Dreams She Used To Have
Author: Megan
Disclaimer: Not a single thing related to the show "One Tree Hill" is mine.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Fandom: One Tree Hill
Pairing: Brooke and Peyton.
Rating: It's got kissing and cursing. Nothing more than that.
Summary: It's the twelfth summer of Brooke and Peyton's lives. Abandoned by their parents they try to pass the time, while Peyton's suffering from disturbing dreams.
Author's Notes: Pre-show. I've seen most of the first season, less of the second, and none of the third. I've done my best with what little we know about the girls' pasts to make this story not clash with canon. Critique is welcomed, I want to learn more.
"Water, water, everywhere!" the girl cries out in a singsongy voice. The water reaches up to her neck as she floats around effortlessly. Her wet, brown hair is glued to her head, to her cheeks, to her shoulders. Her eyes are shining brightly and her mouth is twisted into a smile. Her arms are moving in slow circles and her legs are making lazy kicks under the water every now and then to keep her afloat. "And all the girls did drink," the voice loses its carefree edge and instead takes on a monotone quality. Her head sinks below the water level for a few seconds and then surfaces again.
"Oh, Brooke," Peyton sighs, "Don't drink that. It's chlorinated." She's sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling her legs in the water, some twenty feet away from her friend. It's a hot summer day, but she feels no pressing urge to dive into the pool. Watching Brooke frolic around has a kind of a soothing effect on her nerves. She feels comfortable just observing the scene from the sidelines. Months now it has been that way. Years, even. It's like she lives inside a bubble, just waiting and watching and recording all the things she sees. The Bubble-Girl she calls herself sometimes. Bubble-To-My-Gum-Girl, Brooke says. It doesn't make sense to her. It makes perfect sense to Brooke.
The girl in the water grins, then turns her face skywards and spits out water in a wide arc. Like a fountainhead. Brooke'd make a good statue. Maybe of a mermaid, the way she so fluently merges with the water. Peyton considers releasing the idea from the confines of her mind, but instead she decides for a small smile. It doesn't always follow that things need to be shared. Sometimes staying quiet is the better option. Not according to Brooke. NEVER according to Brooke. Speak before you think would be a good motto for her.
"Come for a swim, Peyton," Brooke calls out.
She shakes her head distractedly and mutters to herself, "Maybe later." It's HER new motto. It's her life after death. Always waiting for things to happen, rather than doing anything about it herself. Her life is empty in a way she can't remember it ever being before. There's Brooke, there's Dad. There's drawing and there's school. School's out for summer and Dad's away at work. There's Brooke and there's drawing. And drawing is HARD.
There's only Brooke. With long, slow strokes she swims towards her. Peyton tries to picture a tail in place of the legs and the image in her head makes her giggle quietly. The swim is over and Brooke ends up next to Peyton, still in the pool, still neck deep in the water. With a confused smile on her mouth. "What?"
Again Peyton shakes her head. She leans back a little, extending her hands to the tiles for support. Her gaze moves momentarily to the sky, but there's a big, bright sun blinding her, and she has to look away quickly.
"Stupid water," Brooke is saying below her. Her head is tilted to the side and she smacks her temple a couple of times. "Why is it that it goes in my ear so easily, but doesn't come. OUT!"
The last word is accompanied by the hardest smack yet, and it makes Peyton wince. "Stop it!" she says in a stern voice, "Stop hitting yourself." She reaches out with her hand and grabs hold of Brooke's wrist. To stop her from beating herself more. "It's just water," she says more quietly.
Brooke stares back at her with a pitiful face at first. Slowly, though, a grin evolves on her lips. "But it's chlorinated," the girl mock whines.
Hard as she tries, Peyton can't help grinning back. Like so many times before she loses touch with reality while staring at Brooke. It doesn't make sense. Brooke, that is. She's weird, but in a popular and interesting way. She's selfish, but in a kind way. She doesn't let people near her, but keeps Peyton so close that it can be scary sometimes. Things that don't make sense in the real world, REALLY don't make ANY kind of sense, like Bubble-To-My-Gum, fit in perfectly in Brooke's fantasy world.
"Umm... can I have my hand back now? I won't hit myself again," Brooke says, startling Peyton away from her thoughts. "I pwomise," she baby-talks.
"Oh, sorry," Peyton mumbles, yanking away her hand almost too quickly. How long was she gone anyway? Only seconds, probably. Couldn't have been more.
Though, the concerned look on Brooke's face implies otherwise. "Everything okay there, Peyton?" the girl asks. The voice is flippant as ever, even if the question is honest. "You look tired. Didn't you sleep well?"
Nightmares. One is where she's desperately trying to draw a portrait of her mother. Her pencil doesn't obey her commands properly and she can see the memories fading from her mind. Every moment that she wastes making a mistake, more details are gone. Were the eyes closer together or the mouth narrower? All over the floor lie her previous feeble attempts. Hollow faces on all of them. The faster she tries to draw, the faster she forgets. And when she can't decide anymore whether the hair was long or short, straight or curly, brown or blonde, she starts to cry. She throws down her pencil in a fit of anger. Falls on her knees and starts picking up the wasted efforts, hugging the pieces of paper tightly to her chest.
"Nightmares?" Brooke asks, breaking the spell again. She climbs out of the pool and sits down next to Peyton. "Hmm?" the girl urges her, nudging her shoulder lightly with her own.
Peyton doesn't answer. Only shrugs.
"Aww, tell Mommy all about it," Brooke says.
It feels like a slap in the face. A real life physical slap, not a mental one. Peyton leans away from the girl. "That's harsh," she says in a painful voice.
"What?" Brooke just laughs airily, "Oh, come on! I can't say mommy around you anymore?"
"Some things you don't joke about, Brooke," she says, turning a hurt look to her friend.
Brooke stares back at her, her expression growing more serious. "Actually, I've found that those are the things it's most important to joke about," she says, bringing a hand close to Peyton's head. Touching her curly, blonde hair.
Peyton quickly brushes the intruding hand away. "Not when it's not your pain," she says, tensing her muscles. "It's cruel, Brooke," she goes on and drops into the pool.
Her world goes silent when she momentarily sinks under the water. The rational part of her brain realizes she's overreacting. She shouldn't get so upset over a throwaway comment from Brooke of all people. The irrational part, however, grips on to the pain and refuses to let go. Cherishing and nurturing it, so that it grows to unreal proportions. The more it hurts, the closer she feels to her mother. When she resurfaces, there are tears in her eyes. But it doesn't matter.
"So, now you wanna swim?" Brooke's voice sounds distant and irrelevant. It doesn't have its usual demanding tone to it. Peyton is free to ignore it at will. She starts swimming towards the far end of the pool. "It's been almost two years. Get over it, already!" Brooke yells.
No, Peyton thinks defiantly. Not that she could, but she doesn't even want to. She wants to wallow, really dive into her sorrow and get lost in it. It's scary and it feels real. And if she really tries, she can almost see her mother's face again. The real one, not the photograph that is burned to her memory, but the warm, compassionate features that were lost in time so long ago. She can almost feel the bedtime kiss on her forehead. And hear the silent prayers she learned as a child: If I should die before I wake, I'd be happy... That's not how it goes, but it's close enough.
She stops at the end of the pool and takes in a deep breath. Feels like the first one in ages. It calms her down sufficiently and she turns around to look for her friend. Brooke isn't there anymore. Peyton thinks she catches a glimpse of her disappearing inside through the patio doors. But it could just as well be her oxygen deprived brain imagining things.
Another nightmare, an even darker one, she's had repeatedly is one where Mom's dead and she's living alone with Dad. Only it's not the Dad she's known all her life, it's a twisted monster masquerading as him. It looks and sounds like him, sometimes even acts like him, but only on the outside. Inside he's an abusive man who treats her like his possession. Insults her, humiliates her. Beats her. And does even worse things, things that she's too afraid to repeat even to Brooke, who knows of most of the nightmares.
That dream always leaves her guilt ridden come morning. How can she, even in the darkest depths of her mind, conjure up such an ugly lie about her father? A lot of times she's woken up feeling so disgusted at herself that she's had to rush into the bathroom to throw up. It's a newer dream. One that has become more and more frequent since her father started taking work assignments out of town again. And it's rapidly destroying the already fragile relationship she has with him. It's hard for her to even look him in the eyes anymore.
"Feel better?" Brooke asks her, when Peyton walks into the kitchen draped in a towel.
She shrugs her shoulders and takes a seat at the table in the middle of the room. "Not really," she says quietly, glancing at the other girl, who's leaning on the counter near the fridge, eating a yogurt. If it was anyone but Brooke, she'd feel the need to apologize for her behavior. But Brooke understands. Brooke's been there for so long that it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. It'd be like apologizing to herself. Unnecessary.
"So you plan on moping all day?" Brooke asks in between spoonfuls of yogurt.
"I plan on moping for as long as I feel like it," Peyton replies a little too harshly. There was no call for it.
They exchange long, glaring looks, and then Brooke sets the empty yogurt can on the counter. "Fine," the girls says equally annoyed, "I suppose I'll make my own plans then. See you later." She starts crossing the room, walking towards the exit.
Peyton waits until she's about to pass her and then quickly grabs hold of Brooke's arm. "Please don't go," she begs, unable to look at her friend.
There's a good, long silence. She hears Brooke's heavy sigh, but still keeps her stare fixed straight ahead. Out the window, where the bright summer morning is quickly making way for the day.
If Brooke leaves she'll be all alone. And Peyton's never before felt so scared being isolated from the entire world. She can't imagine how on earth she would've survived her mother's death if Brooke hadn't been there. Or how she'll keep on surviving if Brooke isn't here.
"Oh, Peyton," Brooke says in a sweeter voice this time.
She feels how a hand descends on her head and starts lightly stroking her hair. Slowly but determinedly she pulls on the arm she's still holding. Brooke takes a step closer to her, and Peyton quickly presses her cheek against Brooke's stomach. She draws in a ragged breath and allows the first tears to form in her eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me today," she whispers desperately.
"I do," Brooke whispers back, "I was the same way when I still cared whether my parents were here or not."
Peyton closes her eyes tightly when the tears start sliding down her face. Brooke's stomach, left bare by her bikini, which felt quite cool at first, has grown warmer now. It feels so comfortable against her skin. "I don't remember that," Peyton says.
"That's because I saved my temper tantrums for my babysitter," Brooke answers through a bemused laughter. Her hand has stopped moving, but is pressing Peyton's head harder against her. "Besides, I outgrew it that summer we met."
A brief memory flash surges through Peyton's mind. A six year old little Brooke with a ponytail in the candy section of a small corner shop that has since disappeared. My mom gave me five dollars. I'll buy you anything you want, the girl had said as a way of introduction. M&Ms, she had replied. That's all it took. It was kismet. Candy-love at first sight.
Peyton smiles weakly at the memory as she pulls away from Brooke. "I wish you'd told me. I could've helped," she says, releasing her hold on the arm.
Brooke also removes her hand, though it takes a detour and brushes away an errant tear that is still glistening on Peyton's cheek. "Don't worry," she says, "You did."
Things used to be the other way around before. Years ago, when they met. It used to be Brooke who came to her for companionship. It used to be Brooke who spent countless of days and nights at her house. It used to be Brooke whose life was a mess, even if she hid it expertly. Now Peyton's the one who lives at Brooke's house. Her mother is dead and her father is gone, and she goes to Brooke, because she understands. Brooke's been an orphan a lot longer, and there are a million things she can teach Peyton. Put on a brave face when they leave, act overjoyed when they return, and sound miserable in the phone when they call. That'll guarantee the biggest rewards. It's nothing more than a game to Brooke anymore. It's something else entirely to Peyton. She isn't in it for the money, she doesn't want to lay guilt-trips on her father. She isn't even sure what it is she wants, but she's certain she's never going to get it.
"So..." Brooke says with a small smile, "Shopping today?"
"No," Peyton winces involuntarily. "I wanna just... stay in and... relax," she mutters, observing how Brooke's smile wanes away.
After she has fallen quiet, Brooke turns her back to her and shouts frustrately, "Peyton!" There's a short pause before the girl goes on, "Three days! Three goddamn days we've been cooped up in here!" Another pause and Brooke again turns to face her. "I need to get out."
"I know," Peyton replies, bowing her head slightly. She keeps staring at Brooke's feet and tries to come up with a decent excuse why she can't go out. She doesn't want to leave, not ever again. She wants to live and die right here, inside Brooke's castle. Outside there's a dark and cruel world waiting, and Peyton doesn't care for it anymore. This is their very own tiny island, where they can safely waste their days away. "Just one more day, though?" Peyton finally talks again. She lifts her pitiful puppy-eyes from the feet to the face and hopes for the best.
Brooke closes her eyes for a second and sighs. "The last one," Brooke mouths barely audibly, raising up her index finger. The eyes open again and the girl looks extremely bored.
Peyton nods and smiles thankfully. The last one till the next one. Sooner or later Brooke won't want to leave anymore, either. Then she won't have to be afraid of being left alone ever again, and life'll become that much easier.
"I'm gona go put on some clothes," Brooke says, turning to leave.
In Brooke's room there's a huge, old dollhouse. Some of Peyton's fondest childhood memories are of playing with it. The endless days she and Brooke used to sit in front of it, creating perfect dream worlds. They were always sisters in them. Most often, when Brooke was in command, orphaned sisters who lived alone, or sometimes with children of their own. On the other hand, if Peyton dictated the game, their parents were the kindest people alive.
All those games came to a crashing end two years ago. The dollhouse only serves a decorative purpose anymore. Granted, the charm had been waning even before, but her mother's death was the last nail in the coffin. Neither she or Brooke had so much as suggested picking up the dolls after that.
"Was it the mom-dream or the dad-dream?" Brooke asks, shifting Peyton's thoughts from the past to the present. The girl is standing in front of a large mirror in the corner of the room. Trying to find a tank top to go with her white denim shorts.
Peyton's gaze flips between Brooke and the dollhouse a couple of times. Then she finally settles to stare at the girl, while trying to find a comfortable position on the bed. "Mom-dream," she lies quietly. In truth, it was neither. It was the Brooke-dream, the newest and scariest of them all. She only started having it this summer. She's yet to share it with Brooke, and she's almost certain it's better left unshared.
"Well, that's good," Brooke says, throwing a glance at her over her shoulder, "Right? I mean, the dad nightmare is much worse, isn't it?"
"Sure," Peyton says, forcing a weak smile on her face. In a moment of perfect clarity she feels an almost unstoppable urge to tell Brooke how much she means to her. To tell Brooke about the awful, awful nightmare that's standing between them. She already opens her mouth, but then Brooke's looking away again, staring at herself in the mirror, and the moment passes. All the better. "Why'd we ever become friends, Brooke?" she instead hears herself asking.
"What do you mean?" Brooke asks back, adding more quietly, "This one. Definitely." The girl tosses all but one shirt on the floor. The remaining one is dark red. With a pink heart on the chest, Peyton can make out through the mirror.
"Why'd you choose me? Why not someone else?" she goes on asking.
"Because you were there when I needed a friend," Brooke states, sounding like she thinks it should be clear to any idiot.
"That's it?" Peyton says dubiously.
"What more do you need, Peyton?" Brooke says, removing her bikini top and dropping it to the floor. "Isn't that why kids become friends?" The girl pulls on the tank top and finally turns to face her.
"I guess..." Peyton mutters quietly. She rolls over on her back and fixes her eyes to the ceiling. "I'd just like to think there's a reason why we're so close."
"Well of course there is. Six years of shared history," Brooke's voice grows louder as she crosses the floor and comes to stand by the bed, "And sure we match personality-wise, or else I would've dumped you already." Peyton snorts quietly when Brooke takes a seat next to her at the edge of the bed. "But the reason we became friends is because we were at the same place, at the same time," the girl finishes, "Simple as that."
Brooke leans slightly over her so that their eyes lock together. It quickly evolves into a staring competition. Peyton's heart is really not in it, but she decides to humor her friend. Brooke enjoys all the silly little games they play.
She doesn't quite know why she started bugging Brooke about their friendship. It wasn't intentional, the words just jumped out of her mouth. The initial answer was a little unsettling, but Brooke's last words did put her mind at ease. There is a bond between them, something that can't be broken easily. And every day it grows stronger. Like Brooke said, shared experiences are the most powerful connection two people can have. Soulmates and other such garbage belong in fairytales. In the real world relationships need to be built with time and care.
"What'd you dream about, Peyton?" Brooke asks, breaking the rules. No talking during staring, goes the first commandment. Rules mean little to Brooke if there's something to be gained by going against them. Though she will enforce them if someone else stands to benefit from cheating.
Peyton easily forfeits the game by turning her head to the side. The competition meant nothing to her. "I dreamt I was little," she says quietly, so that Brooke won't have time to gloat. "I dreamt I had a fever and that Mom dunked me in ice-cold water. I tried to climb out of it, but she kept pushing me back in," she lies, surprising even herself with its fluency.
"Really?" Brooke says. She doesn't sound very convinced to Peyton, but no matter. The weight shifts on the bed as Brooke lays down next to her. Their eyes meet again, and now she can see clearly that Brooke doesn't believe her. But neither does she voice her doubt, and so Peyton is free to ignore it. "I'm so bored I could sleep for a year," Brooke mutters after a while, closing her eyes.
Time moves on slowly. Peyton listens to Brooke's steady breathing quietly. She's tired too, but she's scared of sleeping. She studies the smooth skin of the face directly in front of her. It's a conscious effort to not lift her hand and start caressing Brooke's cheek. It's almost as hard to remember to keep breathing.
"Brooke?" Peyton whispers when she's certain the girl is already asleep. There's no response, and so she feels confident enough to go on, "I lied. I didn't dream about my mom. I dreamt about you."
Brooke still doesn't move, doesn't jump up with an, Aha! I knew it! Just lies there still. Peyton smiles a little and lays her head down on the mattress. She closes her eyes.
"Seen it, seen it, don't wanna see it," Brooke is reciting while tossing dvds to the floor. She pauses to take a short drink from the wine bottle on the table between her and Peyton, then goes on again, "Too stupid, too long... aand not funny enough," she finishes, tossing down the last dvd case. "We seriously need new movies, Peyton."
Peyton leans forward on the couch and smirks to the girl who's kneeling on the floor in front of the television. "Just put something on. I don't care what it is," she says.
"They're all boring!" Brooke whines, her hand going for the bottle again before she catches herself and pulls it back.
Dreams are Peyton's curse, the drink is Brooke's. It's a little worrying how often she has had to help her stumbling friend to the bed during this summer. It's the boredom that drives her to it, and if Peyton were a true friend she wouldn't force Brooke to stay home all the time. But she isn't. She's a selfish friend, always taking and taking and never giving back. Tomorrow'll be different, she swears. Just this one more day alone with Brooke, that's all she needs.
"Well, what about the Piano?" Peyton says in a settling tone, nodding to the box that's still sitting on the coffee table with Brooke's bottle and her glass. "I kind of like it."
"Yeah, I kind of hate it," Brooke rolls her eyes.
"You choose then."
"I already told you, Peyton! They're all..." Brooke's words are cut short by a beepity-beeping of a cell phone. "Shit," she finishes after a pause.
It's Peyton's phone, she recognizes the sound. Where'd she leave it, anyway? The kitchen, most likely. And who's calling? Dad for sure. It's always Dad when it's not Brooke. An uncomfortable nausea starts growing inside her. She feels like she's about to vomit.
"That's yours," Brooke says, when Peyton makes no move to answer it.
"I don't wanna talk to him," she whispers quietly, staring at her friend but trying to look away. It isn't quite working, her eyes refuse to move.
Brooke sighs and stands up. "You're starting to get a little too high-maintenance, Peyton," she says and heads out of the living room.
She keeps staring after the brunette even when the girl has disappeared from the view. Are there limits to Brooke's patience? Will she just flat out refuse to do her a favor one day, if Peyton keeps pushing? Even as pointless and cruel as it is, the thought of testing Brooke intrigues the wicked part of her mind. It's a similar feeling to the one she had as a kid when she would pester her mom about food, or bathing, or bedtime, or a million other things. How long till Mom's had enough and gets angry? How long till Mom forgives her? How long till the guilt passes?
Brooke's voice is a distant murmur when she answers the phone. Peyton strains to hear the words, and they start to take recognizable forms when the voice gradually grows louder. Brooke's coming back. "... taking a shower." Pause. And then Brooke is standing in the doorway again. "I'll tell her," she says, giving a pointed glare to Peyton. "No, she'll probably stop by later. I think she has summer classes or something still." Brooke's a natural liar. Her voice stays charming and light and she never needs to stop to think. Words just flow out of her. Peyton has to wonder how many times she's been the victim of a few innocent white lies. She thinks she knows Brooke well enough to tell the difference, but then that could only be an illusion. It's easy to trust Brooke, much easier than doubting her. "You don't need to worry, Mr. Sawyer. She's in good hands," a fake grin and a few graceful strides inside the room, "I will. She said to tell you the same. Okay. Bye."
Brooke ends the call and tosses the phone to the couch, next to Peyton. "I don't like lying to your father, Peyton. That's your job," the girl says, sounding more serious than usual. She again kneels to the floor and grabs the bottle from the table.
Peyton decides to give in a little and takes a small sip from her wineglass. The bitter liquid almost makes her grimace, but she suppresses the urge and swallows quickly. "Who's coming by?" she asks, lowering the glass down.
"Lisa," Brooke breathes out heavily after her drink. The bottle stays in her hand.
Oh, right. Lisa. Their babysitter. One of the small concessions her father insisted on before letting Peyton stay with Brooke, when he left. Like daily phone calls. Lisa was supposed to come by every day, stay the night once in a while, but Brooke quickly negotiated a better deal for everyone. More money for fewer visits and a couple of harmless fibs. They see Lisa maybe three times a week. Peyton talks to her dad every other day on average. It's easy to let things slide, much easier than holding onto them.
"He sends his love, by the way."
An incredible stab of guilt pierces Peyton's heart. She didn't send any love. Her father tries his best, and she can't even exchange a few goddamn words with him. A lump gets stuck in her throat when she tries to talk, and tears blur her vision.
Brooke's looking at her with big eyes, which again roll a full circle. "Oh, for god's sake, Sawyer," she says.
"I didn't even tell you to tell him I love him," Peyton croaks in a hoarse voice.
"Don't worry, I covered for you," Brooke dismisses her pain absently. She takes another swig from the bottle, before setting it aside and picking up the Piano dvd. "Mute pianists it is then."
That Brooke told another lie doesn't make Peyton's callous treatment of her father any more justified. She's still the same ungrateful bitch. But in the end, if her father will never know the difference, and it makes him feel better, then it makes Peyton feel better too. A little bit, anyway. She dries her eyes with the back of her hand. "You're a good friend, Brooke," she says in a more normal voice. She wishes the brunette was here beside her so she could give her a hug too.
"The best," Brooke mutters, busying herself with the dvd-player.
Three hours, one chopped off finger, and way too damn much of nude Harvey Keitel later they're both on the couch. The wine has flowed to the last drop, but Peyton drank her share so that Brooke wouldn't completely lose herself in the drink. She's clinging onto the brunette's arm to curb the girl's desire to fetch a new bottle. It needs to be done subtly, though. Brooke needs to feel comfortable slouching on the sofa, but she can't sense that Peyton is intentionally trying to keep her there. The television is showing a Friends rerun and its mind numbing predictability is helpful to Peyton's cause. Brooke has almost completely succumbed to an alcohol induced stupor.
"Can you believe people actually laugh at this?" Brooke says, managing to insert a small amount of condescension to her voice. Like they were above others, judging this thrash unworthy. It's a little unfair, they used to laugh at the show too, once upon a time. Back when most of the jokes went right over their heads, they still laughed. Because the television told them to.
"I can't," Peyton answers, because it's expected. Some conversations with Brooke are like that. They talk, but there's really no point to it. They've known each other for so long, some things are already set in stone. You don't go changing them without good reason. Love this, hate that, and don't question why. The point of the conversations isn't to exchange ideas, it's just for comfort. It feels good to hear another voice.
"What time is it, anyway?" Brooke asks.
"Around six or so, I think."
Brooke tenses up, and after a second or two straightens to sit up. Peyton lets go enough that it's clear she isn't forcing Brooke to stay still. Her hand is still lightly grasping the red shirt, but she's sure the girl won't notice. Brooke reaches over to the table and picks up Peyton's phone. A quiet groan escapes her mouth when she checks the time. "This is no way to waste a summer, Peyton," she says, sounding slightly accusatory.
Peyton won't answer. It's just as valid way of wasting the summer as anything, but she doesn't want to start arguing. She doesn't want to get lost in uncharted territory, where words again start to have meaning.
"Why don't you call your dad?" Brooke says, twisting her head as she glances at Peyton over her shoulder. "You'll feel better."
Peyton shakes her head slowly, pressing it harder against the cushion. "Not today," she whispers, "I'm fine."
Brooke's eyes refuse to leave her be. Instead they squint into tiny slits. "What'd you really dream?" she asks, "I know it wasn't about your mom."
Before she can come up with another lousy lie that Brooke'll instantly see through, she's saved by the sound of the front door opening. It's soon followed by a female voice shouting, "Girls!" They hear footsteps from the hallway. Lisa's here. "Brooke!"
"In the living room!" Brooke shouts back, reluctantly looking away from Peyton. She leans back a little on the couch, while Peyton straightens up to match her stance.
Soon a pretty, blonde teen appears in the doorway. There's a smile on her mouth when she finds the girls sitting on the couch. "Hi," she says, panting a little and waving a hand in front of her face, "Whew! It's hot out."
"We wouldn't know," Brooke says pointedly.
"You've been in all day?" Lisa asks, quirking an eyebrow. She doesn't stop to wait for an answer. Because she doesn't really care, Peyton suspects. "Everything okay?" Nod. "You've eaten?" Nod. "Really?"
"A little," Peyton confesses finally.
"We'll order a pizza later," Brooke says.
"No way," Lisa laughs, "You've probably eaten pizza for the last three days." Her laughter is charming and so honest that it makes Peyton smile. "I'll fix you up something proper. But first I thought we'd go for a swim, if that's okay?"
"We?" Brooke frowns.
"Yeah, me and..." Lisa glances to her side and makes a disgusted face, "Ricky! Why the hell are you lurking there? Come say hi to the girls." She reaches out and pulls a guy into their view by the hand.
"Hi, girls," the guy says with a smile. He's the scruffy kind of cute. Decently muscled and tanned, with a feeble beard sprouting from his chin. His hair is a little too messy, and his jeans and t-shirt are a poor fit.
But he's a guy. An older guy, so one glance at Brooke tells Peyton she's impressed. "Hi, Ricky," the brunette coos in a slightly childish tone. Brooke's well in her way to puberty, a lot of the times trying to act more mature than she really is. Still the kid in her makes these brief appearances, and Peyton finds it unbelievably adorable.
"Hi," she too greets the guy, moving her eyes back to the teens.
Lisa tries in vain to suppress a grin, and when she fails she just nods down the corridor. "The pool's out back. I'll be a second," she says, and the guy disappears again.
Brooke starts giggling quietly and looks over her shoulder at Peyton. There's a giddy expression on her face. "Ricky," Peyton mouths quietly, eliciting a louder laughter from Brooke.
"Okay, what do we think?" Lisa asks in a mock serious tone.
Brooke stops laughing and turns towards the girl. "You can do better, Lisa," she says, going back to her big girl attitude.
"Yeah, I know," the teen says in a voice that says I'm-just-humoring-you to Peyton, "But he's okay, right?" Lisa waits for their nods before moving on, "Okay. I'll be at the pool." Her eyes sweep past the wine bottle, and for the first time her expression turns to even mildly serious. "Easy on the adult stuff, Brooke," she says, fixing a glare to the brunette.
"I'll watch after her," Peyton quickly jumps in.
Lisa's stare stays put for a few moments, but finally she winks at Peyton. "Good girl," she says and goes after the guy.
A short silence falls into the room. Peyton prefers to wait for Brooke's reaction to the inadequate scolding, rather than stick her own neck out with a comment that won't be appreciated. Really, the bottle was only half full when they started, so Brooke's only a little tipsy. No biggie.
"Adult stuff..." Brooke's response finally comes as a scoff, "What the hell? It's not like we're watching porn here."
"Yeah, that was yesterday," Peyton mutters, then waits for Brooke to face her before adding, "You perv."
"YOU wanted to watch it!" the girl shrieks through a half amused, half enraged expression, "I told you it'd be boring!"
"Oh, and how did you know that?" Peyton replies smugly. When no coherent response immediately follows from Brooke, she goes on, "I rest my case."
"Goddamn it, Sawyer!" Brooke laughs, and tackles Peyton down on the couch, landing on top herself, "You're not fooling anyone with that Little Miss Innocent act!"
Brooke's hands are pinning Peyton's arms down, and her face hovers some five inches above hers. They're both laughing. Peyton puts up a weak struggle, but she's not really trying to escape. It's another silly game that serves no other purpose than to grow even closer to Brooke. As the laughter slowly dies away, she feels a horrible exhaustion creeping up her body. When even the smile has withdrawn from Brooke's face and only a serious expression remains, Peyton starts to remember.
Her dream. Brooke on top of her, just like now. Only they were in bed and Peyton was dressed in something else... what was it? Brooke was sitting on her stomach and the hands were not pinning her down, but sliding up and down her neck. And then she started to sit up and Brooke was leaning down...
Brooke suddenly rolls off of her, and lies down next to her instead. The couch is too small for them both though, and Brooke's leg is still draped over her. Her head is lain a mere inch from Peyton's. She can feel the cool, steady breathing on her neck. "I'm not, am I?" Peyton asks.
"You're not what?"
"Fooling anyone with my act?"
"Oh," Brooke mutters, "Sure you are. Just not me."
Peyton tries to hold on to the dream, but it's sliding away. It's a sneaky one, for sure. Sometimes so vivid in her mind, and other times just off away on its own. She starts taking in deeper breaths again, trying to calm her nerves. So what if she dreams? So what if they're weird? Nobody needs to know about them. Except Brooke, and even she doesn't need to hear about all of them. Just the ones Peyton deems harmless.
She leans her head to the side so that her cheek touches Brooke's and she feels closer to the girl than ever before. And she says, "I dreamed about you, Brooke." Oops. That's it, though. Nothing more. And Brooke doesn't ask, just stays quiet. Their cheeks remain in contact, and it feels almost possible that Brooke's reading her mind and that's why she's not asking. She already knows.
But then there's a heavy sigh and Brooke sits up. "Come on," she says quietly and climbs off the couch.
The window in the master bedroom gives out to the backyard. It's the perfect lookout point if you want to spy on the pool. It's where Brooke brought her. It's where she's now standing at the window and staring at the two teens playing in the water. Lisa's swimming away from Ricky, who quickly catches up and pushes the girl under water. She resurfaces and they wrestle inanely, water splashing all around. Muffled cries and laughter penetrate through the window. It looks like fun. The routine is repeated several times, with the roles reversed occasionally, until they end up at the far end of the pool in a close embrace. Then the game changes.
Peyton looks to her side at Brooke, who has found a chair and another bottle of red wine. She's drinking again. "You think we'll ever play like that with guys?" Brooke asks. Her eyes never leave the window.
She turns her attention outside again. It's different now. Still looks like a game to Peyton, but it's more intimate. Lisa's hands are around the boy, sliding slowly on his back, and she's leaning heavily against the side of the pool. She can't quite see where his hands are, but they too are moving all the time. And they're kissing. Not just innocent little pecks, but hungrily.
"Probably," Peyton says, closing her eyes. It feels wrong to spy on them. It's something that should be just between the two. She turns around and goes to sit on the king-size bed that is sometimes used by Brooke's mom and dad. "Won't your parents notice?" she asks, trying to draw Brooke away from the window too.
It doesn't work, she's hypnotized. But enough gets through that Brooke hears the question. "Doubtful. They've been gone for almost two months already, they're not gona remember how many bottles of wine there was when they left."
Two months. It's unbelievable. Peyton tries to imagine her dad gone for two months, before suddenly realizing that if he stays through the whole gig it will actually be that long. "Brooke?" she says quietly. No response. "Do you ever miss them anymore?"
There's a long silent moment before the answer comes, "Yeah, I still miss them." And the silence returns. Even the screams of laughter have ended now that Lisa and Ricky changed the rules of their game. It doesn't bother Peyton. There are no awkward moments between her and Brooke. Everything is natural. Everything is as it should be. "A week before you moved in I tried to burn down the house, because I thought then they'd have to come back," Brooke suddenly talks, and the mood changes from comfortable to eery in an instant.
"You didn't," Peyton hears herself saying. Though she knows it's true by the voice. Brooke is not that good of a liar. Can't be.
"I did," the brunette says, "But I changed my mind and put it out before any real damage was done."
"You're lying."
"That's why there are no drapes in my room."
There'd be marks on the wall. Someone would've noticed... who, though? If not her, then no one. But Brooke's not insane, in fact Brooke's the sane one. The stable one. The rock. Brooke would've told her before. It's just a ridiculous lie. The girl's alcohol aided imagination working on overtime.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks against her better judgment. Because she believes every word. Brooke is not that good of a liar. She'd notice the difference.
Brooke shrugs. "You don't tell me about your dreams," she says. Still her eyes are locked to the window and Peyton can only see her back.
"I do," she says, expecting it to sound defensive. But instead it comes out only as a fact. "I dream about you, Brooke. All the time now." It didn't register at first, but now she notices that Brooke has stopped drinking. The bottle is standing on the floor. Has been there for minutes now. And Brooke isn't showing any of her usual cheerful-drunk symptoms. If anything, she seems depressed. And if she wants to hear about her dream, why isn't she damn well asking! "Did you hear me?" Peyton says louder, "And would you stop ogling at them already?" she adds angrily.
Finally Brooke turns to face her, "They came in ages ago." The look in Brooke's eyes is something Peyton doesn't recognize. It's something new. Something that will add another layer to their friendship. Something that'll tie them even closer together, nothing to be afraid of. Only it does frighten Peyton. "So what do you dream?" Brooke asks.
And suddenly it's hard to talk again. Moments ago Peyton thought she was ready to tell everything. Now she isn't sure anymore. Brooke sees her hesitation, gets up and walks to the bed. "I dream that you're sitting on top of my naked body," she says, blushing at the memory, when Brooke sits down next to her. "Your hands are all over me. And I'm telling you to get off me, but you won't listen," her voice grows quieter until she's only whispering anymore. "And you say, Don't be afraid, Peyton. I love you. And I calm down." Peyton looks to her side at Brooke's serious face. "And I start to sit up, because I want to be closer to you..." her voice trails off entirely.
Brooke's arm snakes around her shoulder and pulls her closer. She kisses Peyton softly. But only on the forehead, in the dream it was on the mouth. "And then you wake up clinging to me so tight I can't breathe properly," Brooke says.
Peyton lowers her head on Brooke's shoulder. "You knew?" she asks, turning to look out the window.
"Yeah," Brooke whispers, kissing her again. This time on top of her head, while stroking her arm. "Oh, Peyton. You're such a mess." Brooke leans her head against Peyton's, and everything is okay. As it should be. Nothing will drive Brooke away from her. "What are we gona do with you?" Brooke sighs the question quietly. It's not meant to be answered.
They both stare through the window, outside it's growing darker. Night is falling.
They sleep in the big bed that night. Peyton dreams about Brooke again. That's the same. And in the morning when they wake up, it's Brooke whose draped all over her body. That's different.
end