starting hopes
(lucy/lysander)
For Alice
You're kind of (not really) pretty with your hair curled like that and your eyes lacking eyeliner, but you're not your sister, understand, and you never will be. You keep your held head high, your spirits up, and your hopes low, because that's the only way you've known: be proud, or they'll push you down—be happy, or they'll wonder what's wrong—and don't hope, because you'll always be disappointed.
You manage to get by like this, earning the title of Lucy, the sensible one—when really, you're not; you never were.
It takes them a long time (forever) to figure that out.
He smiles and you smile back, wondering why he's here and what he's doing, grinning at you like you're something special (you're not, and we've established that a long time ago).
Then there's the loud thuds of someone (Molly) hurtling down the steps, and his grin stretches and she leaps into his arms with all the grace of a dancer. You roll your eyes lightly—Molly always acts as if she doesn't see Lysander every (fucking) day.
"I'll leave you two alone, now," you say, and Molly just gives you a thankful glance.
Lysander looks a little disappointed, but you don't see it, because you're already long gone by that point.
You pick yourself up (you get over that boy) and start dating (his twin) Lorcan Scamander, who is his own person, dammit, and so what if he shares Lysander's looks and smile and sparkling eyes? He's not the same—you're not that desperate.
Somehow you twist this and shove it down everyone's throats because fuckitall, it's true—
—somewhat.
"Lorcan."
His name—it's your lifeline, the only thing proving that you're not completely worthless.
"Lorcan."
You want him to listen; you need him to listen, to have the whole truth, to know it all—
"Lorcan, I love Lysander."
You backpedal quickly, try to calm the situation, try to rephrase that awful sentence, but by the time you can, he's out the door, away from you, and the only thing he leaves behind is:
"Why?"
Why, why, why.
Why?
Why do you love Lysander? Why do you love Lysander?
Maybe it's because he's untouchable. Maybe because you want him to whisper in your ears and tell you that you're pretty and say, simply, "Lucy, I love you."
Or maybe it's just because you've always wanted what Molly has.
Christmastime—decorations, bold colors, cookies, food, family—had never been your favourite time of year. Too many people, always around; that was never your style.
But this year, you're … excited? Maybe happy?
Molly seems happy, too. She's seated on the couch, next to Lysander, her legs in his lap and his legs on the rickety old ottoman. Her shell-pink lips are curved into a delighted laugh, and he's telling her a joke, probably, a grin plastered onto his face and his hair as mussed up as ever.
You shake your head and wander over to the corner where the boys used to play their stupid make-believe soldier games; because it's the only place of solace you have now, flopping down on the couch, barely looking up when someone else sinks down next to you.
"Go away," you say tiredly, and scowl when the person doesn't budge.
"Lucy," says the voice of a demonic angel, soft and concerned. "Lucy, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," you say gruffly, looking up at him through your eyelashes in a way that's supposed to be seductive (but you know that those things never work with you). "Just claustrophobic."
Then, slowly, tentatively, warm lips are on yours, and you close your eyes, leaning in, relishing it and letting yourself just be.
"Merry Christmas." His breath splays across your cheekbones, and you look into his eyes—smouldering and warm.
You let yourself hope, just this once.
fin.