186. sure can start
Title | sure can start
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Serena, Nate.
Summary | So this is how the story goes / can we cut to the scene where you're holding me close.
Notes | Written for this ficathon.
When she was eight, Serena's mother got married (again). He was not the first boyfriend Lily'd had since Serena's father had stopped coming home, but he was the first one to produce a diamond ring. She hated him, hated it when he'd buy them ice cream before dinner, hated it when he told her how pretty she looked in her dress for the wedding. She hated how he didn't know how to be her father, and how somewhere deep down, she kind of needed him to be.
She spent all of her time after the ceremony sitting on the dock that stretched out into the lake on the hotel's grounds. She took off her white mary-janes with the shiny golden buckles and dropped them into the water.
Nate brought her a piece of cake, icing smeared all over his hands. The collar of his shirt was turned up on one side.
"Blair's looking for you."
She nodded. "I know."
"You want cake?"
She shook her head. "I want - " It was such an easy sentence to start but such an impossible one to finish. It was too hard. It hurt too much. She didn't know how to put the achy feelings in her chest into words.
Nate nudged her lightly, his elbow poking gently at her ribs. "I know," he said, and then he didn't make her talk anymore. And he ate her cake.
She never fought with Nate the way she fought with Blair. For a while, she thought it was because he was a boy, or maybe because they just weren't the kind of friends who fought.
But really, it was just different. She and Blair could scream at each other for an hour and fall back into their old patterns the next day. Blair would always be right there.
She never really learned how to yell at Nate, but she learned how to walk away first, so she would be the one who got to decide whether or not to come back.
"Nate," she said when she was thirteen. "Nate - "
And then he smiled at her, or fidgeted with his tie, or offered her his joint, and it shattered her confidence altogether. She forgot all the words that were supposed to come after his name, and before she could remember them, Blair showed up and held his hand.
("Serena," he replied sometimes, teasing fondly. Just once, Serena, like she was being silly, like it was some kind of game. Serena, always a joking drawl, no matter how many other ways she wished he'd say her name.)
Alcohol made her all kinds of forward. She flirted with anyone and put on accents and lie about anything and everything. She slept with boys who never bothered to learn her real name and got into fights with Blair or her mother in the middle of the night.
Blair was her usual caretaker but sometimes it was Nate instead, his hand fitting against the curve of her hip as he steered her from club to car, from car to bedroom. Nate, awkwardly and pointedly not-looking while she changed into her pyjamas; Nate, carefully setting her trashcan by her bed and pressing a bottle of water into her hands.
"You shouldn't drink so much," he said, his blue eyes serious, a hand carefully smoothing over the mess her hair had become.
She was careful of her tongue around him, wary of her own words. "You shouldn't be so much," she told him, staring down at her own bare feet, at her chipped nail polish.
He touched her chin. "What does that mean?"
She shrugged, shying away. She said, "I'm drunk."
If their roles had been reversed, she would have hated him. It would have hurt her forever, if Nate had slept with her and then left the city, if he hadn't returned a single phone call.
But Nate showed up in front of her building with a hopeful half-smile and a bunch of words Serena couldn't let him say.
Tell me things. That was his refrain in their relationship. Tell me things. Bring your problems to me. You can tell me anything. Okay? I want to be that guy for you.
She opened and closed her mouth a million times over a course of everyday, but she could never manage anything until it was dark and she curled up in one of his sweaters, under his blankets.
"Nate," she said.
His response was a sleepy sound, a hand running over her arm gently.
"What if you don't like me after?" she whispered.
He sighed sleepily and pulled her closer, until his nose was against her cheek. "I'll love you after."
She didn't sleep much that night, didn't bring it up again.
He said if you're out, you're out and she didn't have the right words to give him. I love you was something but it wasn't everything, and all she could do was kiss his cheek and walk away.
Years later she's standing in front of him at a wedding and he's looking at her like she broke his heart but he's giving her that smile that he gives her sometimes, the one that comes in stages, soft and then more sincere, and she wants to say something about his speech, should say something about his speech, but there's something else choked in her throat, blossoming in her chest.
All she can say is, "Nate."
There is a long, heavy beat of silence and then he says, "I know," and his arm is around her waist and his hand is at the back of her head and all she can do is exhale against his shoulder, close her eyes, and hold onto him for a long, long time. He doesn't ask her to say anything else.
And later, he eats her cake.
fin.
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Serena, Nate.
Summary | So this is how the story goes / can we cut to the scene where you're holding me close.
Notes | Written for this ficathon.
When she was eight, Serena's mother got married (again). He was not the first boyfriend Lily'd had since Serena's father had stopped coming home, but he was the first one to produce a diamond ring. She hated him, hated it when he'd buy them ice cream before dinner, hated it when he told her how pretty she looked in her dress for the wedding. She hated how he didn't know how to be her father, and how somewhere deep down, she kind of needed him to be.
She spent all of her time after the ceremony sitting on the dock that stretched out into the lake on the hotel's grounds. She took off her white mary-janes with the shiny golden buckles and dropped them into the water.
Nate brought her a piece of cake, icing smeared all over his hands. The collar of his shirt was turned up on one side.
"Blair's looking for you."
She nodded. "I know."
"You want cake?"
She shook her head. "I want - " It was such an easy sentence to start but such an impossible one to finish. It was too hard. It hurt too much. She didn't know how to put the achy feelings in her chest into words.
Nate nudged her lightly, his elbow poking gently at her ribs. "I know," he said, and then he didn't make her talk anymore. And he ate her cake.
She never fought with Nate the way she fought with Blair. For a while, she thought it was because he was a boy, or maybe because they just weren't the kind of friends who fought.
But really, it was just different. She and Blair could scream at each other for an hour and fall back into their old patterns the next day. Blair would always be right there.
She never really learned how to yell at Nate, but she learned how to walk away first, so she would be the one who got to decide whether or not to come back.
"Nate," she said when she was thirteen. "Nate - "
And then he smiled at her, or fidgeted with his tie, or offered her his joint, and it shattered her confidence altogether. She forgot all the words that were supposed to come after his name, and before she could remember them, Blair showed up and held his hand.
("Serena," he replied sometimes, teasing fondly. Just once, Serena, like she was being silly, like it was some kind of game. Serena, always a joking drawl, no matter how many other ways she wished he'd say her name.)
Alcohol made her all kinds of forward. She flirted with anyone and put on accents and lie about anything and everything. She slept with boys who never bothered to learn her real name and got into fights with Blair or her mother in the middle of the night.
Blair was her usual caretaker but sometimes it was Nate instead, his hand fitting against the curve of her hip as he steered her from club to car, from car to bedroom. Nate, awkwardly and pointedly not-looking while she changed into her pyjamas; Nate, carefully setting her trashcan by her bed and pressing a bottle of water into her hands.
"You shouldn't drink so much," he said, his blue eyes serious, a hand carefully smoothing over the mess her hair had become.
She was careful of her tongue around him, wary of her own words. "You shouldn't be so much," she told him, staring down at her own bare feet, at her chipped nail polish.
He touched her chin. "What does that mean?"
She shrugged, shying away. She said, "I'm drunk."
If their roles had been reversed, she would have hated him. It would have hurt her forever, if Nate had slept with her and then left the city, if he hadn't returned a single phone call.
But Nate showed up in front of her building with a hopeful half-smile and a bunch of words Serena couldn't let him say.
Tell me things. That was his refrain in their relationship. Tell me things. Bring your problems to me. You can tell me anything. Okay? I want to be that guy for you.
She opened and closed her mouth a million times over a course of everyday, but she could never manage anything until it was dark and she curled up in one of his sweaters, under his blankets.
"Nate," she said.
His response was a sleepy sound, a hand running over her arm gently.
"What if you don't like me after?" she whispered.
He sighed sleepily and pulled her closer, until his nose was against her cheek. "I'll love you after."
She didn't sleep much that night, didn't bring it up again.
He said if you're out, you're out and she didn't have the right words to give him. I love you was something but it wasn't everything, and all she could do was kiss his cheek and walk away.
Years later she's standing in front of him at a wedding and he's looking at her like she broke his heart but he's giving her that smile that he gives her sometimes, the one that comes in stages, soft and then more sincere, and she wants to say something about his speech, should say something about his speech, but there's something else choked in her throat, blossoming in her chest.
All she can say is, "Nate."
There is a long, heavy beat of silence and then he says, "I know," and his arm is around her waist and his hand is at the back of her head and all she can do is exhale against his shoulder, close her eyes, and hold onto him for a long, long time. He doesn't ask her to say anything else.
And later, he eats her cake.
fin.