Disclaimer: I'm disclaiming! Sounds dirrrty, doesn't it?

A couple of Lit!Threads ago, the topic of discussion veered to fanfiction. Namely, the various writing styles, the points of view, characterization and lenght. I'm making a long story short, and informing you that I'm going to torture the living heck out of the second-person POV. Ready? Deep breath and...

Thank you Lyds for going over this. You rock. But you knew that already. :)

Rewrite #2: I Can't Get Started.

Two strong arms. The scent of his cologne. The way that suit looks on him. The utter shock of seeing him in a suit, the only other time you've seen him dressed up being for that ridiculous "Coming Out" event your grandmother shanghaied you into. He cuts the hug short, stirring something uneasy inside of you. He claims it to be a business call, but you can't help doubting, since it's a Sunday, after all, and you're not stupid.You choose to remain in your happy daze, though, and breathe in the spring air while you tick off all the reasons you should be joyous about. The election that went well. School that is easy as usual. The amazing boyfriend you have. The family that will soon be righteously formed. Mother. Father. Daughter. The very thing you've been anxiously waiting for, and striving towards, during your entire life. Utter perfection, that is. And it's finally within reach.

Then you turn around, your gaze straying upon the old, familiar weeping willow.

Perfection loses its appeal.

You pause for a moment.

He stands there, looking at you, and you think there is something slightly different in his stance. He shouldn't be here, anywhere near here. You know all there is to know about him, and crucial part of this information consists in understanding that he hates this very place you love so much.

You also thought you would never see him again, and you have done your best to see your impromptu NYC trip as closure to whatever relationship the two of you might have been engaged in. Relationship, you feel the need to explain to yourself, viewed as "interaction between two people".

He's impossibly broody, morose, and you desperately want to deny that he draws you in and swallows you whole every time you barely even think about him. You can't, though, and that is why you're walking towards him. You think he can't deny it either, and that is why he's walking towards you as well.

Then you both stop, an imaginary line drawn between the two of you, invisible but tangible barrier that reminds both of what is, and what should be, and everything that is not. You want to scream in frustration, then, because your heart just literally claws at your ribcage, and his eyes are studying you, and you are forced to speak around the proverbial lump in your throat.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too."

And you want to smack yourself. Leave it to you to rush right in and not even say hi. Now you notice the different factor in his stance... he's nervous.

"Is everything ok?"

And you want to smack yourself once more, with feeling.

"You look nice." He tells you, and this shocks you. Not the compliment, per se, or the fact that he's complimenting you, per se... but it feels... like he should be saying something deep, and meaningful... or maybe it's because you have this weird sensation of walking on a ledge, and the next words he utters could be responsible for your jumping.

"Thank you" Because, after all, he deserves to be thanked for what he's said. "What are you doing here?"

And why, you berate yourself in the meantime, can't you stop harping on this for a minute?

"I moved back"

"What?"

"I moved back"

"But... what... why?"

"Just... wanted to"

You jump, after this exchange, because said ledge just falls out from under you.

You kiss him.

You.

And you feel him staggering back, before reacting and kissing you back and touching your face, and grabbing you at the waist. And then your brain kicks into gear and you pull away, and it doesn't matter that your lips are already craving for more, that your entire body screams at you for breaking the contact.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!"

You don't even know why you're bother God with this. It's surely something that he cannot help you with, but you give it a shot anyways.

"Rory..."

His voice spins you around, you ready to leave and forget and bury this episode so deep, your own conscience will not be able to dig it up and torture you with it.

"Don't say a word."

You beg this of him, not understanding what it is you're asking. Whether you don't want him to say anything to anybody, or not say anything right now, because it just might stop you from fleeing. And he listens to you, and he doesn't utter a sound. You just feel him grabbing you again, and pulling you towards him, and turning you so he can look in your eyes, before his lips are on you again.

You're too stunned, too swept away by this roller coaster ride that is this new kiss, to struggle. Or even merely protest.

He lets you go as abruptly as he's taken you, and you feel as rooted to the earth as the willow you're standing under.

"Still don't want me to say anything?" he mutters, his arms around you, his lips slightly parted, his eyes a little less morose than usual.

You shake your head, and keep looking at him, all ability to speak completely lost.

"I have to go." You manage to get out. "The... wedding... Sookie..."

You don't want to go. You don't want to stop touching him, or kissing him, or gazing at him. You don't want to think about what's going to happen next, about Washington and Paris and Mom and Christopher and Dean.

God. Dean.

He nods, and releases you from his embrace.

You look at him still.

"I'm going to go to Washington." You blurt out. "I'll be gone six weeks, it's for school..."

He just nods again, and you suddenly want to cry.

"I don't know what to do."

You admit it, and you wonder what it is about him that pushes you to be honest, even when you don't want to be.

"It's ok." You hear him reassuring you, and you believe him. "I'm... just... gonna go."

He starts backing away.

You nod and smile a little.

"You'll be at Luke's, won't you?" You call after him.

"I'll have the coffee ready." He calls back, still retreating, before turning and walking away.