Hey !! I just wanted to request a Harrington!reader x Robin fic where he catches Robin and reader flirting and kissing and reader freaks out thinking he will be homophobic and disgusted by her, little does she know Steve is fully accepting. angst/comfort, thank you !! ❤️
The Harrington Trap (Request)
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Pairing: Reader (f) / Robin Buckley
Other Relationships: Reader (Steve's younger sister) & Steve Harrington, Robin & Steve
Characters: Reader (Steve's younger sister), Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Mention of Dustin Henderson
Tags: Angst / Comfort, Sibling Relationship, Self-Insert, Kissing, Scared of Homophobia, Coming out and Acceptance, Reader x Character (F/F)
Rating: T
2,733 words
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You are a Harrington. High School is a playing field for you, and you came here to win.
All the boys love you. All the girls envy you.
Unlucky for you, you know it’s all a facade.
When you meet Robin Buckley, sparks fly. You keep your dating a secret, until one day, your brother Steve shows up at Robin’s house unannounced. Your life as you know it is over.
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“Why did no one tell me about this? My sister Robin, really?”
“I thought you’d be angry and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it was stupid I know, but we were just getting to know each other and I swear I would’ve told you eventually, sometime, when I was sure. I mean when we were sure—”
Robin stopped, her gaze darting to you, but she saw nothing but a puzzled face, a deep panic, and then you interrupted her.
“Steve, I swear it’s not what it looked like—”
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Notes: Thank you so much for your request! This was my first take at a request, and it was super fun to write. I love Robin and Steve so much and I'm glad you gave me this opportunity and idea to write about them for a while. I really hope you're happy with the outcome~
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Reblogs are always appreciated if you liked this story! :)
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It had started in Middle School.
Fleeting glances, pink blushes, shivers down your spine. In gym class, you started changing in the bathroom. Once a month, you forgot your gym clothes at home.
You couldn’t swim, you were too afraid of the water, you told the teachers.
When your friends started talking about their crushes, you made an internal list of who was the most popular boy, and you picked him, each time. You gushed about platitudes, hair and strong muscles, everything you’d read in magazines.
Everything to not stand out.
You were a Harrington, after all.
You were born to fit in. To be popular.
When Steve started bringing in one girl after the other when your parents weren’t at home, you hid downstairs. You had heard his girlfriend moaning one single time in your room next to his, and you swore you could never take it again. It took you weeks to calm down. So now you hid in front of the TV, safe in inaudible distance. Downstairs, everyone was fully clothed and decent.
A year after him, you brought home your first boy. He was a basketball player, second best in the team, of course.
You fought with Steve after. Although nothing of note happened — you couldn’t take the musky smell and the rough lips of this guy — Steve almost killed him. You wished nothing more than to send him away anyway, but he made a big deal of it, and he ridiculed the poor guy at school, long after you stopped talking to him at all.
Steve had influence like that. The girls adored him, the boys respected him, and you were right there with him, getting on everyone’s good side, befriending the most popular people, joining the cheer squad. You were good. You were happy.
Guys chased you, and you turned them away. Your reputation spread, and soon everyone wanted to get with you. It helped you immensely. You just had to make them believe that any of the guys would even have a chance, when they most definitely, absolutely didn’t, as you one day realized in horror.
It was during a game your junior year when you noticed an unfamiliar pair of eyes glued to you. You were used to be watched, everyone adored you after all, but it was gazes of envy you were used to, and of lusty gross boys.
But she, she looked at you like you were precious. Like she was curious. Like she couldn’t look anywhere else but you. But when you looked back, she looked away.
And oh, you knew the feeling so well.
She played the trumpet in band. You never talked to anyone from band outside of class. Cool people were in sports, and so were you. You didn’t even have classes together. She was older than you, Steve’s age, a senior.
It was in the bathroom where you first talked to her.
You were just entering the girl’s room, when she barged out of a stall and almost hit your nose with the door, hadn’t you jumped back and squealed.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She held her hands before her mouth in shock, her eyes widened. You had to breathe a few times to recover from the shock.
“Are you okay?” she asked and scanned you head to toe. She lingered. Too long.
You cleared your throat. “Yeah. I’m fine.” You dusted off your mini skirt even though it was perfectly straight and clean, but you needed something to do. “I sounded like a little girl,” you added under your breath, mortified.
She grinned. “Only a little. It was c— cool.” She corrected herself mid-word, and she held her breath. You met her scared gaze for a second, before she replaced it with another grin.
You raised an eyebrow. “Cool? Sure.” You rolled your eyes, and moved towards the sinks, splashed cold water in your face. Calm down. You could feel her presence still behind you, she was fidgeting, nervous.
You’d watched her often during games, so you knew she was always on her toes. She talked to her band mates a lot. Once you left for coach’s fetch quest, returned about ten minutes later and still found her telling the same story, gesticulating wildly, excitement engraved in her face. You remembered wishing you could have listened to what she had to tell.
“You’re Y/N, right? Harrington?”
You held eye contact through the mirror in front of you, and you nodded.
“Robin,” she said. “I don’t think we ever see each other outside of games.”
“We don’t,” you said, drying your face with a paper towel. You knew it was best to look away now. To leave. If you were anything like your cheerleader friends, you would. It’s what you learned to do from them. How to survive High School, 101. Stay away from the uncool kids.
But your heart had other plans. It started picking up pace, and fearing the treacherous color of your face, you faced down, splashing more cold water.
Robin just watched. You prayed for her to go away. But neither of you did.
“You want to…change that?” you heard yourself say suddenly, facing the sink. Your breath stopped. Seconds passed. It was fine. It was fine. You didn’t say anything stupid. She could think you wanted to be friends.
When you looked up, it was Robin instead who turned pink.
Robin and you started talking after school. You had invited her to get coffee, somewhere at the edge of Hawkins, not so many high school frequenters. She invited you to a movie, and you had the best talk of your life after.
When you weren’t with her, each time you found yourself wishing she was there. Each time you passed each other in the hallway, and each time you saw each other during games, you wanted to run to her, tell her about your day or the new music you’d found. But you didn’t. You agreed to leave it at after-school hangouts only.
You were too scared of what the others would see.
Would they see how Robin brushed your hand ever so slightly, how she touched you more often than she needed to? Watch you as you stared in each other’s eyes like they were gates to another universe? You couldn’t hold any of that back. So you couldn’t be seen.
It was Robin’s idea to go to her place one day.
Her parents were out of town, and she didn’t have any siblings, so you would be alone.
Alone.
You trembled at the thought.
Robin had picked up a dozen movies from the video rental store, and had spread them out on the floor of her room. You were sitting across from each other, eyeing the selection.
“This is impossible,” you said, defeated, falling back on the soft fabric of her carpet.
You could hear and feel her move, and soon she had crawled over to where you were spread out on the floor, her face above yours. She was crouched next to your torso, her short hair falling in her face. She nudged your side with her hand, and you squealed, ticklish.
Her face lit up. “There it is!” she exclaimed.
“No fair,” you complained, “I said I was embarrassed last time.”
Robin’s face turned more earnest. She hesitated. “Are you still?”
You locked eyes.
“Embarrassed?” She spoke softly, intentionally.
You held your breath and shook your head, slowly.
It all happened so fast, then.
As Robin was leaning down to you, you were pushing yourself off the ground, and your lips met in the middle. You held on to her for dear life, crossed your arms behind her neck, still leaning somewhere in between laying and sitting. She held your back, supported you, kept you from falling.
She was so intoxicating. Robin smelled warm — like the beach on a mild day, gentle and comforting. Her lips were the softest thing you ever touched, her embrace felt like a safe shelter, like home. You could feel all your muscles relax and all your senses attune to this moment, to her and her alone. Everything else seemed so pointless now.
Until you heard the muffled sound of a familiar voice.
“What the fuck?”
Robin spun her head so quickly you barely realized what happened. Despite the urgency, she still held on to you, not letting you fall, until you found yourself back in the present. Enough to move, enough to take in the surroundings of Robin’s room. There, pressing his face against the window, you saw him.
Your brother.
You sat up quickly, and pushed yourself off the ground, eyes wide. Robin was faster, she hauled towards the window, and slid it open.
“What are you doing here?” Robin’s voice trembled.
Steve climbed through the first floor windowsill, almost hitting his head in the process. You were standing bolt upright, mouth agape in shock, and your eyes darted from Robin towards your brother and back, not even comprehending to see them in the same room, in Robin’s room.
“S-Steve,” you stuttered. He stared at you, indecipherable look. At Robin, he looked angry, and she seemed to shrink a little, shoulders slouching, face cringing.
You swore your legs would give in at any moment, your heart would jump out of your chest and helplessly race in a puddle of blood on the floor, all alone. Ruined. Over. That was it.
The face Steve made looked just like when he kicked your first “boyfriend” **out.
“I swear, I can explain,” Robin took a step towards him, but he raised a finger as if to tell her to stop, but then he directed all his attention away from you toward Robin. His back was now to you, and you frowned.
A stupid thought, delayed by the panic formed in your mind: Why was your brother here?
“Why did no one tell me about this? My sister Robin, really?”
“I thought you’d be angry and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it was stupid I know, but we were just getting to know each other and I swear I would’ve told you eventually, sometime, when I was sure. I mean when we were sure—”
Robin stopped, her gaze darting to you, but she saw nothing but a puzzled face, a deep panic, and then you interrupted her.
“Steve, I swear it’s not what it looked like—”
He turned towards you. He scoffed. Then pointed at Robin, angry. “So you weren’t sucking my fucking baby sister’s face just now, I just imagined it?”
Robin cringed. “N—No, you didn’t.”
Your heartbeat exploded. “Yes!” You corrected, “Yes, you did, we were just—”
“Y/N, it’s okay.” But Robin’s calmer voice got swallowed by your own fear.
“I just asked her to practice. I have this crush, and he told me I’m a bad kisser, so I asked Robin to help. It was silly, I shouldn’t have—”
“Y/N, stop.” Robin tried again.
“I would never just kiss a girl without a reason, why would I?”
Robin was suddenly in front of you, holding you by the sides of your upper arms, and she moved her head so you were forced to look into her eyes. They were so calm, suddenly, and she smiled.
You realized you were trembling all over.
“Stop,” she said, softly.
You looked into her eyes a little longer, soaked up the calm like a sponge. But it made the confusion resurface, and looking for an explanation, you searched for your brother.
You found Steve walking towards the both of you. The anger had faded from his face, he was still frowning but now he looked sad. Heartbroken. His eyes were glistening.
Robin and him exchanged a knowing glance and she stepped back, making room, as Steve suddenly moved to pull you into his arms and squeeze you tight. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, he hugged you often, but it felt particularly warm now, like an apology. Like a safe place.
When he stepped away, you were frowning deeply.
“I— I don’t understand,” you said, fighting for words.
“He knows,” Robin just said, and she smiled at Steve, whose expression suddenly changed to glare at her, and she flinched.
“I thought you just caught us—”
“I know about Robin, Y/N.”
“You two know each other?”
They shrugged, and then, like a secret code, a shared mystery, they grinned widely at each other.
“Sorry for not telling you,” Robin said. “But yeah, I know it sounds strange, but we’re friends.”
“Were,” Steve cautioned her. “Until you decided it was a good idea to snatch my sister behind my back, Buckley. She is way too young for your dirty ass mind.”
Robin rolled her eyes.
But then Steve smiled at you, and he lifted his arm to ruffle your hair, destroying your perfectly combed ponytail. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you. It’s cool.”
You blinked. And felt the faintest feeling of water rising in your eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” you said. And you collapsed to the floor, crouched on your knees, like a wet sack devoid of strength. Steve sat down near you, on Robin’s bed. She just watched the both of you.
Steve groaned, but it sounded relaxed, playful. “I should have known, honestly. That boy was disgusting, and you never touched another one again.”
Robin laughed.
You scoffed. How could he have known you better than even you?
“Thanks for scaring the hell out of me,” you nudged his leg in an attempt to punch him, but your arms were weak from all the trembling, and it was barely a graze.
“Steve, why did you come here though?” Robin asked.
That seemed to shake him awake a little, and he looked like he had forgotten something, suddenly.
“Right,” he said, and stood, facing Robin, “you need to come with me.” His voice had a serious tone like you’d rarely heard from him before.
Robin looked like she knew without any further explanation. She sighed.
Then she sat with you, took your hand. “I’m so sorry to leave you standing in the rain like this, but we have to leave.”
“Both of you? Why?”
They exchanged glances. “Hard to explain, but, uh—” she squeezed your hand. “We’ll talk about this later, okay? I promise. We’re good, right?”
You nodded, slowly, confused.
She got up, and you followed her, and before you really registered you all were leaving her house.
“I’ll take you home,” Steve said, the keys to his beloved car dangling as he pulled them out his pockets.
You tried to get in the back seat after Robin, but Steve held the door shut in front of you. “I can’t take this shit in my car, not yet, people.”
You felt your cheeks flush, and scurried for the front seat.
“Why can’t I come with?” You asked as Steve started the motor, and headed for your house a few streets away.
No one answered your question, not really. They were dodging it, saying they can’t tell you now, maybe later, that it was all a little complicated. Nothing major though, really. Robin rambled, none of the words she was saying made you any wiser until you reached the Harrington house, and before it stood two kids you recognized from school. A boy with dark curls, carrying some sort of technical equipment, sprinted for the car when Steve pulled into the driveway.
“What is going—”
“Hurry up, we don’t have any time to lose,” the boys tore open the car’s back door, and Robin made room for them and their equipment to sit, while you were just sitting there, blinking.
Robin reached for your hand and squeezed it. She gave you a weak smile. “See you later?”
You nodded, slowly. Looking for Steve, he nudged his head towards the door, needing you to leave.
“Give me a heads up next time, you two. Please.” He then said to you and Robin.
You got out of the car, hesitantly.
Robin waved to you as they drove off.
You didn’t sleep the whole night. Steve only came back early in the morning, cuts and bruises on his face.
But he hugged you as you went downstairs to greet him, and you knew that whatever crazy things could happen, your brother would always be there to have your back.
Mike is a storyteller. He’s convinced that this role comes with isolation. With confusing feelings, every time he imagines his best friend’s face. With all the dread and fear that torment him every single day.
Until Dustin takes him to see Will unknowingly, and Mike is forced to confront those feelings, or lose Will forever.
Can a storyteller write his own story?
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“I’m sorry, I was a jerk,” is all he could muster to say and he bit his lip forcefully as if punishing himself.
Will hummed quietly, not content. He shifted, and Mike felt that he was turning to face the wall again and it scared him. Not in the way his thoughts scared him, this felt like the real Will right in front of him was slipping away. He was losing him with his dodging questions, with his half-hearted, half-truthful answers he had gotten so used to. Maybe the others still held on to him, maybe their friendship would survive superficiality, but Will slipping away, it felt so different. He couldn’t stand Will moving away from him. Their relationship had never been superficial like this. Mike had always been as honest as he could with Will, because it was Will.
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Tags: Byler, Mike Wheeler, Will Byers, Dustin Henderson, Joyce Byers, Fix-it Fic, Post Canon, Canon Compliant, Mike written as he should be, Mike is scared of his own feelings, Complex Grieving, Grieving for El, Dealing with Repressed Homosexuality, Happy Ending, Fluff, One Bed Trope, Mike has Panic Attacks, Will is Confident, And Enjoying his Life
6,839 words
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Notes: My self-indulgent take on a post-canon fix-it fic for Stranger Things's own Byler. They're dictating my life right now, so I had to get all those thoughts out on paper. I hope you can feel how much I love and appreciate Mike. Which was a long journey for me as I watched the show. Unexpected favorite for sure. I just wish he got what he deserved. And tried to give to him, with this. Hope you enjoy!
Reblogs always appreciated if you liked this story! :)
SPOILERS FOR ALL OF STRANGER THINGS.
Link to Ao3
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The storyteller is vital.
Just like the heart is for the body, he keeps experiences alive, lets oxygen flow through them. He makes sure memories are preserved and stories get their deserved attention. Without his voice, the characters are just as vibrant and special. But they fade. And he won’t let them fade.
He can’t.
They gave him too much. Just like he makes sure they never die, they give him air to breathe, joy to feel, tears to cry. He loves them too much to ever let them be forgotten.
It’s his duty, his sacrifice. Taking himself out of the picture so he can paint it.
Like the person behind the camera, he was always there. But they forget. Because the photo he took will shape the memory, when all recollection fades. His face will be forgotten but theirs will be immortal. Yet he will forever know he stood next to them when he put the camera down.
Mike Wheeler has always told stories. But he became a storyteller when he needed it most.
When he didn’t know where else to turn or what else to do.
That’s when he buried himself in paper and ink. When he started asking more questions and avoided answering others’.
And eventually, that was when on his way to the grocery store, head high looking up at the clouds, chasing no particular thought but a million racing ones, he bumped shoulder-to-shoulder into Joyce Byers.
“Mike! I’m so sorry. Didn’t see you there,” she laughed nervously, putting a large, rolled-up and plastic-packed mattress from her arms onto the ground.
She practically beamed when she scanned him head to toe. He tried to cross his arms to cover the sauce stain he knew was still there on his Hellfire longsleeve. He opened his arms briefly to push the glasses up his nose. His nose must have been glistening in the sun like a gem, only infinite times less beautiful and all the more oil-covered. Embarrassing.
“Hey Joyce,” he said, hesitantly.
Although he could never manage to really avoid her, he made sure it was at least weeks at a time that he didn’t have to face her. It was easier. Hopper he couldn’t avoid, he was present in this godforsaken town like a watch dog on its territory, but Joyce, Joyce at least he could avoid, dodging her usual routes and all that. He told himself it was for everyone’s own good. He avoided many of his friends, from time to time. Controlled exposure and research. Hear about their lives, make mental notes, write it down later. Think about it in bed, alone. Instead of his head spinning mid-conversation. Easier for everyone.
Especially with Joyce.
“How have you been? You know, Will asked what you were up to when he called me the other day. He said he hasn’t heard from you in a while.” She tilted her head, expression getting slightly worried.
At the sound of his name, panic rose in Mike’s chest.
“Oh, everything’s fine, don’t worry. So much going on, you know. I’ll call him soon.” He squeezed his crossed arms a little tighter.
Joyce leaned on her mattress.
“Preparing for the move?” he pursed his lips.
“Hopper told you, huh?” she smiled sheepishly, then sighed. “It’s easier the second time. Not quite so far away, too.”
“I can imagine.”
“So you talk to Hopper? Regularly?”
He knew what she was asking and he got more fidgety by the second.
Most of his friends knew to leave him alone by now. He’s dodged enough of their questions to lose most of their interest, reported the same old dull Hawkins days over and over again so there wouldn’t be any interesting news to share. But Joyce never stopped asking. It was like she was trying to poke into his soul, and lure something out even he wasn’t yet aware of.
She was so concerned. She loved him. He knew. But precisely that scared the hell out of him.
“Occasionally,” he corrected.
Joyce nodded, her brows drawn together perpetually. “Good, good.”
They stood there, and Mike rocked back and forth on his toes. He tried to open his mouth, think of an excuse to go, but Joyce continued.
“I’m sure it helps if you both talk about El. Makes it a little easier. Less alone.”
He took a deep breath, as quietly as possible. His gaze fixated his shoe, then the nearest storefront, anywhere but her eyes. “Sure. Of course. It does.”
“You know, just because we’re moving doesn’t mean we’re not still here for you. You can call us anytime. Or visit. We’ll have a nice extra bedroom, I’m planning to make it a guest room. You can show up anytime. Talk to Hop, go meet Will in New York, you know. I’m sure he could show you around a little. He keeps talking about all the amazing opportunities, he even mentioned how there are so many writing jobs he didn’t know even existed and that you—”
Mike coughed loudly and Joyce stopped, patting his back.
“Thanks, thanks,” he waved her off, slid his hand through dark, oily curls. And took a step backwards, leaning forward. Hoping she wouldn’t notice his fast breathing, the fear in his eyes and the tears holding back.
“Sounds great, really. I’ll give you a call. Have a good move, Joyce. Tell me if you need help, okay?” He moved in to hug her, anything not to let her see his face, and she seemed surprised, but squeezed him tightly, the touch of a mother.
“Take care, Mike.”
And he practically ran away.
As soon as he closed the door to the basement behind him, his breath got out of control. He wasn’t sure what part of the pulse was a result of his sprinting home and which the panic attack, but he wheezed, and he locked the door, and he stumbled down the stairs into his office chair, the type writer clanging when he brushed against the desk with too much force.
Joyce’s voice kept echoing in his head.
Will asked what you were up to
Go meet Will in New York
I’m sure he could show you around
He said he hasn’t heard from you
The sound of his name created vivid pictures of his face in Mike’s mind. Will talking about him. To Joyce. To new friends? What would he say?
His face appeared before his inner eye, smiling widely at him, bumping his arm, the touch sending shivers down Mike’s spine. He breathed harder.
As he always did when this happened, he tried to replace his face. Tried to recall those memories of El, the taste of her lips, the feel of her touch, the sound of her laugh. And it worked. To an extent. He felt guilty and horrible and he propelled himself right into this profound grieving, this ugly quiet sobbing only he could hear, but that was the goal. And he felt like the scum of the earth for even doing this.
But he was convinced this was what he should do. He should be grieving El. And he was grieving El. Whatever strange feeling arose when he thought of his former best friend, for some reason he felt like he should be replacing them with thinking about El instead.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew he was making both worse. He knew he wasn’t grieving El as El, that he was misusing her memory. And he knew that each time he replaced those thoughts of Will, they came back, again and again, and haunted him worse each time.
So he felt like he was dying, on that office chair. And the tears just kept streaming out his eyes, and the sobs were buried in his beloved shirt, and his gaze darted towards the door every few seconds, his ears trained, to make sure no one, absolutely no one could hear.
The storyteller is alone.
He needs time and quiet to write his stories. To build them from the ground up, polish them, to really focus on his own words and thoughts.
But the storyteller needed inspiration. And that could only come from others. His own life was sworn to his cause, so in order to get a glimpse outside, he had to hear what others had to say, see what others were seeing, immerse himself in their vivid lives.
So when Dustin asked Mike to ride to Boston with him for his first research conference, naturally he said yes. Even when he found that Lucas and Max would not be coming, because it didn’t matter. He knew his friends better than anyone. So he knew what would be important to them. Never in a million years could he say no.
He would have said no, he realized, if Dustin had told him the whole story. He would have imagined any excuse that wouldn’t have left him too hurt, that seemed inevitable enough to justify his absence in something so crucial for him, but he would’ve had to.
Because at the doors to the university gymnasium stood Will Byers.
And the smile Mike had imagined and overwritten a million times was right in front of him once more.
His heart actually stopped for what seemed like a whole minute.
Dustin ran past him to throw himself at Will, and they hugged, and Will closed his eyes but then he opened them again, and he beamed at Mike over Dustin’s shoulder, just like Joyce had beamed at him just a few weeks prior. Love. A mother’s love, a friend’s love. They loved him.
And Mike couldn’t look at them. He was a monster.
His feet felt like a thousand tons when he dragged them across the asphalt, wondering why he didn’t leave marks, why the weight of all this dread didn’t push him into the ground and made him disappear from the face of the earth.
“You’re alive,” Will’s voice said as he got closer in what felt like an entire odyssey worth of effort.
“Of course I am.” Mike said. Dustin patted Will’s shoulder as he let him go, and Mike saw Will twitching as if he wanted to move to hug him next, but then he stopped. Like waiting for permission. His beam faded to a light glow, brows slightly furrowed, and he looked a little like his mother.
“Sorry for the secret,” Dustin said, and he seemed happy, so happy. “But I thought you’d both be surprised this way.”
Will nodded, agreeing. And he smiled at Mike, but he still hadn’t moved to hug him hello, and the seconds passed and now it would be awkward, he figured. More than it already was. So Will just smiled, and Mike tried so hard to pull the goddamn corners of his mouth up, up, up already.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” Will said and laughed, and he watched for Mike’s reaction and Mike wondered how much he was aware of. He knew Will’s intuition was uncanny and he cursed every little bit of his own knowledge and Will’s godlike skill right about now. But the way he laughed, the way he said it, it sounded less like a joke, and more like a question.
So Mike shrugged. And he could’ve slapped himself for that tone, but he said “I’ve been busy” and his gaze darted to Dustin as if to caution him. Dustin frowned, but he stayed quiet, and Mike hated that his happiness was stained ever so slightly, tainted by a frown, caused by Mike’s stupid little action born of pure panic.
And even Will frowned. And now Mike was responsible for bringing two glowing moods down, so he stared at the floor and prayed once again, this time for a tear in the ground into the upside down, a demogorgon respawning and dragging him with, anything but being responsible for all of this. He shouldn’t have come. It would’ve hurt them less.
But here he was, and he sighed, and then he teared at the corners of his mouth so hard they had no choice but to oblige.
“But I’m happy I made it.” He heard himself say. And was rewarded with Will’s smile, and it felt like a thousand suns exploding in his chest.
When they went inside, Dustin had to leave to prepare his poster.
So Will and Mike decided to get in line for some coffee. Mike felt the strain of the long drive tear on him, and he was grateful for the instant smell of relief from the little coffee cart in the corner. All around them, important-looking people in suits, but they talked just like Dustin when you asked him to explain and he happily obliged. Posters of graphs and formulas and words even Mike had never heard of. It was impressive. It was huge. It was…a future.
And amidst it all, he could feel Will next to him. Despite his panic, despite the time passed, his presence was so familiar, so calming, like he was his sun and he orbited around him, reveled in his warmth.
When he felt Will that close next to him, and he got the faintest smell of the detergent he still used when he moved, he ached. Because he realized he had missed him.
God, how much he had missed him. His face haunted Mike every night, but is was nothing compared to his actual presence, to the real person, flesh and blood, right next to him. Alive, with a heartbeat, the real Will. Like he’d always known him. Just different.
Mike breathed in and out, deeply.
“How is everything?” he finally asked and it felt like a giant weight off his shoulders.
Will turned and smiled, and his attention was addicting, a precious good to hold.
“Good,” he said, his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
He looked so nonchalant, so good. Mike was suddenly aware of how messy his hair must look after such a long drive. Of how his shirt fell against his torso. He wasn’t afraid of stains anymore — he wouldn’t embarrass Dustin on a big day. But he was embarrassed himself, suddenly self-conscious of his unkempt curls that hadn’t seen a hairdresser in so long. Of the dark glasses sitting on his nose. He didn’t care much how he looked when he bought them, but now he did. And he wondered about if they even suited him, if he could’ve taken the seller up on that offer to look for a more modern frame, whatever that meant.
Will looked like he’d taken offers like that. Gone was the shy little kid with the bowlcut (that Mike had always adored nonetheless, never getting why Will was ever laughed at until someone had explained to him). Will was a grown man and he had style. And poise. Mike would have guessed he came straight from the New York big city life, even if he didn’t know.
And he looked at him.
Mike almost couldn’t take it, had to fight the urge to look away again.
“The city’s great,” Will continued. They took a step forward in the line, three pairs of people separating them from the relief of caffeine in their systems.
“I actually thought of you the other day. A friend told me about the fantasy book they’re writing, and I told them about you. I think you’d get along. There’s so many people with so many cool ideas, I bet you’d love it.”
Mike swallowed hard. He knew Will meant it. And he probably thought it would make Mike happy, excited even to hear this. But the dread culminated like weight above his head again, his stomach churning.
“How cool,” he smiled politely, “I’m sure they’re way better than me, though.”
Will looked actually saddened. “Don’t say that.” A short pause. “My boasting about your epic campaigns would sound a lot less impressive.”
That made Mike laugh. Actually laugh for a second.
“You’re boasting with DnD?”
Will joined and nodded.
“You’re kidding me,” Mike continued, but Will shook his head.
“I’m actually not.”
“And no one laughed?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“So what they say about the city is true after all.”
Will looked so serious when he responded. “It is. Trust me.”
Mike gave him a weak smile.
Then it was their turn for coffee.
They talked some more, next to the coffee cart. Will told him stories about his new friends, about his studies, his favorite cafés. Mike kept answers to his questions short, but he tried shooting him down less than he usually did their friends, scared to disturb the mood, the actual flow of their conversation. The smile on Will’s face.
He was grateful. A little relieved.
A lot relieved, actually.
The pictures in his head were updating to a new Will, a real Will, a lot less scary Will, although a much more intimidating one. A really good-looking one. A happy, free one.
He was like a magnet, and Mike was pure, helpless, plain metal, drawn to him without a choice.
Dustin came running for them when they were laughing at a joke Will told.
He looked pleased, seeing them. “We’re starting in a minute, you should come by my poster before there’s no more room.” And Mike would have believed Dustin was going to draw a crowd in the blink of an eye.
Of course, Dustin was brilliant. Mike couldn’t stop smiling as he listened to his stories about his research, answering questions. It was so nice, smiling on his own, no force required. He looked for Will again and again, and found him smiling, too. But when he wasn’t looking, he felt Will’s gaze burning into his side, and Mike’s breathing stuttered, his heart beating faster each time.
After Dustin finished, Mike and Will started clapping, and immediately seized after noticing no one else did, sticking their heads together, giggling in embarrassment. Dustin grinned widely though, and no one looked actually annoyed. Mike’s blush came less from the embarrassment, and more from feeling Will’s breath on his cheeks for a split second, his mind freezing.
They went up to Dustin when every other question was answered, and asked him some more. He explained in a way they would understand effortlessly, and that’s what Mike was even more impressed at. When they were done, Mike patted Dustin’s shoulder. “Good job,” he said. “This stuff is amazing.”
Will nodded in agreement.
Mike and Will moved on, listening to more or less interesting talks and posters and explanations around the conference, never leaving each others’ side. At the end of the day, they could confidently agree Dustin did it best, and so they announced to him when they got drinks afterwards, and then went to retire to Dustin’s tiny dorm room.
“It’s okay, I’ll take the floor,” Mike immediately announced.
“My roommate is out of town,” Dustin said, “he said we could use his bed.”
“Perfect, so Will can take it,” Mike concluded, and thought the matter done, avoiding a panic. He would sleep by Dustin’s side of the room, since he was his guest.
But then Will said “Nonsense,” and Mike really, really wished he hadn’t started arguing.
Dustin sighed. “You two decide amongst yourselves, I’m going to the bathroom.” And then he was gone, and they were left alone.
The dorm had two single beds, two closets, two desks. A mini fridge under what Mike assumed to be Dustin’s desk, covered in tools and paper classwork. Some decoration on the walls. A lot of postcards from Hawkins, a picture of Dustin’s mother with their new cat.
Will turned to Mike. “You’ve had a longer ride, you should take the other bed.”
Mike shook his head. “I’m fine, really. I took the basement floor plenty of times when you all stayed over, remember? Bet that was way colder and more uncomfortable than this.”
Will rolled his eyes. “Yeah, when we were twelve. Don’t tell me you haven’t woken up with back pain at least once by now, or I’ll feel old.”
Mike laughed. Will looked at him with a smile, and something he couldn’t quite decipher. As if he was waiting for Mike to say something, something specific.
But he didn’t. He looked back at Will, then to the bed. And he bit his lip.
But then Will did.
“We shared my bed plenty of times.”
And there it was. Mike thought he was going to faint.
El. El. He tried to imagine El. And he hated himself again for trying. But this time, it didn’t even work. It was like his memory was temporarily erased, like a piece of the tape was cut out and missing. He didn’t remember sharing the bed with her, like he’d tried to recall. Didn’t remember how her kiss tasted like.
He just saw Will, living and breathing across from him, felt his warmth and saw his eyes and remembered the times they fell asleep together as children, waking up with his head on Will’s shoulder. He remembered when he fell asleep with his head on Will’s lap in the hospital, when the hive mind was torturing all the life out of him. How he sat by his bedside for endless hours, waiting for a sign he was still alive and breathing.
He just saw Will.
And he nodded.
Dustin barged in then, his hair wet from the shower.
“Come on, I’ll show you the bathroom. I’m so beat.”
Mike’s back was touching Will’s.
Dustin had just shrugged at their decision, like it was nothing to note. For Mike, it was the thing of note.
He was staring at the ground with eyes wide open, a faint street light from outside painting silhouettes of the dorm room in front of him. Across, he could hear Dustin start to snore. But all his tiredness was blown away entirely.
Will was laying very still, his face against the wall. Will had always preferred to face the wall, and Mike had always understood, and felt like it gave him a job. The wall was safe, and he was close to the door. If anything happened, he would protect Will.
He didn’t really feel like that anymore. He knew Will could take care of himself. That he was taking care of himself, better than he was, let’s face it. He didn’t need Mike anymore.
But he still chose the wall. And it felt like everything was still as it used to be, in some tiny way.
“Are you asleep?” Will’s voice was a whisper.
Mike shook his head.
Will shifted, turned on his back. Mike felt Will’s shoulder on his own back.
“I really thought you didn’t want to see me anymore.”
The words hurt Mike like a knife to the chest. He could feel his eyes water up, but he pushed it away, like he was used to.
“You know that’s not true,” he responded with a whisper, his voice earnest.
A pause.
“Do I? I really wasn’t sure, Mike.”
He shuddered at the sound of his own name in Will’s voice.
“You avoided a few of my calls and then you never called back for months, I—”
Will took an audible breath. “I kind of thought you didn’t need me anymore. That I was gone and you were getting by so well without me that you realized we were never supposed to be friends outside of Hawkins or all this—” he hesitated, “all this horror that we saw.”
“Or,” Will continued, “that, you know. That you decided it wasn’t okay, after all. That you just pretended while I was there.”
That alerted Mike, and he shifted too, until he was shoulder to shoulder with Will, his other shoulder hanging off the bed, so that they could even fit next to each other on the small mattress. His leg was now touching Will’s, and his head was next to his, and then he turned to look at him, and found him staring at the ceiling, his hands joined on his stomach.
“That what wasn’t okay?” Mike asked, slowly.
Will looked at him briefly. Then stared back at the ceiling. “You know.”
Mike’s breath stuttered. “No.” he said, earnestly, tried to really emphasize it.
“No, never. I wouldn’t. Come on, Will.”
Will shrugged, but it wasn’t that he didn’t care, it’s that Mike saw the profound doubt in his eyes even in the low light, and he hurt deeply seeing it.
“How was I supposed to know?” he asked. “We never talked about it. Not after we climbed that radio tower.”
Mike swallowed. “I—” he hesitated, “I know.”
He knew very well. Knew how much he’d been avoiding the topic. Not in his head. It was playing on repeat over and over and over, and each time he tried to push the thought and Will’s face aside, trying to replace it, not knowing what to do with the confusing feeling. The panic, the flutter, the hope-like thing he didn’t understand, didn’t get the meaning or the tugging and tearing at all his heartstrings of.
But he’d been avoiding talking about it. In fear that his confusion would show, that he’d have to reveal the turmoil that was going on inside him, that he didn’t understand, was too scared to try and understand, if he was very honest. He was afraid the real Will, not the picture in his mind, his warmth and his real Will-ness would tickle it out of him. Would make him confront it. And he had done anything to avoid letting that happen.
“I’m sorry, I was a jerk,” is all he could muster to say and he bit his lip forcefully as if punishing himself.
Will hummed quietly, not content. He shifted, and Mike felt that he was turning to face the wall again and it scared him. Not in the way his thoughts scared him, this felt like the real Will right in front of him was slipping away. He was losing him with his dodging questions, with his half-hearted, half-truthful answers he had gotten so used to. Maybe the others still held on to him, maybe their friendship would survive superficiality, but Will slipping away, it felt so different. He couldn’t stand Will moving away from him. Their relationship had never been superficial like this. Mike had always been as honest as he could with Will, because it was Will.
Who else was there to be close to, who else was this important to him? Being close to him had felt as natural as breathing since kindergarten.
Ignoring him was like freezing whatever they had, no new interaction could stain what they had, so they would be immortalized, no real consequences. But this, talking to him and not saying anything, hurting him, this was unbearable. It put a stake right through the heart of their bond, and they couldn’t survive too many blows.
“Will?” Mike said, his voice light, and for the first time since they talked again, shivering.
He didn’t say anything.
“I could never not be okay with anything you are. You have to believe me.” Mike was swimming, fighting for his life, and he knew it. “You’re too important to me.”
It was quiet for a while.
“Because we’re best friends?”
Mike wanted to get away from here so bad. Again. Pushed into a ground, snatched by a demogorgon, or a Beam me up, Scotty-moment, he didn’t care anymore, just away. Away from this conversation, but not away from Will. Never away from Will. Just keeping him close, but not facing whatever the turmoil inside of him was, whatever this was turning out to be, what he feared it to be. What the sinking feeling in his stomach started telling him it was, what he’d been pushing down, down, down, deep down, in fear for his life. But he knew. He knew. Knew what it was. He was too afraid to even think it in his head.
How could he say it? Thinking it had enough implications, admitting it to himself was earth-shattering, life-changing, terrifying enough, how could he possibly tell Will? He hadn’t even thought of those consequences. Of what could go wrong. What could change forever.
Mike’s head was spinning and he felt dizzy, nauseous, afraid. His heart started beating uncontrollably and judging by Will’s shifting towards him and his worried look, he was starting to notice.
Mike was facing the ceiling still, but he pushed himself up, sitting, and Will’s warm hand placed on his shoulder softly. He was barely breathing.
Dustin’s snore still filled the room over Mike’s shallow panic, and Will was sitting calmly beside him, his face full of worry. He shushed Mike quietly and softly, stroking over his shoulder again and again, saying things he couldn’t hear in a soft whisper.
Tears started streaming out of Mike’s eyes and as soon as he noticed, he leaned over to Will, consequences be damned, he couldn’t think of them right now anyway, and sobbed into his chest quietly. Will embraced him, held him tightly, and Mike was surrounded by just him. His scent, his warmth, he was so real and so close and among all the panic, Mike had not felt so at home in such a long time.
He calmed down later into the night, and Will didn’t let go of him a single time. They were sitting on the bed intertwined, Will holding him, stroking over his back in repetitive, calming motions for at least an hour, and the moon had started to move across the sky to shine a light in Dustin’s small dorm room.
After all, Mike raised his head from Will’s chest, and he let go, hesitantly.
“Better?” Will asked, and the care was so deeply ingrained in his voice it almost made Mike melt away.
The panic subsided for something else, for a tickling, an anticipation, a longing when he looked at Will, still touching his back, his eyes wide and…sad.
It tickled all his insides, and like he had cried all the fear out, when he looked into Will’s eyes, they gave him courage to let the feeling be. Mike held his gaze, and he breathed calmly, and he felt all the stirring in his stomach, all this magnetic pull from Will, all the warmth from him, all the suns exploding in his chest and he let them be.
“Yeah,” Mike said. And they laid back down together, and Will didn’t let go all night.
The storyteller is whoever he wants to be.
The people around him showed him how. While he was following their journey, he hadn’t noticed he’d been on one of his own. He always thought of himself out of the picture, behind the camera, when all along, he’d been in the middle of it all. Someone else painted his picture as they saw him.
Through their stories, he learns to live his own. It took him longer than most. He didn’t know how to approach it, so he made sense of it in his own way, his own words, the stories he told of others. He always needed time. But he too, would arrive on a journey’s and and move on to new, own waters.
So when it was time to drive his car alone back to Hawkins, leaving everyone behind in their lives, he realized all this.
When the sun shone through the curtains in the morning and Dustin found them passed out, sleeping tightly in each other’s arms, he had smiled and let them sleep some more.
When both of them awoke, it was together, and Mike held on as long as Will would let him until they started another day.
Longing glances pumped through Mike’s veins like blood during their breakfast, and he found Will staring back, and finally freed of all this fear, he could feel the unmatched excitement in those tickles in his stomach, the light fluttering, the warm feeling. The pull, pull, pull. And he knew it was Will. It had always been Will. And Mike knew it was himself, too. And it finally made sense. The red string throughout all of this long story, this exhausting journey, he had found it. And it felt like the greatest reward. Like he had won the battle, not lost it all at the end like he feared.
The only thing left was to put it into words, put the story on paper, immortalize it.
His own story.
And like with his characters, he could only equip himself with all the tools he needed, all the courage for the final fight, and hope for a happy end.
When it was time to say goodbye, they left Dustin at his dorm first. Mike hugged him tightly, and Dustin hugged back, and in a way, he felt like they were going to be okay, no matter what. He would call him. Visit him. Tell him about what he’d been thinking. They would be fine, again. Dustin smiled and they laughed together as they said their goodbyes.
Mike brought Will to the train station.
They decided to walk from the dorm, and Mike would return to his car later. He knew they would have plenty of time to talk, this way. And he wanted that. He knew Will deserved that, too. He wouldn’t let him down again.
“Thank you,” Mike said at first. “For helping me last night.”
“Of course,” Will said immediately. Then he looked at Mike like he waited for an explanation, in a soft, curious way.
Mike bit his lip, the fear gone but it left behind a nervousness, a curious but nerve-wrecking uncertainty about what would happen next, a million possibilities open. It was still hard to speak.
“Was it anything I said…?” Will tried. He put his hands in his pockets again, this time of his jeans, and Mike realized he really liked this way that he realized Will covered his own nervousness with, this harmless facade of nonchalance. It suited him so well. It made all of Mike’s insides tickle, pulled him tighter into Will’s force.
“Yes,” Mike just blurted out, and as Will widened his eyes, he quickly falsely corrected “No!” And then grunted, frustrated at himself. Will smiled, absurdly, as if amidst his own nerves he was amused by Mike’s.
Mike stopped walking. They were on a sidewalk at the edge of a park, and a blackbird was singing on the tree over their heads. He faced Will, who buried his hands in his pockets even deeper.
“Will, none of what you said yesterday was why I avoided you. But you were right, I did avoid you and I’m sorry.”
Will’s gaze turned soft and sympathetic, but he still tore at the edge of his pockets, and he shifted a little uncomfortably. But he listened intently, and Mike wondered if his heart was pounding just as fast as his own did.
Mike sighed, deeply. “I—I was very confused. I think I only realized after all of it, all of the fighting was over. At first, I was so consumed by—” he stuttered, “by El’s death.”
He could see Will’s eyes get glassy.
Mike waited some time before he continued. But he felt relieved. Relieved that he could finally give El the weight she deserved, too. Without any of the excuses, any of the misuse of her memory, of his time with her. In doing this, he set her free.
“But what you said to us all, what you confessed, it— it changed me. Not changed, I think it’s always been there, but I never saw it, not in the way you did.”
Will was listening to him patiently, and if he was hoping or feeling anything, Mike couldn’t see it.
“Will, I—”
“At the risk of sounding totally stupid and getting all of what you said wrong and maybe you didn’t even mean me, whoever that Tammy is that you said, and maybe this is very embarrassing right now but—”
He saw Will laugh, and shed a tear and he halted, confused once again, not sure what to make of this.
“Will?”
“Go on,” Will said, and he gave him a smile as the tear rolled down his cheek, “It’s okay, I promise. Just please, go on.” Mike then felt it was his turn. Will had given him permission, assured him he would be safe, would be fine, but it was still his place to say it, say what he had been thinking and pushing down all this time.
Mike breathed slowly. “I tried to push it down all this time that I’ve been avoiding you, but I think I understand it now. I was so afraid of myself, of this, and I don’t know how you even did this all by yourself, and then just went ahead and told everyone, because Will, I am so afraid.”
He actually started to shiver. Will looked at him sympathetically.
“But the way you—” Mike took a deep breath, “The way you held me yesterday, it all made sense. And I’m not so afraid anymore.”
“I don’t know how to say this, you probably already know if you’re not absolutely blind like I was, but—”
Will nodded. Another tear followed. But he smiled. And another tear.
Mike held his gaze, and an own smile tugged at the edges of his lips as he gathered every piece of courage he could find in himself. He moved closer to Will, one step, then two. It was so easy. It felt so right. He was pure, helpless metal in the presence of this man, this magnet, and he embraced it, gave in to the pull, to all the longing, to his warmth.
He stepped closer and touched his face with the back of his hand, so lightly, but he had never touched Will this intimately.
Mike was so close he could feel Will’s breath stop and just in that moment, as his finger still tickled from the touch of his cheek, he moved it to the back of Will’s neck and then pulled him closer, laying his lips on his.
A thousand suns and firework exploding.
Mike had never once felt excitement like this before in his life. All of his body hummed, gone was the anxiety, the fear, replaced by all this good, all this warm and all this buzz. It felt so right. He wanted his body to touch all of Will’s, to melt into one with him, to never let him go.
Will leaned into the kiss. When Mike lifted his lips from his, Will pulled them together again, and the kiss got more heated, more passion as Mike realized this was, that had been here all along. They were hasty, fast, hungry, like they’d been starving all their lives, and it hurt a little when they accidentally bumped each other’s teeth, but Will laughed in between their kiss, and Mike smiled into it in turn. Will held him so tight, just like tonight, but he didn’t hold back anymore. He held all of him, his body and soul and his whole being, it all belonged to Will.
They parted after a long while that Mike had wished could have been forever, and Will left a freezing cold where he left, an immediate longing to have him back, to keep him for good.
Mike brushed the tears off his cheeks with his fingers, and Will fixed the dark curl that had fallen into Mike’s face back to the rest of his hair. They smiled at each other, warmly. Free.
“I wish you would’ve talked to me way sooner.” Will finally said, and he still smiled.
“I wish I did, too.”
“You had me worrying over nothing, Mike. I was so scared!”
Mike laughed, so lightly like he hadn’t in such a long time.
“Didn’t you listen to me? I was fearing for my life!”
Will chuckled.
“Well, we never had to, did we?”
Mike shook his head.
They looked around, and just as they did, the blackbird spread its wings, and took off. He flew over their heads, until he landed on a tree across from them, joining another of his kin. No one else was in the street this morning.
Will turned to Mike to kiss him again, pulling him by his waist, and Mike took all of it so gratefully.
Then Will turned around, and started heading back to where they came from.
“Where are you going?” Mike called, running after him.
“We’re going home,” Will announced, “I think we both need to say goodbye to someone. Properly.”
Mike caught up to him. He almost couldn’t believe what he heard, but he felt the grief come back, pure and strong and finally right, on its own, how it should be. And he nodded.
“You’re right. Thanks.”
“And after, I’m showing your my room in New York. No discussion.”
Summary: After Jess' visit, Rory decides to return to Yale. But amidst sorting out her mess of feelings and regrets, one vital thing remains that just won't leave her mind. So she writes a letter — with immense consequences.
Set after 6.8 "Let Me Hear Your Balalaikas Ringing Out". But what if Rory reached out to Jess before her visit at Truncheon and she finally chooses him?
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Pairing: Literati
Chars: Rory Gilmore, Jess Mariano, Lorelai Gilmore, Luke Danes
Tags: Longing and Pining, Angst (lots of angst), What if for ONCE it all works out and they choose each other, VERY emotional, I thrive on extensive use of imagery please thrive with me, mature Jess and whirlwind Rory finally listen to their hearts, I just want them to finally have good timing and love each other, sorry to all the Logan fans for this one
Note: I got a comment on Ao3 asking for some Literati, so I shall provide! It's so easy to write a heartbreak fic for them, but I love that this one turns into a good thing after all the pain. Cause they deserve nothing more.
3,272 words
It was difficult to recall Jess’ face that night, she tried so hard to forget the pain in his eyes. But what lingered was her pain, and her anger, and the way Jess was looking at her now, hope and hunger written all over his face in a perfect, anxious combination.
And she was going to throw all that away, again? For what? For Logan's outburst, for his drinking problems, his constant stream of ambitionless complaint? She loved him, yes, but she wanted Jess with all her soul. With every fiber of her being did she long to share her space with him, all her thoughts and all her feelings, everything that lay before her and everything that had passed.
Link to Ao3
Reblogs are greatly appreciated if you enjoyed reading!! <3
Dear Jess,
I realize how ironic it must feel for you to open a letter from me now, of all times, after everything that happened the last time you saw me. Remember when you were mad I didn't write to you while I was in D.C.? Maybe I'll show you something about that sometime, but now is not that time.
I actually don't know how to write to you like this. But you probably could have guessed from my rambling.
I'm only writing because I don't have your phone number, but there was an address of Truncheon Books in your novel, and I figured this is where I could reach you without having an awkward conversation with Luke (and after that, my mom).
Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I'm starting Yale again this spring semester.
I hope you're happy to hear about that.
Although I realize it wouldn't matter, because what matters is that I'm happy, which I really am. I can see it clearly now.
I still can't help but hope, honestly, that you're happy.
I'm sorry about dinner in New Haven. It was truly awful, and I hope Logan didn't get to you, because all he said was so unwarranted that I can't even find the right words to tell you how wrong he was. Please, although I think you would know better, don't take any of his words to heart.
I'm running out of paper.
I'll be with my mom in Stars Hollow until the semester starts. Just so you know.
Love,
Rory
The envelope bent to the pressure between her thumb and index finger, its edges touching both sides of the mailbox slot. She held it, a few seconds, stared at the recipient's name and the address in Philadelphia she scribbled on top. She swallowed a lump in her throat, and her white fingertips slowly let go, the paper sticking to her index finger for a good second before fluttering down into the dark, irreversible unknown.
Rory headed back to her mother's house, the streetlights casting her long shadow on the sidewalk and she was grateful, for she knew it was her own shadow now who had her back.
It was brutal, getting back into her groove. She made it look easy when she begged for that writing job in Stamford. When she pulled up every day with coffee and a culminated fifty bucks worth of prints in her own writing, she looked fire. Confident. Nonchalant. But at night, at Lane's place, she wept to herself quietly. It felt like she'd woken up from a half year long nightmare and no one was there to calm her when she startled awake panting and panicked, slowly helping her descend back into reality. The images still flashed in her mind like any proper nightmare did, and she couldn't get rid of them.
Then, there was Logan. He didn't call often after their fight, but when he did, Rory couldn't help but give him the cold shoulder. What he said to Jess still gnawed at her, and the resentment built a comfortable nest inside her, settled in her guts and spread from there. If Jess’ dream was so close to her own, if she felt so excited for him, and this was how her boyfriend treated him, would he think of her the same, if push came to shove?
If she failed any of his expectations, if she ever got “silly” with what she wanted, would he mock her the same in his drunken rants?
He never said anything of the sort to her after the fight. He was perfectly pleasant as always, you could say gentle even. But she felt something irrevocably broke inside of her, some wire of trust snapped and smoldered, no chance for reconnection.
She was sipping coffee at the kitchen table a few mornings later, typing away at an opinion piece for the Gazette, when Lorelai came in with the mail. She dropped a sealed envelope on Rory's keyboard.
“You expecting any love letters?”
Rory stared at the lettering, and her heart actually stopped for a beat. She turned the envelope in her hand; there was no return address, but she didn't need one. She'd recognize that handwriting anywhere.
“Uhm.” She just stammered when she realized her mom was waiting for an answer.
“If that Logan writes letters to you, I'd be deeply impressed. Didn't take him for the Persuasion type of romantic.”
“No, not Logan,” she bit her lip, cradling the letter between her fingers, and she looked up at her mother. “It's just from school,” she lied.
“Okay,” Lorelai said, but she posed it like a question.
Rory quickly found an excuse to disappear to the book shop, packing all her things with trembling fingers.
I'll come by on the 28th. You owe me dinner.
-Jess
On the 27th at night, she didn't sleep for a single second. She tossed and turned in her childhood bed, the ghost of the past haunting her, the uncertainty of tomorrow tearing at her sanity.
This felt worse than when he showed up at her grandmother's house. At least she'd been unprepared, but now she invited him, and she knew she had to say something, anything. She saw how he looked at her and the image was still burnt to the forefront of her mind. It had never been easy to let him go when he bailed in the past. But at least she had someone to point fingers at.
When he left her standing on that porch in New Haven, the tables had suddenly turned. He had every right to leave. It was no longer an escape, but a rightful exit. To call him back from this, she'd need a good reason to.
The problem was, Rory was too frightened to put the reason into words. She'd done so much work on facing herself the past few weeks, she felt like she got it together at the very last moment; a catastrophe closely averted as it had lingered around the corner, prepared to pull her into its eternity. Dodging that felt so good, throwing herself at another turmoil inside her soul now seemed too much to handle. Yet, she wrote that letter and she sent it, so whatever was driving her knew that this was just as vital as getting back in her saddle, if not more.
She scuffled beside Lorelai on the way to Luke's in the morning, dark rings under her eyes.
“What'd you do last night?”
Rory shrugged. “Polished an article.”
“Until six in the morning? Wow, that Eagle's sure got your wings strapped down. You sure you wanna throw yourself at the job like this? Maybe you need to start more slowly, you know, ease yourself back into it.”
Rory shook her head. She saw that knowing look in her mother's eyes and knew Lorelai was well aware Rory was keeping something from her. But ever since they were speaking again, Lorelai had been a little more careful not to step on any toes. It was unsettling, seeing her mom swallow her own words in front of her.
Through the shop window of Luke's, that blue jeans jacket leapt into her view, at the counter, back turned towards her.
Lorelai’s foot had already stepped through the door when she noticed Rory was left frozen on the sidewalk. Before she could say something, Luke's eyes met hers and Lorelai too, recognized who was visiting. And put all the pieces together.
Time slowed all around Rory when he turned, dark hair giving way to the edges of his face in what seemed like forever, until he recognized Lorelai, then looked all over his shoulder to meet Rory’s gaze through the window. His hand raised to his forehead, playfully saluting, but his mouth stayed a slightly downward dipped line, a familiar poker face.
Lorelai and Luke were both eyeing them for several seconds. Rory saw Jess say something to Luke before he got up, messenger bag swinging around the stool and against the side of his leg. Hands buried in his wide jeans, he nodded at Lorelai politely before passing her on his way out.
The door closed with a ring of the bell, and Rory saw her mother sit down where Jess had left the seat empty, and Luke's gaze still burned itself into the side of her face as she turned to greet Jess.
“It’s awfully early for dinner. Did the city of Philadelphia magically teleport to a new time zone?” She earned a smirk in response when he stopped right before her, and they were standing awkwardly, facing each other two feet away.
“I said you owe me dinner, I didn't say when I planned to show up at Luke's.”
Hearing his voice, her whole body hummed along, two frequencies meeting and merging in harmony. Instantly, all the jittering of last night returned at double the force.
“Touché, I guess.” She looked to the side, and half the diner was now busy watching their awkward stand-off.
Jess followed her gaze, then a light touch tickled and spread warmth from her upper arm as he touched her, gently guiding her to the side. “Let's go somewhere else.”
They strolled past the high school, Stars Hollow's teens streaming into the front door as the first bell of the day chimed. It was strange, walking past here with Jess, knowing none of them ever needed to return here. Knowing how they parted a few years ago, knowing she never did go to that prom with him and suddenly longed for it again. Regret trickled into her mix of feelings, and she tried to stop it from tainting this moment.
“Congrats, by the way,” he said, and raised his eyebrows at her, so lightly it looked like an affectionate smile. “On making it back.”
She smiled politely. “Thanks. I thought you’d wanna hear it from me first.”
“The nicest way, for sure.”
They headed out the populated area, budding trees framing their way like a gate into somewhere quieter, somewhere that was theirs. Every place was so strongly attached to a plethora of memories here. It felt more comforting than meeting him in the cold and unfamiliar Hartford, she felt so much less lost, but more conflicted in turn, spirits of her past waiting to merge into her thoughts, her feelings, their conversation.
When they stepped on the wood bridge over the small lake, she was flooded with familiar images. “Hey, whatever happened to that basket from the auction? You took it home that day, didn't you?”
He laughed, one chuckle. “Sitting in my tiny Philly room as we speak.”
“You never got rid of it?” She held his gaze intently, curiosity tearing her apart, knowing full-well what she was asking.
“Never,” he replied, his eyes not shying away from her, steady and patient.
Rory swallowed. They both sat down on the bridge at his gestured suggestion, feet dangling over the water, their reflection staring back at them. They were a hand apart from their legs touching, his bag sitting in the space between them. On purpose, she assumed and it broke her heart thinking about it.
They stared unto the water, the sound of some birds’ chirping mixing with the noise of an occasional car carrying over from the street. A light wind blew through her long hair and bangs, and she brushed over them lightly, pretty sure the breeze didn't do anything to misplace her hair, but wanting to seem busy in the smallest way.
“I read your book,” she finally said. “And I love it. It doesn't remind me of anything. It's not a rip-off. It's just you.”
“That's high praise.” He bumped her shoulder with his, and they both looked at each other, both of them unusually, uncomfortably timid.
She tried smiling, but her insides were bursting, all the anxiety of what to say and what to do building up and taking more space with every passing second they sat together. What did she want?
Jess tilted this head. “Or is it?”
She wanted to slap herself, but the question felt like he took care of it in her stead. Oh, curse her for making him doubt that.
“Of course it is. You have the most unique voice I've ever read anything in, and you've got so much to tell — I know. I'm dying to see what you can do next, actually. I'm a hundred percent sure it's gonna be even better. You’re a fantastic writer.”
It looked like his breath got caught in her speaking. His face was lit by a smile so genuine, it warmed her heart. She flattered him. A difficult thing to achieve.
“I'm glad. I wanted you to like it. Like, really like it. Feels good to have some ivy-covered approval.”
“I'll have you know I read it when I was a dropout. Does that still count?”
“You're still you, I don't care.”
She wanted to scream. Actually scream, at the top of her lungs, release all this pressure in her chest. The air around them was clean and crisp, but she couldn't savor any of it, it felt like she was suffocating.
“Rory?”
Hearing her name in his voice was like he called out to her, and reached her very core. She'd forgotten how much she wished to capture it, record it, play it to herself ten thousand times a day.
Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
“Why did you send that letter?”
She had dreaded this. In Hartford, she got a glimpse of the new Jess. Not new, just better — she was taken aback by his change, the way he talked like he'd drank a sip from the world's wisdom and had learned to put it to words. Like he had found that storm inside of him and let it pass, finally enjoying a patch of clear sky and dreams come true. How it made her more aware of her own thunderstorm, all the unsolved messes fighting, lightning and thunder roaring, reminding her of all the things she was not, all the puzzles she had yet to solve to be at peace with herself.
She gulped, fidgeting with the fingers in her lap, staring at the reflection of the bottom of her shoes in the water, and seeing his reflection watching.
“I— I don't know.” She said, and she wanted it be be true. But she convinced herself she didn't know a damn thing when really, deep down in the eye of the storm, she knew she simply didn't want to face it. “I don't know what to say.”
“Just be honest.” His voice was patient, but she heard the intended plea. The call for her. This was him reaching out to her, once again.
“I'm not sure I can.”
“And why the hell not?”
She wanted to cry, the heat burned so badly in her eyes, the pressure unbearable. “Jess, I —”
He was waiting, and she turned for him, the patience in his eyes joined by something deeper, something burning with longing, but pushed to exhaustion. He had his hands folded in his lap, and they were squeezed so tightly his knuckles turned white. His whole body was tense, it seemed like he needed to force himself to stay stationary, right where he was, waiting for her, waiting for what she was going to say.
This could be it. The moment she said yes, the moment she agreed to all his efforts, all his invites, begging her to listen to what had been buried deep inside both of their hearts this whole time, ever since they met. They had been clutching to it like a lifeline, never wishing to let go of a feeling so strong. They both knew. They've always known that they knew, the unspoken truth hanging in front of them and begging them to hold on, grab it, like a forbidden fruit tempting all their senses. Begging to choose each other, at the same time, to finally beat the odds and the circumstances and the things done wrong, the opportunities missed.
Her options were flashing before her inner eye like a shuffling deck of cards. Somewhere far in the back, a card with Logan's face on it, screaming for her attention. She considered it, a moment, and his voice resounded in her head.
I should just write down all my random thoughts and stuff that happens to me and conversations I have and add a bunch of he said, she said's and get published.
It was difficult to recall Jess’ face that night, she tried so hard to forget the pain in his eyes. But what lingered was her pain, and her anger, and the way Jess was looking at her now, hope and hunger written all over his face in a perfect, anxious combination.
And she was going to throw all that away, again? For what? For Logan's outburst, for his drinking problems, his constant stream of ambitionless complaint? She loved him, yes, but she wanted Jess with all her soul. With every fiber of her being did she long to share her space with him, all her thoughts and all her feelings, everything that lay before her and everything that had passed. She wanted to open the door and let him in, have him be part of everything that was her, tangled with her being, intertwined were their hopes and dreams and lives. She wanted him with every single inch of her body, longed to touch him again, to let herself fall into him, give him the chance to hold her and her heart and her trust again, bear it all to him. Damn the risk of all of it breaking, it was worth trying, for the chance of having him, of keeping him.
“I love you.” The words slipped out of her mouth on their own, like it was the only logical conclusion and her brain took over the final decision. She breathed heavily, fast, like she was about to hyperventilate when she heard herself speak.
Jess’ eyes widened, slowly they opened up, and it felt like an eternity until they both realized what this would mean.
His knuckles relaxed, slowly regaining color. She watched him, breathing, everything but her racing heart frozen in time.
He opened his mouth slowly, hesitantly, seconds feeling like forever. “Are you—” his voice cracked, “are you sure?”
She nodded. And a smile broke into her lips, just as tears gathered in her eyes, blurring her perfectly clear vision of him.
His hand moved to her cheek, bursting warmth onto her cold skin like the sweetest relief she'd ever known. He wiped the tear away. His voice was soft. “What about him?”
Rory shook her head. “I was wrong. I was so wrong and I'm so sorry.”
He tilted his head, warm, compassionate smile softening his features.
“I should have known. But I know now. When you came for me, I—” She scoffed. “It's like you shook me awake or something. I was so glad to see you and I'm so happy for you and every part of me just wants to be with you. For real, this time.”
Jess never dropped her gaze, he held it, clung to it like it was the most important thing in the world, like she'd disappear if he lost sight of her. “I'll be there for you. I want this. You know I want this and I'll show you. If you let me.”
“No running?” She asked, hopeful.
He laughed, threw his head in his neck, and it sounded relieved. “I promise.”
After the happenings of S6E18 "The Real Paul Anka", Jess finds Rory's wallet at Truncheon Books. He decides to give her a call himself, and regrets his decision immediately after.
Tags: Angst, Hurt, Kind of Canon-Compliant, Jess finally learned some communication, no Happy Endings here
978 words
I wrote this for a drabble challenge with my friends @chevroletdean and @kasafusutan ! The prompt for this drabble was "Character A drops their wallet. Character B picks it up" and of course I can't live without a good portion of hurt and missed chances in my life. The limit for our drabbles is 1.000 words.
HUGE spoiler warning for Season 6 of Gilmore Girls!
Link to Ao3
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Picking up his cell that night was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
Of course, after the humiliation of calling his uncle first and begging him for her recent number. And getting it from her mother, who happened to be next to Luke in bed right when he called. So that’s how he found out about them. And that’s how Lorelai and Luke got into a full-fledged fight, arguing about whether Jess deserved her number after all those years or not. Lorelai was furious. But that part wasn’t news.
And that’s where he was now, staring at his cellphone in hand, the good, fuzzy feeling of some kind of success in his miserable life long faded out, replaced by the gut-wrenching feeling of pure and utter humiliation. Something he was used to, at least.
He stroked across the edges of the purple-dyed leather case with his thumb. It was battered, black stains and worn out from year-long use. He couldn’t stop himself from flipping through her cards, and he almost felt like crying or smashing a wall when he saw a gym card and a freaking black American Express with his name on it.
It was no use. He played his chance of asking Luke to return it to her, so confident he could talk to her again, even if it was just for a few seconds. Now, he wasn’t so sure he could. He was afraid of how he’d speak to her. Where he would catch her. Was that douchebag back in town already? He didn’t want to catch them in bed, too.
His eyes started burning and he was so angry, his chest was a raging fire. But he could control it now. He breathed. And before he could think any more, he dialed.
The air in Philadelphia was cold at night this time a year. The fancy jacket he’d bought for the job did little to keep him warm. He leaned against the outside wall of Truncheon Books, watching a cab drive by as he listened to the ringing sound on his cell. He tossed the stub of the cigarette he snatched from Matthew on the sidewalk. He had quit five years ago.
A crack. A “Hello?”. Her voice was soft, tired.
He froze. A habit so well learned.
“Hello? Who is this?”
What should he even say?
“I’m hanging up now, if you’re a ghost calling me, please resort to the old-fashioned method and make the lights flicker or send me a ouija board in the mail. Or actually, maybe don’t do the last one.”
He suppressed a humored snort with all his might. He’d already thought of that alternative store downtown, how he could buy the board he’d seen and actually send it to her. If they were speaking again. He pursed his lips and took three long breaths, preparing to speak. His heart was hammering against his chest like crazy.
He heard her shifting on the phone, she was probably in bed already. Her voice suddenly had a darker tone, sadder. “Jess? Is that you?”
An audible sigh escaped him. He’d pulled the silence move often enough for her to know. “You dropped your wallet at the bookstore.”
“Oh.” A pause. “I didn’t even notice.”
That was…odd. Rory Gilmore drove all the way back to New Haven without her license. And without stopping for coffee, apparently. He hated how his heart kept hammering. He didn’t want to speak to her. He couldn’t. It hurt like hell.
“I’ll stop by Luke’s this week anyway.” He hadn’t planned to. “I’ll give it to him.” Now he had to figure out how to pay gas money to Stars Hollow.
Another pause. He fumbled for the backup cigarette he swiped. His hands were trembling.
“You don’t have to do that. I can come by and get it.”
“Keen on meeting traffic control, aren’t we?”
“I can ask Logan’s driver.”
Driver. Of course. Jess rubbed his forehead. The tiny buttons poked his face as he held his cell between shoulder and cheek to light the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and threw his head back.
“Don’t bother,” his voice came out monotonous, a hint annoyed. “You can pick it up from Luke this weekend.”
Every limb on his body seemed to itch with the shame. He wanted to crawl into his own skin, hide behind the thin fabric of his jacket, make the cold wind disappear and the whole world with it. He pictured smashing his phone against the wall, relishing in the thousand pieces of shattered glass. He pictured crushing them in his hand, his body unified with blood-stained proof that it was all pain, that it would never stop. Jess had been so close to grasping everything he wanted. Before what had been the final step to him turned out to be pure revenge for her, a kiss for the sake of betrayal, the object interchangeable.
“Jess, I’m so—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Rory.” He gritted his teeth. The certainty in his voice surprised him.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear. I should have been more clear before you kissed me.”
“Well, write that maxim down for the next guy, Kant would be proud.”
“Jess—”
He sighed, his breath shaky. The smoke danced away with the wind in the street.
“I’m glad you’re better, Rory,” he clenched his fist, bending the fragile paper of the cigarette. “I couldn’t stand seeing you trapped at your grandparents’ place. But please—
“At least give me a fair chance to move on now, okay?”
Silence.
“If I could change it, I would.”
“You and I both know you can do anything you want.” What he would give to see her face now. He could only fill the silence with his imagination.
Note: God I love this one!! Jess and Luke banter is always my favorite, and I think this turned out pretty funny. Let me know what you think, as always. <3
1,191 words
“You got them or what?” Luke called from the kitchen and Jess looked at tiny paws clawing into the loaf of white bread behind torn plastic.
“I didn't know budget was so tight you were looking for another roommate” Jess shouted back, already scanning the insides of the pantry for sprung traps, but when he placed the ketchup on another shelf and checked on the floorboards beneath the stock, he saw that every single one was still loaded. Little dextrous bastard.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Luke’s huge steps approached from the diner, but the creature was unbothered fully, even when he stood by the door, and they were now both staring at the small, brown mouse nibbling away at their inventory.
Jess looked up to his uncle, brows raised in amusement as Luke touched his forehead. “Seems your store hygiene isn’t as infallible as you would like.”
Link to Ao3
Despite its small-town rustic interior and the penetrating smell of frying oil lingering in every piece of furniture, Luke's diner was always cleaned to pristine perfection every night after closing. If Caesar had one of his off days, Luke would always stay up late until the last pan was scrubbed, the last table wiped down and every chair and stool sat atop its counterpiece.
When Jess started helping around his uncle's diner, he grumbled at Luke's fussing over every little crumb if it meant prolonging his shift for extra hours he didn't anticipate. But Luke was insistent, and even when he was not around for closing, he would always notice in the morning, and the scolding would begin anew.
So when two tiny black button eyes stared at Jess from the bread shelf in the pantry, he did nothing but stare back in disbelief for several, long moments. Blinking, ketchup refillers in hand, foot wedged between door and frame to hold it open for his previously planned exit from a quick restock run at closing.
“You got them or what?” Luke called from the kitchen and Jess looked at tiny paws clawing into the loaf of white bread behind torn plastic.
“I didn't know budget was so tight you were looking for another roommate” Jess shouted back, already scanning the insides of the pantry for sprung traps, but when he placed the ketchup on another shelf and checked on the floorboards beneath the stock, he saw that every single one was still loaded. Little dextrous bastard.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Luke’s huge steps approached from the diner, but the creature was unbothered fully, even when he stood by the door, and they were now both staring at the small, brown mouse nibbling away at their inventory.
Jess looked up to his uncle, brows raised in amusement as Luke touched his forehead. “Seems your store hygiene isn’t as infallible as you would like.”
Luke scowled at him, before heading confidently towards a heap of empty, big pickle jars. He opened a glass with a big neck, and started sneaking towards the mouse, knees bent and soft steps. Jess stayed right where he was, and he watched. He didn’t know if he’d hope Luke would catch it right away so he could go upstairs or if seeing his uncle fail to catch a creature this little would be funny enough for his entertainment.
As soon as Luke was a hand’s width away from the mouse, the creature froze and stopped its feasting. Jess had to suppress a chuckle and he noticed he’d stopped breathing in anticipation.
Luke smashed the jar down over its head, but it was too late. The mouse darted away moments before, disappearing behind the heaps of inventory, somewhere between the space between the wall and the shelves. While Luke was still cussing, Jess saw a little brown lightning breeze past his feet, out into the diner.
“Uh oh,” Jess winced, but he couldn’t hide the hint of residual amusement at Luke’s exasperation.
When Luke noticed his smirk, his face grew stern. “You are not off today until we catch that little pest, I hope you know that.”
Jess’ face fell. “Why? I follow your damn cleaning instructions every day, this isn’t my fault.”
“But it is your problem. Can’t pay you with missing money from a closed diner.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Jess groaned loudly at the silent response. Then, he dropped on his knees, fetching some of the mouse traps with pointy fingers, careful not to trigger them. When he got up, Luke was carrying one of his fisher’s nets on a long stick.
“Really?” Jess asked.
“Stop complaining and start catching.”
When they went out into the diner, the ketchup bottles and the restock was long forgotten.
At ten o’clock that night, Lorelai Gilmore was leaving Al’s Pancake World with two plastic bags full of chicken in Chinese takeout boxes when she saw a bright light shine on the street, coming from Luke’s Diner.
She frowned, knowing Luke stayed up late sometimes, but very rarely so. Even when he turned the diner into his temporary living room when his nephew first arrived, he’d never have all the lights turned on at this hour. So she decided to take a detour, at the danger of her hungry daughter tearing her to shreds when she arrived home late with sustenance.
Like a TV screen lighting up before her, she saw the scene. A dance more, really. Luke and Jess running around in circles, around the tables, the bar, the kitchen, chasing after something invisible. They tried cornering the unseen spirit behind the bar, Luke going around the right side of the corner, and Jess stalking around the left.
Maybe Rory and her would be having a picknick tonight, Lorelai smirked as she picked up her cellphone.
“I think I see it,” Luke was flat on his stomach on the ground, fishing net cradled in his right hand, flashlight in his left. He was peeking under the coffee counter behind the bar. Jess sat atop it, a yawn tearing at the corners of his mouth.
“Then get it already,” he spat.
“Give me one of those traps.”
Jess picked one up from the surface beside him, and re-loaded it with a scoop of peanut butter out a jar next to him. He extended it to meet Luke’s right hand, the fishing net now placed on the ground. “Good thing you gave that up for the right tools.”
He handed him the trap carefully, but that didn’t stop Luke’s big manly hand from stretching all over the small wooden contraption, and after a snap followed a scream, and the sight of pinched flesh between Luke’s fingers, covered in sticky peanut butter. A brown streak of color rushed away from the counter, and into the kitchen.
“Why the hell would you load it?” Luke screamed, his head turning a bright red as he turned on his side spread across the floor horizontally.
Jess cringed at the sight and sound, but he hummed in excitement anyway. “You looked like your hands were pretty full there, I figured I’d do that for you.”
As Luke peeled his hand away from the trap carefully, Jess looked up and out the shop window.
His gaze fell to the sight of Rory first, standing, fork buried deep in a takeout box, and his eyes widened. The council of Stars Hollow had gathered, among them Lorelai, eating next to Rory, Kirk, an expression of unmatched intrigue on his face, and Babette and Morey, whispering to each other.
“Great, the sucker escaped again,” Luke sighed, reaching for a cleaning rug on top of the counter and rubbed his hand. Jess said nothing, he met Rory’s eyes through the window and she smiled in response. Her mother eyed her curiously.
Luke pushed himself off the ground and followed Jess’ gaze. “Oh, hell no.”
He stomped towards the diner’s entrance, anger keeping the redness in his face, and the crowd outside already shuffled among themselves to dissolve.
Jess snorted, and Rory’s smile turned into a grin as she watched him.
In the Clamor, Quiet Bonds Grow Stronger || Fictober Day 1
Fictober Entry 1: The prompt is “Why would they do this?”
Summary: Gilmore Girls 4.11’s “In the Clamor and the Clangor” but I find it absolutely nuts that neither Rory nor any of their friends were there for Lane and the band’s big first night at CBGB’s in New York. Little spin on what if Jess and Rory were still together, and maybe things turn out a little more fortunate for Lane and the band.
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Chars: Lane Kim, Rory Gilmore, Jess Mariano, Paris Geller, Zack, Brian, Gil
Tags: Fluff, Friend Group, Canon Divergent, Rory & Jess & Lane & Paris banter cause I want them to be together, Implied Paris x Lane (I will singlehandedly fill their tag with content if I have to), Literati if they were still together in S4
2,322 words
Brian and Zack had both called shotgun for two of the three front seats, albeit for very different reasons. Zack insisted on working the CD player, while Brian was in front of Lane’s seat, hunched over a paper bag and Zack was keeping his carsickness at bay with "Just a bit more, dude"-repetitions like a mantra.
Next to Rory, Jess was bent over a book, rolled along the spine like a newspaper.
Rory watched the street from her middle seat and when Lane turned for her, she smiled.
“Excited?” her eyebrows raised in genuine glee.
“That, and a million other things,” Lane started.
Link to Ao3
Tonight was supposed to be the biggest night of Lane’s life.
The beginning of the band’s true, exhilarating journey towards the heights of rock’n’roll. They were supposed to fill footsteps too big for any of them, and the thought of even getting a shot at putting this step forward was just as thrilling as it was absolutely terrifying.
You could say it was stage fright. A fear of the band’s future. Or a distinct fear of the present and the near future starting tomorrow, because for the first time in her life, Lane didn’t come up with a cover story for her mother and sneaked out of the house at night. Normally, she would make Rory help her, pretend she was at her place instead of practicing with the band. But tonight, that wasn’t possible for the simple reason that Rory was driving with them to New York city. Lane’s body was pressed tightly to the edge of the car, the cold window clouding from her too-fast release of breath. Rory’s thick coat merged closely into her own on her left, and the familiar warmth of her body calmed her soul but also made her uncomfortably hot beneath the winter clothing. The van they rented from Gypsy was small and shabby and Lane flinched every time it rattled over a pothole. The highway had been a smoother ride than the roads out of Stars Hollow, yet she still kept two of her fingers crossed, just in case, for their own safety and that of her beloved set of drums in the trunk.
For his age, Gil was a lousier driver than she’d expected. Lane missed Dave’s safe confidence on the street now, but swallowed the thought and chose to peel her cheek away from the window, and towards her friends. Brian and Zack had both called shotgun for two of the three front seats, albeit for very different reasons. Zack insisted on working the CD player, while Brian was in front of Lane’s seat, hunched over a paper bag and Zack was keeping his carsickness at bay with Just a bit more, dude-repetitions like a mantra.
Next to Rory, Jess was bent over a book, rolled along the spine like a newspaper.
Rory watched the street from her middle seat and when Lane turned for her, she smiled.
“Excited?” her eyebrows raised in genuine glee.
“That, and a million other things,” Lane started.
Rory’s head fell on Lane’s shoulder, giggling. “You’re gonna be great, you’ll see.”
CBGB’s had produced legends of rock. The stuff that Lane grew up on, prayed to every day in her room in secret when she was supposed to pray to her mother's God. The Ramones, Talking Heads and Sonic Youth — all the people that raised her had started here, and she was supposed to play on their very stage tonight. The thought of ever being close to their equal made Lane want to snatch that paper bag out of Brian's trembling hands.
“You've been there before, right?” Rory nudged Jess’ side with her elbow.
He teared his glued gaze from the pages, but he didn't look annoyed about it, he never did when it was Rory of all people interrupting him. He leaned back, retracted into the torn fabric of their back seat, and shrugged, his book held open by one hand. “Once,” he replied, “and I never planned to again.”
Rory hit his arm, but there was nothing but playful force behind it. “You were excited when I told you the news.”
Jess rolled his eyes, but he smirked at Rory's gesture, and pulled the hand that hit him into his own. “That was you, not me.”
“You’re absolutely sickening,” Lane said.
“I hope you made use of your bathroom at home ‘cause those are gonna make you sick in this dump.” Jess said.
“Dude, I thought you were punk rock,” Zack patted the Brian’s back reluctantly, who was retching violently.
“So is hepatitis, apparently.”
Gil handed Zack another bag from the driver’s door. “Relax, guys. It’s gonna be fucking awesome.”
“Does Pete have hepatitis?” Brian hung his head, his voice panicked when folding the filled paper bag, and Lane thought Zack eyed the window a little too long before Brian placed it on the floor between their legs. Zack scrunched his face in disgust.
“You’re not gonna be sick, Brian—” Zack leaned away from him when he looked green around the nose at his mention of the word, “Sorry. But I hate to say, Gil’s right.”
Lane’s legs twitched nervously. From the window, her reflection stared back at her, and she almost didn’t recognize herself so styled up. Through it, she could make out a few bright stars across the dark eight pm sky. She fixed them with her gaze and imagined they were all her idols with her tonight, watching out for them.
New York greeted them with traffic. The deeper they drove into the city, the more grateful Lane was that Rory convinced Jess to come. He had abandoned his book inside his pocket to lead them around the worst routes.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jess called across the street and Rory spinned at his shout. A girl was standing at the entrance, approaching them with big steps. Her blonde hair was tangled in a big scarf and her coat almost swallowed her whole. The closer she came, the more Lane could see she looked angry.
“You said I should be here at nine,” the girl’s voice was stern as she eyed Rory, who just jumped out the backseat after Lane. The steam rising out the canals was tainted by the warm streetlights, but the odor of the city hit Lane like a wall as soon as she stepped on the sidewalk and for a moment, she was grateful for Stars Hollow’s clean air.
Rory rubbed the back of her head. “Hi, Paris. Thanks for coming.”
“Wait, you invited Paris?” Lane stared at her, and she started to look more displeased by the second.
“Oh great, so I’m an unwelcome guest. Wonderful job, Rory.” Paris crossed her arms.
“You’re not unwelcome,” Rory turned towards Lane, her voice quieter so no one but her could hear, “She needs to get away from Yale.”
“Why?” hissed Lane.
“It’s complicated.” But Rory looked uncomfortable and she eyed Paris, who was staring at Jess leaving the van. He mustered raising his eyebrows in greeting.
“Mr. Bukowski in the flesh,” Paris said.
He rolled his eyes. “I won’t discuss this with you again.”
Lane approached her as the boys started to unload their equipment. “It’s nice of you to come, Paris.” The more the merrier, she supposed.
“For a venue that’s supposed to be this hot, I’ve seen an awful lot of people leaving the past one and a half hours,” she replied and looked at Rory for the last part, who raised her arms in defense.
Lane shuddered at that, her anxiety rising again. “Really?”
“It’s gonna be fine,” said Rory, and put a hand on her shoulder encouragingly.
Around the van, Gil now carried part of her drums, while Zack shouldered the guitar cases. Brian was off to the nearest trashcan to dispose of his guts inside two paper bags. He didn’t look like he’d heard. Lane swallowed, and decided to keep her anxiety to herself, for now.
When they entered the club after Gil and Zack, Brian scurrying with sunk shoulders behind them, Lane’s whole body hummed with excitement and the bass vibrating through her bones. The stage lights reflected in her eyes and in the bottles and glasses at the bar, which was still half-way occupied. The smell of sweat mixed with a stark side note of stale beer and piss, but Lane couldn’t care, she was too excited. This could be it. Their dream — although it came with an unpleasant sensual experience — was so close she could physically grasp its contents. The picture in her head replaced with the real feeling of standing in this room, looking at this stage she was about to play on.
Gil, Zack and Brian met with the organizer Darryl and Pete, Gil’s sound guy friend. They led them backstage.
“This is it,” her voice was thin and high when she spoke to Rory, and she couldn’t help but jump up and down.
Rory looked at her, grinning widely, eyes glistening. Her mouth opened, but instead she pulled Lane into a hug and squeezed her tightly around the shoulders. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
“Good luck,” Jess said and nodded at her with a rare smile.
Paris’ brows were furrowed as she still looked around the place. When she noticed Lane was looking at her, she snapped out of what seemed to be a thought quickly and said “This will better be worth the wait.”
Lane chuckled and followed the boys, heart thumping.
When it was almost their time to go on, that quickly changed. Instead of the excitement and fear, her heart sunk into her stomach at the look on the organizer Darryl’s face as he came for them.
As he told them the bad news, she could feel it drowning in the sea of disappointment fully.
“What do you mean?” Zack stammered.
“Come on pal,” Gil tried, “We brought enough friends.”
“Sorry guys. Decision from the boss, I can’t do anything.”
“We’ll tell them to drink up your whole damn bar so it’s worth your while,” Zack said, a blank stare on his face he usually watched one of Rory’s and Jess’ heated discussions with.
Brian shuffled for his inhaler in their luggage.
Lane stayed quiet the whole time.
She shuffled out of the backstage room, her head and expression empty. When she pulled up to her friends, they were gathered around a table, drinks in front of them. Pete disappeared behind the bar, and Jess watched him with a raised eyebrow. Rory and Paris were fixated on her, and as soon as Lane was close, Rory jumped up.
“What’s going on?”
Lane felt so small. The loud music from before was but a quiet background noise now, and besides her friends, only a couple occupied another table who must have been Brian’s parents that he was talking about. She saw the resemblance; the frail woman was fidgeting with something in her lap in a state of perpetual unrest, and the man’s face looked like an older, more wrinkled copy of Brian’s small face.
“Guess you all came for nothing. I’m sorry.” Lane could feel the tremble in all her limbs, the costume she’d felt so comfortable in now sticking to her like an alien second skin.
“They cancelled?” A deep fold formed on Rory’s forehead, her brows almost meeting between her worried eyes.
“Why would they do this?” Paris’ annoyance mixed with what Lane assumed must be her way of showing concern, but her speaking still sounded more like an attack than anything else.
“Look around,” Lane said, “Not much business on a Tuesday night with us.”
Even Jess looked bummed.
“So? You made it all the way here, and we’re business,” Paris raised her glass symbolically. “This place is supposed to be open for at least another hour, I checked.”
“Not much we can do,” she said timidly and Rory looked at her sympathetically.
“I’m so sorry, Lane.”
“Bullshit,” Paris suddenly jumped up from her seat and looked around frantically. “Do you know who’s in charge?”
“Uhm,” Lane hesitated, “I don’t know him personally. I don’t even know if he’s here. You’d have to ask Gil—”
“Nevermind, I’ll find someone.” She stomped in the direction of the bar, and when someone came out to continue cleaning up, she caught him so off guard that he almost dropped the dishes he was carrying.
“What the hell?” Lane asked directed at Rory, but she just sighed.
“Let her do her thing.”
Rory flinched and Jess smirked when a few moments after, they could hear Paris shouting from a room behind the bar. Lane halted every feeling inside of her while they stood there in silence, waiting for any kind of outcome. She didn’t allow herself to be hopeful yet, but she felt overwhelmed, dread and excitement switching places in her mind today in unpredictable quick alterations like a slot machine.
Paris didn’t come out first. Instead, a man walked out, right past them, and headed to where the boys were packing up backstage. Then, Paris followed, reclaimed her seat, and sipped on her drink.
Before any of them could open their mouth, the door to backstage smashed open with a bang, and Zack stormed towards them.
“We’re on, baby!” He ran back as quickly as he came, waving to Lane to join him. Behind him, Gil and Brian were already taking to the stage.
Before Lane joined them, she turned towards Paris, who was smirking to herself while Rory mouthed a thanks at her.
They played for five people that night, all of which they brought themselves.
But they were still in New York and this was still freaking CBGB’s and Lane couldn’t stop smiling the whole show, as her friend got out of their seats to dance to the whole set. Rory took Jess by his hands and swayed with him until he was comfortable enough to join on his own, though subtly nodding his head to the beat of Lane’s drums seemed to be more his natural inclination.
When Lane looked for Paris, who was swaying left and right alone and with Rory in alteration the whole time, she could swear she saw her cheeks flush at least once.
This was supposed to be the band’s breakthrough and although success would still be a long ways away after tonight, so many things changed for them. In a way, even if their career didn’t get the jump start they were hoping for, their lives would instead. And that wasn’t a bad start.
The Death of Shame (And What Eternity Lies Beyond)
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Pairing: Paris x Lane
Paris Geller is faced with a puzzle she can’t find any feasible solution to. Confronted with loss, she doesn’t feel anything she is supposed to feel. Even with her distinct lack of emotional literacy, the total absence of grief strikes her as odd. But when she seeks help from her best friend Rory to untangle the never-ending web of confusing sentiments, she dials the wrong number and ends up speaking to Lane instead. What she doesn’t expect yet, is that this accident will change her for the rest of her life.
Tags: Longing and pining, Fluff and Angst, Religious Trauma, Mommy Issues, Paris is very autistic coded, repeated mentions of Rory because these guys love her a lot, Lane AND Paris deserve way better endings so I made them get one together, Justice for Lane and Paris, Minor Character Death, Grief / Mourning, Paris is a mean lesbian and Lane a bisexual mess, Internalized Homophobia, Gilmore Girls spoilers up until the beginning of season 5, kind of canon compliant, set in season 5
9,172 words
I think there's a very sad lack of Paris x Lane fanfics on here and on Ao3, and because I adore the hell out of both of them (both alone and together), I decided to remedy some of that and write about them.
This is set at the beginning of season 5, so be warned about spoilers (especially heavy warning for season 4 spoilers).
Link to Ao3
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Grief is an endless sea you can swim or drown in.
You can sit by it some days, listen to waves rushing and seagulls crying, breathe in the salt air. Or you can leave the shore, go inland, ignore it for a while. But if you go far enough, you’ll always be back on another shore.
Kierkegaard believed that when faced with the inevitability of death, we long for finding an eternal to replace the endless sea of despair inside us. That we have this mystical drive, trying to find who we truly are in the face of loss and finiteness.
To be clear, he intended for his readers to find a Christian heaven as their eternity, just as he did. Besides her decidedly not-Christian identity, Paris Geller only believed that all this was total and utter bullshit.
For one, she didn’t feel a sea at all. She didn’t swim, or sit, or God forbid (ill choice of words, she knew) drown in anything but paperwork and anger.
The smell of leather had settled in her nose as a permanent guest, just like she settled in this armchair, this study, seemingly permanently.
How could the family of a brilliant man like Asher Fleming solely consist of the most simple-minded, annoying individuals she had ever encountered? She knew people's intellect depended on genetic and environmental factors both, but in the case of this great man, the environment had to have been working over-time for the sixty-one years since his birth.
So, ever since his sudden passing, Paris had put herself in charge of his last honors in this life. She sorted through his whole personal library, organised a funeral, a wake, settled inheritance squabbles among the relatives. And she was starting to get so sick of it all.
She wasn't even sure if she was grieving at all.
Terrence, her coach, told her it was normal not to feel sad right away. That being overwhelmed usually came first, dealing with technicalities, realizing what had happened, before sadness even had space to step in. The five stages of grief. Denial came first.
But Paris didn’t deny anything. She was acutely aware of the professor’s death. She didn’t feel overwhelmed except by the stupidity surrounding her. She didn’t need time to process his death, but what she needed time for was to find out why she didn’t.
When Terrence’s jabbering turned from unwelcome into platitudes straight out of a Women’s Health magazine, she decided she needed another person who knew what they were talking about. Someone with the emotional intelligence of a functioning human being, instead of a confused mind like her own.
“Hello?”
This wasn’t Rory’s voice.
“Who is this?”
“Who are you? You called me.”
“Did you steal Rory’s phone? Did she get a new number? I swear if you stole her phone, I will report you to the police, or no wait, I’ll find you myself. That girl needs her damn phone, she’s barely ever off it.”
“Rory’s phone? No, you called my phone. This is Lane.”
Paris fell silent. Her eyes widened. She lifted her cell off her ear, and eyed the tiny display. It wasn’t Rory’s number, indeed.
“How did I get your number?”
“Paris?”
“Obviously.”
The line was suspiciously silent. She thought the connection had been severed, so she looked at the cell again, but she was still in line.
“You’re wasting my minutes here.”
“I put it in your phone,” Lane said hesitantly, “when I lived at your dorm for a while, you know? In case you needed me to get some coffee or something.”
Paris felt a rush of instinctive possessive anger asking for her attention, but what was more curious was that she didn’t want to respond to it. She learned to control her anger with Terrence, learned progressive muscle relaxation, breathing techniques. But usually, she didn’t want to use them, suppressed the anger for the sake of not offending any idiots who could potentially enforce negative consequences of her behavior unto her, not because she wanted to. She didn’t want to be angry now, instead, she felt curiosity tickle her stomach.
“Oh,” was all that escaped her. How long had it been since Lane left their dorm? They were sophomores now, and the movers would be carrying her furniture into the two-bedroom dorm she shared with Rory as they spoke.
“I’m sorry if you’re angry. I didn’t mean to just take your phone without asking.”
“You shouldn’t.” A firm tone, only because she didn’t know how else to respond.
“You wanted to talk to Rory? She’s in Europe right now.”
“Right,” Paris touched her forehead. She had heard. She even found a postcard among the mail a few days ago. “Guess I’m actually lucky that I didn’t dial her number overseas.”
Lane chuckled, a single release of breath.
They were silent, both of them. For some reason, this was awkward. She’d never talked to Lane alone like this. Lane ushered hasted greetings not directed to her phone, and Paris could hear dishes clank in the background.
“You’re working,” she stated, “at that tiny diner, right?”
Lane sighed. “Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you alone before you burn some fries or something.”
“Wait.”
Paris was startled. Curiosity continued to tickle her insides.
“What did you want from Rory?”
“Why do you want to know?”
A pause. “She’s gone, and so is all the gossip. I’m bored. The guys aren’t fun to talk to.”
“I don’t think I’m one to gossip, either.”
“Try me.”
Paris grunted, shifted in her armchair. The stupid formal jacket scratched her elbows like steel wool.
“Please?” A pleading tone.
59 minutes left this month. Plenty of calls to the morgue and the florist left. And she was still itching to talk to Rory, listen to her goody two-shoes advice in her hey look, i’m a nice considerate girl voice.
But maybe a friend of Rory’s, a childhood friend even, would be a little like the original. They probably talked about stuff like this all the time. Suddenly, Paris wondered what it was like to have a friend who’s known so many versions and ages of you and still stuck with your bullshit.
Paris hesitated, played with the arm of her jacket. This was embarrassing. No one but Rory would understand the relationship she had with Asher. She knew everyone judged her, thought her crazy. They’ve always done that, but she’s never felt a shame so deep confronted with her peers.
And somehow, it felt weird telling Lane this. She didn’t want to talk about her former now deceased lover. Or former now deceased lover. It felt wrong, telling her this.
So she started with something more vague, but not too far astray from the topic. “Do you know what shame feels like?”
Lane laughed. Not in a vicious, or even an amused way. Her voice seemed surprised, and so sure of herself at the same time. “I was practically raised on shame.”
Paris knew her mother was the reason she stayed in their dorm for so long. She just didn’t know much about the details. Rory had sometimes mentioned Lane’s crazy elaborate plans in the past, to avoid her mother, talked about how she was seeing her band practicing in the Gilmore garage. But she’d never talked to Lane about this, obviously.
Paris searched her memories for what she remembered of last year, while she was busy playing hide and seek with Asher. At the thought of Lane and in an attempt to explain her curiosity, the memory of one evening jumped at the forefront of her consciousness. Paris, all her roommates and Lane were watching the news huddled together on the couch, but as soon as the evening entertainment went on, Janet and Tana retired to their room, leaving Rory, Lane and Paris on their own. A commercial blasted and when Paris reached for the remote and turned the volume down, Rory got up from next to Lane to get a soda from the mini-fridge. Paris was crouched on the very edge of the sofa, and since their roommates left, plenty of space was open next to Lane. Paris leaned back from her reach, brushing Lane’s legs with her own as they had been touching the whole time. She expected her to move, especially while Rory was still up, make some space between them. Lane didn’t budge. She was staring incessantly at an ad for Wrigley’s extra gum, as if the movie was already on.
Any time Paris entered the room and found Lane watching their TV, she’d always seen her skip ads with such haste she might as well have accidentally opened the midnight porn channel. But that night, she was just staring ahead while Paris was watching her, frowning until they both paid attention to the returning Rory. Only when Rory sat down ways away from Lane on the other end of the couch, Lane suddenly budged, ever so slowly moving away from Paris without sparing her a single glance. Paris felt as though she’d been left alone in the cold at night. But she never stopped to wonder why.
Now, she felt an itch in her stomach akin to what she experienced back then. A twinge of nervousness, anticipating the cold feeling, not at the loss of the small warmth of a leg, but at the cutting of a telephone line, the monotonous beep beep beep when someone hung up on you, and you were suddenly back in a room alone.
A study, cold and barren, despite the warm interior, the abundance of books and knowledge and life that came and thought before her. Paris didn’t want to be surrounded by the dead things she usually so worshipped right now, didn’t want to wallow in her confusing lack of feelings for the professor, tell family off that wasn’t her own (although that was easier than her own could ever be). She felt a sense of loss now, and it was greater at the thought of hanging up a damn phone than going to a full-fledged funeral. A recurring thought: Rory would know what’s up with her. Rory could always figure it out, know what those stupid flights of unease inside her were caused by, had a name for every unwanted sensation coursing through her veins, making her blood boil with the one thing she could identify, the anger of sharing a space with other feelings.
But Rory wasn’t here. Lane was. And Paris didn’t want her to go. Okay. She could work with that.
“Paris? You still there?”
“I thought you had your minutes. If you want to spend them in silence, far be it from me to judge, but I got limited breaks.”
“Can you come to New Haven?” she heard herself ask.
Now Lane was silent.
“Uh,” she stammered. “Why?”
“Well, I need Rory and since Rory is not here, I figured her best friend might do as well.”
“Flattering.”
“I’ll pay the cab.”
She could almost hear Lane considering. “I could leave at seven, after my shift is over.”
“Perfect.”
When she barged through their front door at six thirty that night, Lane’s rushing and running managed to make Brian and Zack pause their game in irritation, a feat formerly thought impossible.
She headed to her room, and in her haste, didn’t close the door behind her as she started rummaging through her closet and throwing pieces of her clothing on her bed one by one. Her collection had improved vastly since she no longer had to squeeze every piece of un-Christian fabric in the space between her floorboards at home. Thanks to flea markets, her own creativity and the occasional assistance of Lorelai’s seamstress abilities, she’d managed to assort a collection of clothes that made her feel like herself, both on-stage and off. It was amazing how her mother’s lifelong banning of any kind of fashionable clothing turned Lane towards a genuine interest in how she looked now. Exploring herself through her style was fun, and it helped the whole coolness factor of being in a band even more.
Tonight, this new-found interest in looking any good turned out to be a source of genuine anxiety.
“Uh, Lane?”
She turned snappily to the blonde Zack leaning on her door frame, Brian half-hidden behind his back, eyebrows raised. They actually abandoned their game.
“Can’t talk, got places to be.” She tended towards two pairs of pants she’d thrown on her sheets, a black ripped jeans and some tights paired with her favorite jean hot pant. She opted for the latter, comfortable and confident would be good.
Zack and Brian exchanged looks. “Where you goin’?”
“New Haven,” she said and pulled out a meshed top from her closet.
“But Rory’s in Europe.”
“Yeah, I know. I told you that.” She thought she’d explode if she heard the words Rory and Europe paired together in a sentence one more time today. Lane reached for some hair clips on her vanity, and smudged a faint red lipstick across her lips in front of the standing mirror.
“You’re not moving there again, are you?” Brian asked.
“If you want us to turn the game down after eleven, we can totally manage. On weekdays. But that’s what I bought those ear plugs for on your nightstand.” Zack added.
Lane rolled her eyes. “No, I’m not moving, I’m visiting a friend.”
She could practically hear a sigh of relief from the way their tense shoulders dropped.
“But Rory’s in—” Zack started again.
“Privacy!” She stomped towards the door, the approach scaring both of them away from the frame. The door fell shut, and she started changing her clothes.
When the cab honked outside and Lane rushed to catch it, she could swear she’d never seen Zack’s face look so forlorn.
After Dave, she’d never dated. The missing him was still ingrained deeply in her bones, and it ached anytime she thought of another potential boy. After him, no one ever seemed to compare as well. Who else would get her like Dave? Who else would spend sleepless nights studying the bible to convince her mother to take her to prom? The answer was, no one would. Boys were disappointing like that. Most of them that she’d met didn’t even use half their brain. Especially the boys of Stars Hollow.
The cab ride was long enough to let the nervousness rage freely. She leaned against the window in the backseat, one side of the pair of headphones pushed off her ear, in case the driver started talking. Morrissey wailed into her other ear, in hopes of calming her nerves with a high dose of classic Smiths melancholia. It only worked moderately.
She could have given in to the other side of her heart, then. The boys didn’t work out, so be it. Lane knew the way she looked at some girl classmates wasn’t just friendly when she tried to ask Rory about it in middle school. Lane remembered asking if she didn’t think the head cheerleader was just too pretty to be true a total number of three times until she gave up to the steady response of run-down shoulder shrugs and you’re pretty too, don’t be jealous’s. She appreciated her friend’s support, but gained something to ponder about for years to come.
Something to ponder, and to fear. It was temporarily lifted when she realized she actually had feelings for Dave, a boy, hallelujah. He wasn’t Korean and he wasn’t Christian per se, so her mother would still disapprove but at least a male he was, which was one major sin less to handle.
When Dave left, she was convinced she was cured. She’d loved a boy once, so who said she couldn’t fall for another? It scared the literal hell out of her then, when despite all her bundled brusque whirlwind of a force, she couldn’t stop looking at Paris Geller since she met her. Lane never mentioned it to Rory, or to anyone at that. She knew they’d all think her absolutely crazy, even if they knew about her interest in the same sex. Which they too, did not know about.
Paris was, like middle school Lane would have put it, too pretty to be true. More often than she’d like to admit, Lane wished she could touch her golden hair, brush it for her, put a strand out of her face when it fell out an up-do while studying. Lane made sure she was always out of their room when Paris was changing, learned her schedule to a t, afraid she couldn’t control her gaze, that someone would notice the blushing, most of all.
The Paris everyone knew was rude and calculatedly evil at times, casually cruel at others. She hurt the people around her like there was no tomorrow, like she was an island floating along, never needing anybody, no connection at all. But Lane had also seen Paris be loyal to Rory like only Lorelai or herself ever were. She was passionate and relentless with her ideals, of which she had plenty, and she was never afraid to fight when it mattered to her. And then there were the times she’d heard her talk on the phone to her Portuguese nanny with a voice so genuinely loving, she wondered if this was what real family sounded like. When Lane sneakily asked Rory about Paris’ mother, she dodged the question. And that was the last drop that Lane’s brain needed to short-circuit.
Paris teared the startled driver’s door open and extended a stack of dollar bills before Lane even had the chance to stash her headphones back into her backpack. Or even before all four wheels of the car came to a full halt. Lane swallowed hard, trying to gulp down everything that sprinted through her mind in circles in record-time during the drive.
Before Lane could do it herself too, the car door next to her opened, and Paris was crossing her arms next to it. “This ride should have taken at least twenty minutes less, which route did this moron take? I swear there isn’t one trusty cab company in this country anymore, they will all run scams on those poor small-town souls who don’t know their way around their own state.”
“Hello to you too, Paris.” Lane sighed and closed the zipper of her backpack before swinging it back and climbing out the backseat. The driver looked sour, she saw in the rear mirror as she got out. Of course Paris wouldn’t wait to complain until he was out of hearing range.
When she slammed the car door, the wheels spat dust in their faces as the driver was accelerating fast, probably to get away from them.
They were standing in the dorm courtyard, surrounded by a cloud of dust, five feet apart. Paris rolled her eyes after the cab and Lane made a mental note to clean her glasses upon entering the dorm. When the dust was cleared by the cold night wind, Lane tried to get a better look at the woman standing next to her.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Paris’ features were all swallowed by black. Not in the cool, goth girl kind of way. A pencil skirt, tight blazer and what seemed to be actual pearls around her neck made her look thirty years older.
Paris finally loosened her crossed arms, and started walking towards the building, Lane following her close by. She tried to study her face for anything other than the signature annoyance, and found contemplation, the look she usually had hunched over a particularly difficult essay.
“My boyfriend died.”
“Oh.” The sound just escaped Lane without thinking, her voice high-pitched toward the end, almost like a question, more like the utter confusion she was feeling. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was his time, I suppose.”
“Still the professor, right?” Lane asked carefully, just to confirm.
Paris rolled her eyes. “Yes, it was Asher. I didn’t make a habit of being a serial old man dater, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Sorry, I just wanted to make sure.”
They entered their new dorm, everything fully unknown to Lane. She knew they were moving this semester from Rory, but she kind of wished she could stay in the old dorm again. It was cramped and they were fighting all the time, and Lane remembered being eaten alive by guilt every single night she tried to sleep in the tiny room with Paris and Rory, wondering what her mother thought of her now and if she’d done the right thing. But it was still her first memory of living alone (kind of). Of waking up and dressing the way she wanted to, of not having to hide except to make herself more accommodating to Rory’s roommates, which was a thousand times easier than subjecting to Mrs. Kim. At least they were peers, and they let their spirits be calmed with fresh coffee, not prayer and guilt.
When they got to the last door on the hallway, two movers were carrying a few boxes each inside. Paris went straight in, while Lane waited outside and watched her pay the movers in cash, too.
“I took the chipped bed frame off your tip. Try being familiar with corners before you take on your next job.”
The guys passed Lane on the way out, very displeased and whispering to each other.
“Save the complaining for an e-mail or at least for when I can’t hear you!” Paris shouted after them. Lane smirked at the irony. Paris beckoned for her to come in, and she carefully obliged.
The inside of the communal room was mostly barren, no resemblance to the lively room they used to be in together. Since all of the furniture was sponsored by Rory’s grandmother, it was all missing. There were no curtains, no rug, especially no couch or TV. A single wooden stool was sitting between the two doors which she assumed lead to Paris’ and Rory’s rooms each, and out of the first of them, she could see boxes and a bed with an uncovered mattress peeking out.
When Paris spoke, the echo bounced off the walls around them. “Sorry, I don’t know when Rory’s movers are coming, she didn’t tell me anything. But you could’ve guessed. We decided to keep her furniture, no use in getting new ones.”
“That’s cool, don’t worry.” Lane was slightly uncomfortable with hearing her own voice be echoed back to her. That was usually Zach’s job on stage. The only sound she liked projected across a room was the energetic hammering of her drums.
She walked towards the stool, and placed her backpack on it.
“So…” she began, standing awkwardly, looking around the room like there was anything but empty windowsills and barren trees outside to look at.
“Oh,” Paris said, scurrying off to her room and reemerging with a bottle of red wine. “Do you drink? I got heaps and heaps of alcohol with my condolences across the family. I don’t know if they’re trying to be polite or assuming I’m gonna want to fry my brain out with ethanol.”
Lane chuckled once, her eyes widening in surprise. “Only in miniscule amounts. My genes are not in my favor here.”
Paris shrugged. “More for me.”
“I didn’t think you’d drink a lot, either,” Lane said and followed Paris in sitting cross-legged on the middle of the floor. Paris opened the screw-top bottle, looking around in what seemed to be contemplation and cursed briefly. She then took a sip out the bottle while murmuring no glasses and then offered the dark bottle to Lane.
She took it, but hesitated before placing her lips on the rim where Paris drank from. She couldn’t help but watch her reach behind her neck and open the pearl necklace, and Lane traced her neck with her eyes until she arrived at her lips, shuddering at the thought that just now, they’d touched the bottle she now took a sip of. The wine was very dry, it felt like she was drinking pure alcohol mixed with sandpaper when she swallowed the supposed liquid. It was warm in flowing down her throat and to her stomach.
Paris took the bottle back and took a few more sips without hesitating. Lane swallowed, the sandpaper still in her mouth.
“Is this what you’d do with Rory?” Lane asked.
Paris put the pearls down next to her knee, and proceeded to open her blazer, a white shirt revealing underneath, and when Lane made out the edges of her bra, she quickly stared at the nearest white wall. The cool exterior she tried to build during the ride was slowly crumbling to her nervousness.
“Well, we’d sit on a damned couch, for starters.” Paris stared at the floor, her troubled expression a contrast to her irate voice.
“The floor is good. More space,” Lane tried.
Paris didn’t react. She was clearly lost in thought, something was eating her up, tossing her around like a boat in a storm.
“Must be hard right now.”
The blonde played with the label on the bottle, tearing off one edge of the paper. Paradoxically, Paris’ uneasiness made Lane feel calmer. It was easier, helping someone else with their insecurities than facing your own.
Paris looked up, directly at her. She’d rarely ever done that since they met. “No, it’s not. I mean, not in the way it’s supposed to be. That’s the whole problem.”
Lane frowned. “What do you mean?”
Paris took another gulp out the bottle, then offered it back to Lane. She barely let the liquid graze her lips, afraid of what it might do to her restraint. She remembered the first and last time she was drunk, and how that was the start of her crumbling relationship to her mother. Or the first step to the only authentic relationship she could ever have to her, however distant it was now. But this was different. What she could do here was not as inevitable as what had happened between her and her mother.
“I don’t know,” she continued, “Rory would. That’s why I wish she was here.”
“To…?”
“Sort this out for me. Feelings. I’m no good at that. But her stupidly nice mother seems to have done some secret correct parenting to teach her how to deal with any of that.”
Lane nodded, and she instantly knew what she was talking about.
“I learned a lot from Lorelai, too,” she said.
“Well, you got that advantage on me. Must have been nice to grow up together or something.” Paris extended her hand, asked for the bottle back and Lane obliged.
“So what is it? How do you think you should feel?”
“Sad. Someone is dead, for Christ’s sake, and I knew him well.”
“Did you?” Lane just asked instinctively, more out of curiosity than anything else, but it seemed to hit something vulnerable in Paris.
“Of course!” she snapped, but retracted just as quickly. “I’m organizing his damn funeral.”
“That doesn’t have to mean anything. You’re good at organizing.”
That seemed to surprise the blonde. She frowned. “Right.”
“Did you like him?” Lane asked and the curiosity was now burning a hole into her stomach along with the neglectable amounts of wine. The question was more selfish than anything and Lane couldn’t tell anymore if the warmth in her cheeks came from her body’s inability to process the alcohol or from her fear of being discovered.
Paris grunted, exasperatedly. “Of course. He was brilliant. Mature. A real man.” Her voice sounded almost desperate, like she was trying to stay above water amidst her raging storm of waves.
“But did you like how you felt around him?”
“I don’t know if I regret this now, but you sound exactly like Rory would.”
That stung a little. Like a small icicle quenching a part of the burning flames. Like Rory, that’s why she was here. Get in line.
“Thanks, I guess.”
Paris suddenly pushed herself off the ground, the bottle still in hand. She grabbed the necklace on the way up, and just disappeared into her room. Lane watched the closed front door while she was away, not sure if she was contemplating to run away or waiting for the movers to come back and interrupt them, anything to free her from this awkwardness. Why the hell did she decide to come here, again?
Paris came back in a knitted sweater and a blue jeans. The sweater looked hand-made, a butterfly pattern was worked front and center into the wool. Lane stopped herself from calling it cute and just said nothing instead.
Paris didn’t take her seat back, but instead moved towards the window, and Lane had to look over her shoulder to see her.
“Thanks for coming.”
Lane raised an eyebrow. “Should I go?”
“No,” she Paris, very quickly. She cleared her throat, collecting herself. “I mean no, I’m glad you came. I don’t feel as…wrong as before.”
“That’s good,” Lane concluded. “You shouldn’t,” she dared to add. She got up herself, and moved to the next window, trying to see what Paris was looking at. A few students were standing at the coffee cart, wrapped in scarfs in the cold weather and laughing together.
“You must feel lonely, though.” Lane said.
Paris rolled her eyes. “Who doesn’t? Life’s a solo journey. People get in the way.”
“Not always,” Lane gestured at nothing in particular, but Paris seemed to get what she meant and grunted in response.
They watched the group talk for a few more minutes in silence, until they walked off towards the entrance together, and shortly after, they could hear them chat through the thin walls in the hallway. Gossip, about a shared friend it seemed, a few not-so-nice words were exchanged.
“Why are you so nice to me? I got you kicked out of our dorm.” Paris asked without looking at her.
Lane thought about it for a moment. “Well first of all, you didn’t. I know everyone agreed.”
“Details,” Paris said.
“You’re not too bad,” Lane said, purposefully understating.
“Why?” she looked at her again, and in the dim light from the window, Lane saw a reflection of herself in the deep brown of Paris’ eyes. Lane grabbed the bottle from Paris’ hand. “I know everyone pretty much hates me. Terrence tries to sugarcoat it and tells me I should just be more gentle, but I know he means that I’m too much for most people.”
“You’re not too much for Rory.” Lane started to hate how often she brought her best friend up as well. Rory was an easy topic. The only thing she was sure they both liked.
“Rory’s weird. She’s nice to everyone.”
“That’s not true.”
“Well, tell me one exception.”
Lane immediately thought of Dean and Lindsay, and she swallowed because this was neither the time nor the place, and she especially wasn’t the person to break the news to Paris of this mess Rory had just told her about. But she still wouldn’t say it was mean of Rory. Not nice, sure. But it wasn’t as easy as Lorelai — and Rory in her panic as well — made it out to be and Lane thought of the terror she saw in her best friend’s eyes when she tried to make sense of the ordeal. So she took the loss.
“She genuinely likes you, you know. Although it doesn’t seem like it sometimes. I thought she was crazy for sticking to you when you were so mean to her, but when I was living with you, I started to see why.”
That piqued Paris’ interest immensely. She opened her arms, her tense shoulders relaxed a little, and she raised an eyebrow. She looked like she was still restraining herself not to look too excited. “You really think so?” her voice suddenly got a soft tint, it pitched higher, more vulnerable. She sounded almost like she did on the phone, talking to her nanny.
Lane was kind of proud for tickling this out of her. Paris rarely spoke like this. And no one but her was here to prompt her to it. On the downside, this change of her voice made Lane’s heart pick up its pace like crazy. She could hear it beating in her eardrums, a steady but fast hundred beats per minute, give or take, she could tell from practice. She rarely spoke to a god she didn’t believe in anymore but oh freaking God, she wanted nothing more than to hear more of that voice.
Her own voice came out shaky, almost not manifesting past a whisper at all. “I do, yeah.” Paris must have been able to tell. She felt like a bunch of leaves rattling in the wind, her whole body must have been shaking so she quickly put down the wine on the windowsill to hide her trembling hands behind her back.
When she dared to look at the blonde, she seemed lost in her head again, brows drawn together in what seemed to be confusion, not angry irritation anymore. Whatever it was, it gave Lane dangerous hope and she wasn’t sure if she despised or loved it right now.
That was, until the taste of sandpaper wine landed on her lips once again, warm and fragrant and alive, as the scent of burnt candles and aged hardcover books surrounded her suddenly, a blonde strand tickling her cheek, even softer than she imagined it. Paris’ lips barely moved on hers, but Lane put her arms on the slightly scratchy sweater on her back, pulling her closer gently until more hair fell in her face and the lips on hers relaxed and she could feel a sigh of warm air on her face.
Oh God.
When their lips touched, it all suddenly fell into place.
Paris could make sense of it. All of it. The cure, her cure to the sickness, to the despair she thought she didn’t feel, she only tried to feel it in the wrong places. In the face of death, she found its remedy, but not in the way she expected it.
It was like all the dark clouds cleared from the sky, the glum downpour finally coming to a stop, giving way to a clear blue sky of endless possibilities.
Lane’s hands pulled her closer and she could feel all her muscles relax in a way she rarely knew outside of a good evening by herself, tea and a book she actually enjoyed. She didn’t know it was possible to feel that relaxed so close to a living, breathing person. Lane’s lips tasted like a very sweet cherry flavor, and that explained the delicious red tint that she noted coating her lips from the moment she stepped into the streetlight through the windows.
It was absolutely intoxicating. Paris didn’t know kissing could feel like that. Jamie’s and Asher’s lips especially were rough, big, sometimes too wet and sometimes too dry and chapped. This was perfect. Soft and warm and delicate, and she couldn’t get enough of it.
But that’s when she could feel Lane’s warm body pull away from under her suddenly, and the cold enveloped her harsher than ever before.
She opened her eyes to a wide-eyed girl, pacing back and forth between them, hands now shaking violently. A sinking feeling spread in her chest. What had she done?
“Lane—” she began, surprised at how effortlessly gentle her voice came out, never before did she have to put no effort into talking to someone like this before except to Soledad.
The girl raised her hand as if to halt her in her speech, she was biting her flawless lips now, and Paris almost reached out to stop her from destroying them.
“What was that?” Lane asked, her voice thin and high-pitched, drenched by panic that attempted to spread to Paris like it was contagious.
“You didn’t like it, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
Lane repeated the same hand gesture and stopped her pacing abruptly. “Why did you do that?” She held her gaze now, fixating her like she was a lexicon and she was looking for a very specific, very urgent answer.
Paris fumbled with the arms of her sweater over her hand, becoming acutely aware of her own body, and with that, a hatred seeping back into the cocktail of unwanted, too vague and undefined feelings inside her. Damn it, Lane was supposed to help her untangle them, not add a new one to the mix. But in some way, she supposed she did help already. A feeling this powerful she’d never felt before, and it weirdly made the most sense out of them all despite its power, or precisely because. She thought of their conversation before. “It felt right,” finally escaped her in her light voice, unable to look at the other, so staring at pale late September branches instead. She thought of Lane’s question about Asher earlier. “I like how you make me feel. It’s not like that for you?” she quietly added, her wish for clarity and to get this feeling back now stronger than whatever else feeling could get in the way.
Lane halted, bit her lip some more and the sight hurt Paris instead. “It is,” she finally said to the floor.
Paris almost approached her again, when Lane added, “for some time, actually.”
The blonde blinked.
“How long?”
Lane shrugged. An answer didn’t follow.
Paris leaned against the windowsill then, her lower arms spread across the wood, the cold of the room sitting empty over the break seeping even through her thick sweater. She was kind of grateful, as she got warmer and warmer, and the top seemed like the wrong choice, after all. “What do we do now?” she asked, another plea for advice she’d so desperately longed for all day.
Lane approached her, she could feel it in the air she dragged across the room in her movement and by hovering her hand over her sweater before pulling back right before she could touch her. Paris turned her head to the side so that she could barely look at her, and when she did she found distress beyond compare.
“Are you okay?” she asked, a question rarely posed by her.
“Oh no, I’m freaking out.” Lane’s high-pitched voice was like a cauldron finally boiling over. The pacing began anew. “It’s bad enough that I was even thinking about this, but this, this is bad,” she dragged the last word as if she was trying to convince them both to believe her.
It felt like they were in different worlds right now, or they weren’t speaking the same language. Paris tried to figure out what just happened and how she felt while Lane was completely unconcerned by the present, and instead kept asking about other people, and the future, and something about God and about how terribly complicated it all was.
Paris grabbed her by the shoulders while she was rambling, stopping her in her pacing.
“I can’t believe I’m calming you now, but please take it down a notch.”
Lane lowered her gaze, looking guilty. “Sorry.”
Paris sighed, but she didn’t let go yet. “Look, follow my lead for a second, okay?”
Lane nodded, obliged.
Like Terrence had taught her, she instructed Lane to breathe in for four seconds, hold for seven, then exhale for eight. They did this both, Paris holding on to Lane, three times in a row. The room seemed to slow down around them, and she felt the uneven fabric of Lane’s shirt, and she slowly let her hands glide down her arms, until she brushed her warm hands with hers, and Lane opened them for her, and she placed her own in them. The touch felt featherlight and nice and warm, like the kiss but gentler.
When she opened her eyes she looked at Lane, no longer trembling, and she opened her eyes too.
“I guess Rory wouldn’t have put that on you, huh?.”
“No,” Paris contemplated for a second, then decided to go ahead, “she reacted a bit different when I tried kissing her.”
Lane’s hands pulled out of her soft grasp suddenly, her mouth open in disbelief. “You what?”
Paris was a bit taken aback. “She never told you?”
“No!”
“Now that explains your frenzy even more.”
Lane shook her head, but she seemed a bit calmer now, the pure shock on her face watered down with the amusing irony. “Why did you kiss her?”
“To make some stupid boys jealous. That’s what I told her. I actually was a bit curious.”
“And how was it?” Lane asked, slightly timid.
“Short,” Paris concluded dryly, “she pulled away after two seconds. She was very mad.”
Lane looked like that information made a lot of sense to her. She hummed, as if she was solving a cross-word. Then, in some sort of shared absurdity, they both started to laugh.
The cab door closed under her touch with a soft whack that was nearly swallowed by the strumming of the rain against a crimson umbrella.
Lane looked at her from the other side of the stained window and Paris could barely make out her features but waved back when she waved, and the car started moving away right in front of her feet.
“Get home safe,” Paris had said, her voice a perpetual sigh by the time it hit two in the morning.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?” Lane asked. Her gaze had turned sad, but she was tired and so was Paris.
“Let’s sleep on this,” Paris said and Lane nodded languidly.
Now that she was gone for the night, Paris let her shoulders slouch as soon as the vehicle took the corner to the main street and was out of sight. She went back inside, and the dorm door falling shut behind her felt like she’d just entered a portal to hell and the way back just closed with a bang. Save for the streetlight outside, the bare communal room was pitch black and cold. The empty bottle of wine was still sitting at the window, and it was the only sign that Lane had just really been here, that Paris didn’t dream this up in some sort of insomniac mirage. Yet that felt like the more logical option. And, the one closest to how she felt about the situation.
Paris fled the empty room as soon as she could, left the bottle where it was and entered the boxed up, unknown territory of what was supposed to be her own room. Despite its unfamiliarity, and the decidedly unromantic cardboard surroundings, it felt freeing to be here. This was her room now. She had worked to be here. She didn’t share a room anymore, she wasn’t at home where her parents’ shouting posed a constant background acoustic irritation to the point where it replaced what silence felt like to Paris. And, most of all, she wasn’t in a study of a dead person anymore, surrounded by people she didn’t know, doing chores she didn’t want to do. This was hers, only, cardboard and all.
She had decided now. She’d go to the funeral, attend the wake, and then never return. She’d try to be as polite as possible, finish what she’d started, but then she would finally close the chapter. The regret dawned on her now, seeped slowly but deeply into her core with every repetition in her head of what she now knew had been excuses all along, the whole year. If she wasn’t in love with Asher, why did she do any of this?
She fell asleep in Soledad’s sweater, her cellphone on the pillow turned to maximum volume, just in case.
When her best friend was finally back in town, Lane had never felt so glad to close her arms around someone.
For having just returned from a dream Europe trip soaked in luxury, Rory’s usual shine and excitement was still dimmed beyond a simple jet lag. Lane knew the Dean thing would still bug her for weeks to come. It wasn’t something a person like Rory could just shake off and move on from.
So Lane’s mission then, was to get her mind off her struggle, and off the horrible, four-person town square fight her friend had just stumbled into. Rory knocked on her door shortly after, tears streaming down her face.
“Oh come here,” Lane said and Rory sobbed into her shoulder.
Lane kicked Zack and Brian out of the apartment to finally tackle the pile of dirty clothes at the laundromat, and warned them not to return for a few hours. They’d find something to do in the fresh air, away from the endless hypnotic draw of their Xbox.
Rory was leaning over a cup of coffee, seated at the kitchen isle in one of their red bar stools while Lane was pulling an opened package of stale Doritos out of the cabinet and spilling its contents on the counter between them.
She was nodding along to her friend’s rant, reassuring her several times in between teary eyes and ruffling hair and exhausted sighs when suddenly, Lane’s phone wouldn’t stop chiming on the couch.
Rory ceased talking at the sound of the second call. She looked over her shoulder, then to Lane. “Shouldn’t you get that?”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Lane chewed on a chip that felt like cardboard in her mouth, “they can wait, we’re having important conversation here.”
Rory smiled gratefully.
About an hour later, when they moved on to the TV the boys were usually occupying to laugh at the DVD version of Scary Movie that Lane had rented from the video store, the doorbell rang.
Lane frowned, putting down her cup of tea on the floor. The doorbell rang a second time.
“Are they back early?” Rory asked.
“No, they have a key. Unless they lost it again.”
A third ring. Rory paused the movie.
“I know you’re in there, open the damn door.”
And that was the moment Lane froze.
“What is—?” Rory started, the look of recognition dawning on her face.
“Lane! If you can’t answer your phone, at least don’t make me waste two hours of cab rides for staring at your house all day.”
Lane scooped herself off her floor seat faster than picking up a dropped piece of your favorite candy. No. No no no. She looked around with her limbs paralyzed, as if a helicopter lifeline or a magical portal could turn up at any moment, granting her an opportunity for escape.
The ringing turned into pounding against the door.
Feeling as though she wasn’t in control of her own body, Lane moved towards the entrance, trying to embrace the inevitability of her untimely doom. Here goes.
Paris’ fist was raised, hitting air as Lane swung the door open. When she locked with the pair of eyes Lane had wished to see again for the past week, the longing morphed into a twisted, mean anxiety once again, horrified by the reality of a dream come true in the worst timing imaginable. It was a tiny relief then, that Paris seemed to freeze as well at the sight of her, and Lane wondered what was going on inside her mind at this second.
A soft brown coat and a plaited scarf protected her against the cold autumn breeze, playing nicely with the warm color of her tied-back hair. “Finally,” Paris cleared her throat, her hand lowered slowly and she broke their intertwined gazes to glance at the apartment behind Lane’s back.
“Paris?” Rory’s voice brought Lane’s feet firmly back to the ground of reality. She’d gotten up, and appeared next to Lane at the door.
Paris’ eyes widened, exchanging a panicked look with Lane before going back to Rory. “You’re back,” she stated plainly, but the scared undertone was clearly audible.
“Yeah, my flight came in yesterday. I wanted to call you tomorrow about the dorm but —” Rory’s gaze burned into Lane’s side like a laser beam. “What are you doing here?”
Paris shifted her legs, pulled her hands into the safety of her coat pockets. “I uhm—” she stammered, “I heard from Lane you were coming back.”
Oh wow. Lane’s punishing look seemed to hit its target as Paris showed the faintest sign of rolling her eyes at Lane. Because that was an effective excuse.
”I didn’t know you two were talking,” Rory said skeptically. For her usual loudmouth, Paris turned really quiet.
Lane counted her options. As much as she didn’t want to lie to her best friend, she desperately wished she would have been less of a coward for the past days. She remembered her thumb hovering over the call button on her cell for what were probably cumulated hours on end, for several nights after work. But she never dared to call, the uncertainty of what had happened between them a week ago eating her up on the inside. They should have talked about this at the very least, before turning to Rory. But they never did. And now she was here, and Lane wasn’t sure how much of their awkwardness would slip past Rory’s attuned feel for tension.
She considered turning Paris away, speaking to her another day, finding an excuse. But she felt bad, and she longed for her company, and even more strongly, she longed not to soak in the puddle of guilt next to Rory, who she would lie to and who would absolutely know that she did.
So she sighed, defeated. “Come in, Paris.”
“What am I supposed to tell her?” Paris’ voice was a sharp whisper in the corner of Lane’s room. “You should have told me she was here.”
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Lane’s silhouette protested, keeping her voice down as much as possible.
Paris put a hand to her forehead, pacing back and forth. “This is a disaster. Did I provoke this? Did I wish for Rory’s presence way too hard before, and this is some sort of cruel payback?”
“No, it’s not. She was gonna come home today anyway.”
“You could’ve told me,” Paris hissed, but she realized her absurdity.
Lane stayed quiet, and breathed in deeply.
Paris had been so determined when she got in the cab headed for Stars Hollow today. She pondered the possibility the whole morning, after she woke up with a strange and sudden urge to finally do something about the fuzzy feeling inside her. With the funeral done and over, and the next semester looming on the horizon, she felt invigorated, the spirit of a fresh start, of new action possessing her to finally talk to Lane.
Her dreams were haunted by her face. By her memory of their shared kiss, and she could still feel Lane’s lips on hers when she woke up panting in the morning, images of soft tracings of her unclothed body flashing through her mind and her body. She didn’t know how to deal with another feeling so novel. But after a few days of strict contemplation and passive use of her cellphone only, she realized that while the memory fueled her desire, it wasn’t enough to satisfy the burning inside of her. The gaping hole was aflame, desperately reaching for the opportunity to experience some fulfillment previously unknown.
Now, the voice she’d heard inside her head was right before her, and while she could barely make out the shape of her face in the darkened room, the scent of cherry lipstick and sweet perfume and Lane all over her personal room enveloped her, and Paris could swear it was like hunger tearing her apart. Next to the added problem of, well, Rory.
“Why did you come here?” Lane finally asked, and her voice sounded softer.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Paris said.
“My call history the past week says otherwise.”
“You could’ve called me, too.” Paris was just stalling, she knew. She felt her heart pounding against her chest, anxiety and longing fighting a war inside of her.
“You kind of kicked me out the other day,” Lane’s voice started shaking, just a little.
Paris grunted. An abundance of words usually came as easy to her as breathing, but this was excruciating. No matter how many monologues she had held in her head of this moment, it was all gone now, her grasp of the English language slowly succumbing to the turmoil inside her.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, about — us.” Paris bit her lip. Her body hadn’t quite adapted past the cold outside yet, but the nervousness made her boil inside, so she was sweating with cold limbs. She rubbed her hands together in a pathetic attempt to keep them warm, and keep her busy.
Lane was quiet for an uncomfortable while.
“I think I want to try this. Us. If you do, too, of course.” Paris breathed so shallowly that she felt faint. It made her crazy, not seeing Lane’s reaction in her face.
“Guys?” Rory’s voice called from the living room.
“A minute!” Lane shouted back and in her absurd obsession, Paris was delighted to hear her voice resound past a whisper no matter its content.
She could feel Lane move closer to her. “I’m scared,” Lane said, and her voice cracked in between the words, a quiet sob escaping her. Paris felt her body stiffen up, a habitual reaction to other people’s tears and despair. But she fought it. The flush of worry in her chest was strong enough to push it away, and to close the gap between her and Lane, to pull her into a tight embrace. Lane’s warmth rushed through her cold hands, and the emptiness inside her was filling up slowly like rainwater dripping into a bucket after a drought. She felt relief, the relaxation instantly restored in her body, just like the first time.
“It’s okay,” Paris said, and she started to like the soft, reassuring tone in her voice.
“Do you actually think this could work?” Lane asked in between her tears dampening Paris’ chest, and the frames of her glasses poking against her sternum.
“I’d like to try,” Paris responded truthfully.
“My mother will murder me,” Lane said, and Paris knew she wasn’t kidding.
But she felt a chuckle escape her anyway, knowing that maybe precisely because of this common ground, their chances probably weren’t the worst. “Mine, too.”
They would simply have to start at the glue of their budding relationship, the one other person that always haunted their minds and seized their loyalties. At her second shout from the living room, they decided to face Rory.
If it was dumb luck or some sort of Kierkegaardian mystical drive that drove them together, Paris didn’t know. She still despised the guy. But she had to admit, although he was probably wrong in all his intended regards, in some twisted, absurd way, she had found her own answer to eternity.
Caitlyn deals with the aftermath of the scandal she caused with Vi during one of her concerts.
They were seated at the opposite ends of the table, and like a twisted mirror along the middle, she felt her own sharp features stare back at her in her mother’s eyes. It was hard to hold her gaze when it made her feel half her size and age each time she did. Her mother had a way of intimidating her by her mere presence, as if her being in the room made Caitlyn irrelevant, invisible, and redundant. As if her mother held the strings and she was her perfect puppet, her inner life eradicated fully, or given up to her mother’s interpretation.
Tags: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends) • Jinx & Vi (League of Legends) • Caitlyn (League of Legends) • Vi (League of Legends) • Jinx (League of Legends) • Jayce (League of Legends) • Cassandra Kiramman • Alternate Universe - Modern Setting • Music • high society - Freeform • Escape from High Society • Lesbian Sex • Admiration • Drug and Alcohol Use • Rich and Poor Love Interest • Crimes & Criminals • Different Worlds • Powder and Vi are allowed to be silly sisters • fast sex but slow burn romance • Drug Abuse • Toxic Relationship • Mutual Bad Influence • Drug Addiction • Depression • mommy issues x daddy issues
Rating: Mature
3,707 words (17,678 total)
Notes: This story's been going on for a while on Ao3, but I decided to post it to Tumblr too! Your Sweetest Melodies is a sequel to my oneshot Your Sweetest Sounds. If exploring a modern Piltover in which Caitlyn is a famous pianist and Vi is a struggling addict sounds like your cup of tea, feel free to catch up on the oneshot and the previous chapters! (Reading the oneshot is not necessary to understand the long fic.)
Selection of topics this fic explores: Vi and Powder sibling relationship, Big sister vs. Small sister struggles, Vi has provider and daddy issues, Powder feels smothered, Caitlyn deals with unwanted fame, Cassandra is a controlling fame manager and horrible mother, Caitlyn struggles with resignation, depression and finding herself outside her mother's strict reign, toxic relationship (just not good for each other), fast sex but slow burn romance and miscommunication, lots of music references and stage life, OCs as minor side characters
To chapter 6 (Ao3)
To beginning of fic (Ao3)
To prequel oneshot
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Chapter 6: Two Steps to Hell
If there was one thing Caitlyn couldn’t do, it was waiting for something to happen. Especially when the event in question was utterly out of her control and she was not quite sure what terrible mood it would leave her in after.
For breakfast, she had her antidepressants and an aspirin. The sun had barely risen, and after not being able to progress past a light sleep instead of a full sleep cycle for the whole night, she finally gave up and climbed out of the duvet straight into a shower and then into a casual suit.
The entrance hall was a glaring, empty hole today. Sometimes when she was passing there alone, as she usually did, she got the urge to sing at the top of her lungs, just to enjoy the echo. Only the cook or maid would hear. They wouldn’t care. The cook sometimes hummed while working, and Caitlyn complimented her several times. Yet she was still afraid of something that wasn’t there.
So the only echo in the hall was the soft clicking of her flat shoes as she paced down the marble stairs to reach the backyard.
She stepped into the cold air, gratefully taking a long breath of the crisp refreshment. It was like the cold air expanded in her chest, untying the tightly knit bundle of nerves that clutched her lungs. A little relief.
Dew was still clinging to the grass in the early morning, but she had to wait until it was ten. Cassandra organised an emergency staff meeting after she texted her a paparazzi picture of her and Vi last night.
Her mother was furious. She hadn’t used angry words. She barely used any at all. That had always been how Caitlyn knew she was disappointed, not mad, as she said it. But she was always mad. At her, at the world, it didn’t matter. Her mother’s language was anger and if she didn’t have anything to be angry at, well, she would create something herself.
Caitlyn’s heart was pounding as she gazed out into the lush lawn. A little patio with space for four people and a roof was set next to the koi fish pond. The cherry tree carried blossoms and she stepped closer to take a look at them. She took a branch between her fingers and stroked it gently before bending it and snapping it off. The branch glowed bright green where she separated it. A slight change in hue to red amiss, but it was still bleeding. Caitlyn played with the blossoms in her hand and eventually gripped the stem tightly before strolling across the lawn, staring into the eastern sun on a clear blue sky.
„Enlighten me, please.” Cassandra’s voice sounded through the dining room.
Caitlyn stared at the tile floor. She could feel all the eyes of her staff on her, gathered across the large table like corporate predators cornering their meal at the head.
She turned the branch in her hand repeatedly, occasionally stroking the soft light pink petals with her thumb. A few were crumpled or ripped out, leaving a mess that a four year old Caitlyn could have caused playing she loves me, she loves me not.
Maybe that wouldn’t be her worst idea right now. At the very least, while her mother was talking.
“Tell me exactly why you thought this wouldn’t have any consequences for you and your career.”
Caitlyn ripped out a petal. She stared at it in her palm. It wouldn’t matter what she responded.
The groups and groups of eyes in the room were watching her intently. Cassandra brought everyone. Anyone significant who worked for Caitlyn, her finances, her PR, her personal manager, all dressed up neatly, brows furrowed and crunching closer to their noses with each moment that passed and that Caitlyn didn’t fill the silence with speaking. The maid was rushing across the room, pouring more water into untouched crystal glasses on porcelain saucers. Cassandra waved her away, standing across from Caitlyn at the opposite side of the table.
A projector threw a mirrored image of Twitter on a white screen for them to look at. The social media manager, a young, well-groomed blonde woman, was operating the tablet computer from which they grabbed the image. As she scrolled through the feed, the whole party collectively made faces whenever a particularly vicious tweet popped up on screen.
Caitlyn stopped watching after a few seconds. She knew what they had to say and while it never stopped hurting, she tried to limit her exposure. At least, when she wasn’t forced to.
user1631288 wrote: “Wish this was reversed. Get them dresses off her!! #KirammanOFNow”
Cassandra put a hand to her forehead, covering her sight. Caitlyn stroked the petal and bit her lip.
“That’s quite enough,” her mother waved dismissively at the blonde. She stopped scrolling, the tweet statically visible on the projection.
“Well?” her mother looked at her expectantly.
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow at her. Her long hair fell to the side of her face, half-obstructing her view when she looked up.
“Any comments, Caitlyn?”
She lowered her gaze again. “No.”
Cassandra sighed. She clearly lost composure as the team was now eyeing her. Caitlyn gave them nothing to be worth watching for.
“Maybe you’d like to explain how this could happen. If I remember correctly, you’ve been briefed on what to look out for in public a million times before. Certainly, that knowledge didn’t just escape you for one night.”
She had to pull herself together to not roll her eyes. God, she felt like a fucking teenager. Like she was sixteen again, being lectured and screamed at when she came home early in the morning. Doors slamming, tears flowing, hand-shaped red marks on her cheek burning.
Her mother sighed, she clearly put a dramatic touch to it on purpose.
“I don’t know what to do with you, Caitlyn. I’m at my wit’s end. I’ve done everything I can for you, but you don’t seem to listen to me or accept any of the help I provide for you.”
Her hand was trembling like the first night she stepped on a stage with an audience. It pushed the hair behind her ear. Help, she thought. That was what she wanted to call it.
It was three in the morning on a cold winter's night downtown.
Three figures stumbled out a squeaking back door, one of them so consumed in their laughter she slammed against the cold metal of the alley trash can. A horrible distorted clanking woke up the whole backstreet, and elicited even more giggles within the group.
“You should not be walking anywhere like this, Cait.” The man chuckled, still playful.
“I'm fine, it's not that far,” she brushed him off, patted him on the shoulder. Although he was laughing, she could see in his eyes a softness, a genuine worry. She lingered on them a second too long.
When she turned to face the girl, she seemed like she was snapping out of a stare, startled by Caitlyn's sudden movement. The delighted strokes in her face had turned a little bitter, like she'd bitten into a lime fruit.
And oh God, Caitlyn wanted to eat that all up. The glint of jealousy she witnessed mixed with the substance in her system and drove her mad, filled her with want so bad she could swear she was hooked up to an electrical current.
So, she did the only logical thing.
When they had walked together a while, right by the riverside, she grabbed his hand and kissed him.
It should have felt weirder. It should have felt like kissing your sibling, and in a way it did. But she was too wired to notice anything much but the burning curiosity in the back of her mind, the thought that maybe, she wouldn't even have to return home tonight. She couldn't wait for it to end to see the look on her face. To leave him by his house later, and let herself be convinced that she was too good for him, that she could show her a better time. And she would.
When Caitlyn pulled away, it all fell into place.
A random passerby took a picture of her that night, posted it to his personal blog, and it made some neglectable waves in D-level tabloid magazines. However, only a week later, her girlfriend was fed up seeing Caitlyn kissing a boy in pictures in magazines, and ended it. It did however, do wonders for her publicity.
“I have a suggestion,” the social media girl looked up from her tablet, voice as thin as a whistle. She winced when Cassandra's eyes darted to her, annoyance written all over her face.
Still, she said. “Yes?” Her attention drawn away from Caitlyn, for now.
“I’ve been talking to PR and there are common ways to shift the public’s focus away from events such as these.” She gestured towards her colleague in the rows of suits, who nodded but left the speaking to her.
“Such as?” Caitlyn’s mother asked. “We’ve tried moderating the conversation, or doing some charity work in the past, but that didn’t seem to catch on too well.”
The beamer display shifted as the social media manager closed Twitter and rummaged around lifestyle online magazines. When she opened the eight year old picture, Caitlyn gasped involuntarily.
“Oh, so to that you can react,” her mother rolled her eyes at her and Caitlyn scowled.
“Uhm, so, it’s a common practice to associate with people who have a good public standing to improve your own image.” The girl grabbed the tablet computer tight with both her hands, pressing it up against her belly and bending the attached cable.
Cassandra contemplated, her hand reached for her chin. “It’s true, the boy’s doing exceptionally well right now.” She looked proud of herself, a confident smirk signifying her train of thought.
“So, what? You want me to have brunch with Jayce and invite some journalists?” Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. Something didn’t seem quite right yet.
The social media manager shifted uncomfortably, unable to hold her gaze. Cassandra chimed in.
“Better: you’re going to date him.”
Caitlyn blinked.
“I — What?”
The single word felt like gibberish dripping out of her mouth. “Surely you’re joking.”
She was met with an apologetic smile from the blonde when she was finally able to take a look at her.
“Why would I?” Cassandra said, still lost in serious contemplation it seemed, the smirk plastered to her face seemingly indefinitely.
“He’s like my brother,” Caitlyn said, making a long intentional pause.
“You didn’t seem to mind that eight years ago.”
“That was different. That was —” Caitlyn felt heat creep up to her cheeks and paused before it was too late, before they could see her swim in uncertainty. “I don’t have to explain that to you.”
Cassandra sighed. “You’ve said that more times than I can count, darling. At some point, maybe if you’d explain, we wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Caitlyn felt her heart rate quicken in her chest, and she pushed herself to sit upright from her slouching position. She had a tight grip around the little tree branch. She tried explaining plenty of times. Enough times for her mother to understand, yet she never bothered. She decided she wouldn’t listen to Caitlyn from the moment she could talk. “What is this about?” Caitlyn clenched her teeth.
“This is about your career. I won’t let you destroy it for a new fling.”
She scoffed. “So you assign me another one?”
“As you just said: That is different.” The sight of the smirk actually made her blood begin to boil. She felt the anger welling up inside her, building behind carefully constructed bars. She was a caged bear and Cassandra kept poking her with tiny, sharp sticks from behind the bars, waiting for her to pounce, knowing she couldn’t reach or hurt her.
Caitlyn sighed shakily. A frustrated, pathetic sound. One a petulant child would make. Or a cornered animal. Her jaw was tightly clenched.
The senior PR manager cleared her throat. The whole room but her was staring at the crystal glasses on the table like they were the most fascinating thing they’d ever seen. “I hate to break into the conversation, but there’s another meeting that needs me. I just wanted to add that I would strongly advise for a second step to this plan.”
Her mother’s smirk loosened as soon as Caitlyn’s attention left for the manager.
“Miss Kiramman has no security assigned so far, and while I’ve been vouching this for years, I think she’s in high need by now. For her personal well-being, of course. We’ve been lucky a camera is the only weapon used against her, but situations like these could turn out a lot worse.”
Caitlyn thought her heart genuinely stopped beating.
“I like it.” Cassandra strolled around the head of the table, sitting down slowly, performative grace, like the simple chair was her personal throne. They were seated at the opposite ends of the table, and like a twisted mirror along the middle, she felt her own sharp features stare back at her in her mother’s eyes. It was hard to hold her gaze when it made her feel half her size and age each time she did. Her mother had a way of intimidating her by her mere presence, as if her being in the room made Caitlyn irrelevant, invisible, and redundant. As if her mother held the strings and she was her perfect puppet, her inner life eradicated fully, or given up to her mother’s interpretation.
She didn’t dare move. She just sat, legs still crossed, the branch in her hand fully crushed and crumpled by her curled fist. The delicate petals fully paled, dark veins along where she bent them and tears at their edges, the wood snapped in sharp splinters that poked the inside of her palm. She was very aware of how the fabric of her clothes rubbed her the wrong way, how her shiny hair felt foreign, almost like a wig she wanted to tear off to get to whatever was hidden behind, what could be truly hers.
Caitlyn looked to the side, silently. Out the window, a blackbird landed on the old oak, cleaned its dark feathers and sang until it flew off. She could feel the water run up to her eyes, but she pushed the feeling back.
The phone flew across the room and crashed into her bed frame with a crack.
She screamed, after she sent her staff home for today, and made sure her mother had left the building. A screeching, unsavory sound that she would be embarrassed of if she wasn’t so sure she was alone right now. A pathetic display of her too thin voice, untrained in angry expressions, too used to saying yes and amen. She was mad at herself for being mad. Or more so, that she couldn’t properly be mad without cringing at herself, tearing herself apart in her head for how pathetic her whole existence was.
The tears started flowing and she felt the sob get stuck in her throat. She wished for it to choke her, end it at last, let her go in the same manor in which she felt she lived; a failure, a disgrace, who choked on her own inability to express her frustration in life and in death.
Caitlyn threw her limp body on the bed, managing to curl up into a ball as best as possible, and burying her head in her knees. She breathed jaggedly, felt her knees wetten, sobbed quietly as to not listen to her own ugly sounds again.
Why couldn’t she just be angry? She didn’t feel sad. You were supposed to cry when you were sad and she wasn’t, she felt anger burning her from inside out, and she wished she could direct it at anything but her own being. But she always ended up hurting herself instead, the perfect, helpless target. The one she knew like no one else. She knew her own weakest points, could hurt no one better than herself. So she did, and she cried because she took all this rage and beat herself up with it until the hurt consumed her whole body, made it vibrate with pain, made her head want to explode, her heart tear apart. She tore herself apart.
The damn phone chimed.
She didn’t want to look at it.
But it chimed again.
“Fuck you,” she muttered quietly, not interested in hearing her voice still, for she would think even her swearing sounded too thin, too modest.
She fumbled for the phone with one limp hand.
Violet, 11:26am: hey, are you okay?
Violet, 11:28am: text me when you can, I’m kinda worried.
A second flame joined the charred wasteland of her ribcage. It was small, it didn’t rage like the all-consuming fire, but it was warmer still. It felt like a small light, a small sun in a cold, endless night, the comfort a fire could grant.
She wanted to reach for it, warm her ice-cold hands, but she jerked back at the tickle that spread the warmth through her body. It scared her. Felt like a thousand bugs crawling over her skin, made her heart stutter, her hands shake.
She didn’t know what to say.
How could she say something?
This had nothing to do with Violet.
Yet it had everything to do with her, the meeting. But this was her misery. Her fear. And although her whole body seemed to long to leave, to jump on this train, she held back, pulled her hand from the warm flame. Not now. Not now. Not now.
You, 11:40am: I’m okay.
Violet, 11:41am: what happened?
Violet, 11:42am: did i say something stupid?
Oh how Caitlyn wished she did. It would be so much easier.
But the easiest way now was to cut her off. She knew the force of her heart, of her desperation, knew the damage she could do when she felt like this, anger going anywhere but where it was supposed to.
So she turned on her back, face to the ceiling, hair falling off the bedside. She slid her phone out of her hand and it landed on the carpet with a quiet thud, cracked display to the floor.
She had to find another way to get rid of this feeling before it killed her.
In the afternoon, her new bodyguard arrived. He was a sturdy guy as expected, but he had a semi-kind face. Middle-aged.
Caitlyn kept composed when she opened the front door for him herself, since no one else was there anymore.
“So, what are you going to be around for?”
“There’s a night shift coming for your home security in the future, but I will be here anytime you head out, Miss Kiramman.”
“Does walking the dog count as going out?” she asked and he just nodded.
So begrudgingly, she let him wait in the foyer while she changed into her running clothes. He always followed ten feet behind, from when she ringed her mother’s neighbouring doorbell to her putting a leash on Christopher. He greeted her with his Golden Retriever smile when the maid brought him to the front door, and Caitlyn felt a tiny bit of joy flow through her.
When Violet called her several times later, she tried to ignore the flashing display and vibration on her tracker watch. She shot a glance to the man following her several times, trying to assess if she could get some distance between them. She didn’t want to pick up, wanted to push her away already, but she felt guilty, like she owed her at least one talk instead of a lackluster text message. At least to be polite, she told herself. She used the elated feeling the run gave her, sprinted ahead with Christopher so the man wouldn’t hear, and pushed herself to finally to take the plunge.
She kept an eye on him, but quickly realised she couldn’t outrun him for long. She didn’t want him to listen in, so she had to keep the conversation short, even though it might be the last she ever had with Violet. She allowed herself a last indulgence, the last time hearing her raspy voice, although it was tainted with sheer panic when she realised this was goodbye. Caitlyn imagined her face, recalled how focused and calm she had looked playing the guitar, how she adored every single line on her expression when they got together last time, a private moment that should soon turn out to be a spectacle for the whole world to see. She couldn’t do that to her again.
When she hung up, her thumb hovered over the block button for several seconds. She breathed heavily from the running, and squinted her eyes shut when she finally pressed down. It was better this way. She slowly slid the phone into the side pocket of her tights.
“You’re awfully fit,” the bodyguard panted as he arrived, but she could tell he had to be twice as trained as her despite his age. This could prove difficult.
Caitlyn patted the dog’s head. “Thanks to him.”
Jayce Talis, 04:37pm: your monster mother called me befor
Jayce Talis, 04:38pm: why does she want to met up with me?
Jayce Talis, 04:38pm: did you party to hard again??
