. Hee. You're amazing.
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They never forgive, never repair anything. He is used to it; she is too. The memories pound down on them and shatter on the impenetrable shield that covers them, always. Some slip in through cracks and let spasms of pain cross their oblivious horizons, but then they are gone, and other than that, things are calm, boring, and forgettable.
They like to think that. They have both grown accustomed to lying.
Virtually across the world from one another (totally different atmospheres--it's the same thing), slowly, quietly, unobtrusively, they both fade, break, disappear. It isn't a difficult thing to do, but for them, it is hard: fighting the strength that (before) would never allow them to give in. To anything.
She is right, he admits. Stars Hollow is beautiful in twilight.
They sit on the front porch, watching stars fall.
The stars stay in the same place, to his eyes, he who falls asleep, wakes up later, and says 'wow.' To her, they do move, carefully, but visibly, across the sky. She stays awake, leaning against him, watching. She complains that the porch is uncomfortable, but she settles into the position with her head resting on his sweatshirt, on his lap, and she's quiet. The look in her eyes mirrors the one he recognizes, from when he draws her close and that incredible smile spreads across her face. He plays with her hair, twisting it around his fingers, barely realizing what he's doing. She giggles, he glances at her, and she doesn't explain why. But it's all right.
He relaxes against the stair behind him, shifting to get comfortable, and drifts to sleep. When he awakes, it is dark, stars glitter in the sky (blue, not black), and she is overcome with awe, as she is every night. He is amused and says nothing; sits back and enjoys it.
She moves through the kitchen, barely opening her eyes—she's memorized the counter, the sink, the stove. She can toast waffles and pop tarts without a glance and does; sets plates on the table.
The sky is still cloudy, she notices, looking out the window, and she sighs. But in the corner of her eye, something sparkles, and sunlight breaks through. The moon still hangs there, a white orb against the blue; transparent, almost disappearing. She thinks it's stupid that she prefers the night sky to any weather-forecaster-labeled "perfect day."
She gets busier and busier, as does he. When he pulls her into his arms, it's awkward, and he can't always look straight into her eyes. The expression she has in the mental picture he's always saved, the one of the two of them on her porch…he can't remember it since then, and he'd give anything to see it.
Her office is filled with people, and he tells her he's worried: won't she have trouble studying here, isn't it too big of a commitment, shouldn't she wait until graduation to take on something like this? She brushes his comments away, and she doesn't sound thankful for the concern. It's concern he has never offered anyone else, but he doesn't point this out.
She goes home after work and studying, to her apartment, tired enough to collapse. Often, he visits, pulls a blanket over her when she drifts to sleep before she means to. He goes out on the porch and watches the stars himself, but smoke and lights from the city cloud the constellations that were always their favorite, the ones he wants to see. He tries to stay awake long enough to see them fall like she does: sometimes he gives up and returns inside. Sometimes he falls asleep on the uncomfortable metal chair, and at six the next morning, without fail, she'll wake up and wonder where he is, until she finds him outside.
People speak to him, and he responds in turn, always biting back the smart-ass reply he'd like to tell them. He works, eats, sleeps, and for him, that's the circle of life. The Lion King. Hated that movie as a kid.
He told Rory that once; she was scandalized. She made him watch it again, he remembers. She walked him home (home? No, to her house) from the diner, there just in time to catch the end of his last shift. She slipped the tape in and pressed play on the VCR, grinning. But all he can recall is the way he distracted himself: kissing her.
She didn't seem to mind.
He gets that the whole theme of the movie is love (isn't it? It's always about love), but for him, that section of his life's circle has faded and melted, and he survives without it. Even the nagging feeling that something is missing dissipates after a while. He refuses to leave his apartment on Valentine's Day or Christmas, for fear of being reminded, but really, the sheer emptiness of the places he lives and works is reminder enough to hurt.
He ignores the pain; it isn't worth it.
Sometimes he tries to rationalize it all to himself. Think about what he did wrong; what was the one thing he should never have said? He can't pinpoint one; it seems to him when he thinks back that really, he should never have said anything at all.
It isn't his fault that Brandon is essentially perfect—he's between the two worlds that Rory has already gotten stuck in, temporarily: her grandparents', Dean's. And his, of course. As much as he tried to discard the jerk-rebel-dropout-idiot front, he supposes that no matter how much you try, if it's something you grow up with, it's not easy to get rid of. She's not meant for him. It isn't his fault and it isn't hers, and he has to let it go. She must have, already.
Well, of course she has. She wouldn't get married while still in love with someone else.
He has nowhere to go in the city, not really. His work, it's available anywhere, and he knows he can find a job. Apply for some brain-dead task, surprise the manager with a few clever comments, and he's in. He could move, easily, to any town or place he could find an apartment, but he doesn't. He thinks he's gotten used to not being able to see the stars.
Growing up in a small town…it's nothing like the city, and as much as she likes visiting now, she knows she could never live there. Brandon understands this: he grew up in the city and is sick of it himself.
But instead of moving somewhere like Stars Hollow, another small-town like place where she could get to know everyone (every village needs a Lorelai, as much as they need a Boo Radley), they buy—he buys—a house way out in the country, surrounded by grasses, fields, trees. The kind of place she'd go visit: "Ooh, pretty," and would return to (insert small town here) to tell everyone about it.
So that doesn't happen, fine, not every wish comes true. Doesn't she really have everything she wanted by now? She's awfully lucky, people tell her. She replies that she knows, but some hidden, secret, contrary part of her mind doubts it.
The first night they move, she walks into the yard alone, staring at the sky, but so few lights are around, there are too many stars. She can't recognize the old, familiar constellations with all these new, confusing points of light, and the sight of the Milky Way streaking clearly across the sky scares her, as silly as that sounds.
The earth is just one tiny object in the hugeness of the universe, after all, and she herself, when compared to all that, is virtually nothing.
It was foolish to think she could ever have been everything, to anyone. And it's crazy to think back on that now, when the one person it might have once been true for is out of her life.
She wants to promise that they'll never forget each other. He wonders what movie she's just seen ("My Girl" maybe?), but he grins and agrees. How do you mean, he asks.
She replies that she doesn't know, and she laughs, tilting her head back, resting it on his shoulder. Lightly, he wraps his arm around her waist, and her eyes light up. A stone lies beside her hand on the bridge, and she gets the look that means she suddenly has an idea. A strange idea, no doubt—it is Rory.
What is it? he says, holding her closer. This is the exact opposite of "his kind of thing," but he does it anyway, for her. They close their hands around the rock, both holding it, both smiling. He starts to speak, but she kicks him and he stifles a laugh while promising not to say anything more. She snatches the stone away from him.
She asks if he wants to do it, but he declines: You go ahead. She tosses the pebble into the lake, and it stays there, its ripples spreading out from the point where it sank.
Now it's there forever, she says, smiling again, trying not to laugh herself, out of pure delight. He can't figure out where she got this idea from, but right now it doesn't matter. Yeah, it is, he agrees, and he kisses her. She thinks there has never been a better night than this.
When you grow up in New York City, in the middle of Manhattan, you learn not to pay attention to everything tourists say (or repeat), "the city never sleeps" being among them. Every Manhattan resident has his or her own opinion about this, about everything, he thinks.
He personally has always thought that really, the city does sleep.
It sleeps on those dark instants, when just for that one half a second, no one speaks. That moment when all lights are off—of course you can't see it; it's always when you blink. That time when a siren cuts off and people stop, stare, and wonder for that quick minute where that ambulance is going. No one notices that minute, because the wondering happens at the same time, and its occurrence disappears into unwritten history—a much, much longer record than any textbook.
But now he is shocked into the truth, and he accepts it, grudgingly: the city never sleeps. Hey, for once the tourists are right. There are lights everywhere, there are always lights.
He can't even find the damn North Star.
The stars he can see are blurred. It's the smog—there's more than he remembers. It couldn't be anything else.
He seems to find pleasure in easily pointing out the constellations she's been searching for and can't find. Strangely enough, she enjoys it too.
He thinks that Stars Hollow has the perfect balance of light: not too much, not too little. It makes all the right stars visible.
Brandon's smile makes her head hurt. It hurts more when he pulls her closer, but of course she can't tell him that. She's supposed to like it.
She can feel the Earth turn, out here.
Their neighbors (only several miles away) say that all the time. All the time, and they sound proud.
It makes her dizzy.
She isn't sure if she's imagining it. No, she learned that, you can't really feel the Earth turn. (Thank you, Chilton.) But as she's realized a million times over, a vivid imagination is not always an asset. This thought comes to her again and again, again and again, as she finds herself superimposing another man's face on the body she's leaning against. She feels bad about it, feels awful.
But then she feels worse, because she doesn't feel too awful.
All the stars look the same. The same, the same, the same. Somehow, when she used to lean her head on his shoulder, they looked different, distinguishable, but she has a hard time remembering exactly how it was. In the memories, it's too perfect, she's too happy. It's impossible.
Probably.
And now?
Still too many twinkling dashes in the sky, and around her, too few people. If there were more people, and more light, like New York City, she could find the pictures in the sky she's looking for.
She can't even find the damn North Star.
He could, if he were here, she is sure.
Everything and nothing is lit up at the same time.
She smiles. He smiles back.
The only way to try and forget is the constant repetition of 'nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong.'
Something's wrong.
They know.
They do nothing about it.
And they continue looking up at the same sky.