pairing : sylvia x female!reader
“she clutches at you like you’re holding her together, like she might shatter if you let go.”
warnings : cursing, assault mention
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even tipsy and staggering, she was beautiful.
and you hated that word. sylvia had made you hate it because it would not allow for capturing her entirety. she was more.
from where you’re standing on the sidewalk, watching your shoes as you move them on the gravel, sylvia is stumbling outside of the small complex where the party was being held. these types of gatherings were never your thing, too much noise, too many people, too much. but anyone who walked into the party could instantly see that it was hers. the way she stood on a table, brazen and sure as everyone watched, bound by the sultry swaying of her seventeen-year-old hips in a way that to you, was so wrong. you wouldn’t have minded so much if you had thought this was who she was, but the way she would every so often grimace, or look around the room for approval, or for her boyfriend who was never there, never even cared, the way she looked desperately for anyone who would tell her to stop.
she had been your best friend once. before, in grade six, when she liked pink on her cheeks and her lips, and smelled like cherry soda, and cried every time her dad would disappear for months, to return with only a whispered apology and a weak hug as if he’d been gone only an hour.
but she’d always been beautiful. always captured men’s attention. even when she was twelve. your blood boils.
her giggles, like an orchestra or an angel choir, wake you from your thoughts. she’s looking away with a far away smile, as some dirty soc hands played with the hem of her cropped, form-fitting top, teetering on the edge of lifting it as he whispers dirty words into her ear that make her smile falter and bite her lip, before she paints a smirk back onto her face.
socs did that. they trashed greasers, spoke obscenities about the girls, too. but got them drunk at parties like this, preyed on them at parties like this, promised to numb the pain in their heart that they themselves had put there at parties like this.
she falters in her heels, ankle nearly twisting, before a helpful soc steadies her with a hand on her ass.
sylvia looked hardly grateful.
when you can’t watch anymore, when they’re just about to tuck her into a blue-silver corvette, you thunder over to the car, stopping the door with a hand just before the soc slams it behind her. another in the driver’s seat slurs in your direction.
“hey s-sylvia, your friend wanna join us?”
she looks at you almost panicked, like she wants to keep you from something. then she giggles, and smiles, one of those sterling silver smiles, and answers, “noo, (name)’s too nice,” she laughs into his ear.
“she’s had enough, i’m taking her home now,” you grab for sylvia’s arm as she winces slightly at your grip, but doesn’t protest as you pull her out of the car, holding her up with an arm around her shoulder and the other on her waist.
the first guy who’d been busy saying his drunken goodbyes to soc friends, rushes you as he notices you taking her away.
“don’t be a buzzkill, (name). she wants to have a good time, stop bitching,” he says, biting the words too close, so close his alcohol breath assaults you.
you make sure you’re loud enough for his friends to hear when you spit, “touch this girl, sheldon, and your friends will know all about how you’re a buzzkill in the bedroom.” you spoke from experience you wished you didn’t have. you’d liked him once, when you were fourteen.
his friends cackle and he curses as you spin around with a stumbling sylvia, starting the walk toward her home in silence. when you’re out of earshot of the music and noise, she speaks soberly.
you only half-smile warmly at her, and continue the pattern of her heels against the cement. she stops abruptly, though, her face blanching as she turn sharply to a patch of grass, and coughs up all her drinks, while you still hold her up, only stroking her soft hair as she’s sick.
she nods after a few minutes, when you ask if she’s better, but she leaves your grasp, taking her heels off to hold in her hands as she moves to sit on the curb a few feet away. you watch her for a moment before following.
when you approach her, she doesn’t even look at you, still holding her head in her hands when you sit beside her. after a pause that might’ve lasted forever, she speaks.
“i’m not even that drunk they just-
the words disgust you because they’re so true. “it’s wrong, syl. they-,” you start before she cuts in again.
“it’s not just that though,” she pauses, “i like the attention. is that fucked up? i complain but i like the attention?” she breathes, and a tear gleams as it trails down her cheek before she wipes at it harshly with the heel of her palm.
there’s silence, and when you hold her to you, moving her head to rest on your chest, tracing her cheekbone as you brush her hair back, she dampens your chest with sudden sobs.
“i’m so fucking broken, (name). brokenbrokenbroken,” her voice is heartbreaking as it wavers, her words far more agonizing.
you hold her tightly, and she clutches at you like you’re holding her together, like she might shatter if you let go. you realize you’re crying, too, when you cup her cheek and look her deeply in her silver eyes.
“i love you, sylvia. i always have and i-
i love you, and all of your pieces.”
she smiles, a real, heart-stuttering smile, and it fades as her gaze shifts to your lips, her thumb moving to feel them. slow and waiting, she leans in, and you taste beer but you smell cherry soda, and you smile into her, hopeful. you move your lips in sync, your heart filling and skipping beats when she gently tugs at your bottom lip, before pulling away.
you walk hand-in-hand, the soft heat of her palm in yours, all the way to her house, sneaking back in through the window you’d used to use back when you were little, even though most times her mom was too drunk or high to care.
when you’re inside, you look only at her piercing eyes, lit only by the moon through the window pane in her endless, dark room. she nears you, placing kisses on your neck that make your eyes roll back, her hot breath winding down your spine in chilling breezes before she reaches a hand to slip off a strap of your shirt. you stop her.
“no, sylvia. i adore you, not like this,” you answer her silent touch.
she laughs bitterly, staring at the ground, “..force of habit.”
so when she still asks you to stay, you opt for sharing warmth, next to her, wrapped in pink sheets. and when you hear her gentle, steady breaths, she’s beautiful.
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