Fanfic: Follow the Butterflies I: Alisha
Even as she says it, she can feel him turning away from her, still wondering if it was a mistake to let her see this part of him. And honestly, it might have been. He really is a geek. A weirdo. Somewhat less than manly.
A border of planets circles the room (probably from when he was seven). A near row of DVDs lines the window sill. His bed sheets are tucked so tightly they look positively uninviting; at least she won’t have to worry about being tempted to give the mattress a try.
And yet, there’s something about it - the clean, sparse order to it - that Alisha recognizes. She crosses the room, runs her fingers over some weird little robot thing in front of his bed. If he was anyone else, any other guy she picked up at the pub, they’d already be mostly naked. No real need to fill the space with conversation there. But most guys she went home with didn’t have a recently dusted Battlestar Some-Shit-or-Other boxed set staring at her from the opposite corner. She glances about, grasping for something to break the silence. Her eyes pass over his, but he’s looking frantically at anything other than her. Probably trying to work out how long it will be before she says something horrible or leaves. Or both. So, no help there. Twat.
Finally, she sees a familiar talking point. A bit morbid maybe, but it’ll do. “So…butterflies.”
Right. Smooth.
“What?”
“The butterflies,” she says, a bit rudely, as though he obviously should have known that, out of everything she could have commented on in his pathetic room, she would pick the stupid butterflies hanging on the wall near his computer. She points for emphasis. “What’s with that?”
She feels weird asking, because she really does want to know the answer. After all, she doesn’t really remember seeing any of this other shit in the flat across town.
Simon actually looks relieved, if still a bit on edge, when he figures out what she’s talking about. He even takes a small step forward, toward the butterflies, toward her, as he starts to answer. Balls of steel, that one.
“When I was in primary we had to do a science project. They gave us choices on a list at the front of the class, so we could pick what we wanted to do. By the time I got a turn at the list, the only choices left were butterflies and spiders. I’ve never really liked spiders. And there was a chrysalis next to our front door I could use to help demonstrate the life cycle between pupae and the adult form.”
“And why’re they still hanging on your wall then?”
He looks back at his bed, cheeks tinting as he answers. She can’t imagine why…
“I thought…I thought they looked nice, at the time. And I did very well. There was an award, so…”
Oh. She’s guessing he’s never got much of that. Recognition.
“They are pretty. A bit sad though, that you had to pin them up like that.”
“Well, it’s just that butterflies are so small and hard to see. They have all of these intricate pieces to them that most people never get to notice. You have to kill them before you can really appreciate them.”
She looks from the butterflies, to him, palming his hair across his forehead. Then back to the butterflies. The pinch of tears starts between her eyes and she’s suddenly very, very angry.
“You’re a twisted freak, you know that right!” she half screams as she plops onto the neatly made bed.
She hears him jump behind her, then nothing. Imagines him standing there, mouth gaping with no fucking idea what to do with her. Good. Freak. Manipulative bastard. Loser. He deserves it.
Except…he doesn’t. This him. Not yet anyway.
She isn’t really crying, not really. Just holding her face in her hands, more humiliated to look up now than anything. As she attempts to bring her breathing patterns back to a reasonable level, she hears the click of his door locking behind her.
He didn’t even lock the door when they came in.
He’s obviously concerned that someone will come by if they hear anything suspicious, that’s why he’s locking up with her yelling like a psycho bitch. But when they came in? The thought never even crossed his mind that anything noisy would happen. Which, really, gives her a lot to process at once. That he is truly, completely inexperienced at this. That he trusts her not to touch him - maybe doesn’t even want her at all. Makes her want to bury herself in his tightly wound bed sheets and fuck them up so badly he’ll never be able to iron them straight again.
Before she even has time for the implications of that to sink in, she notices a tentative dip in the mattress beside her. She tilts her head just enough to see him. Of course, he couldn’t take his eyes off her now, could he? That’d be far too nice.
“Alisha, I…”
“If you’re going to say sorry, just don’t, alright?”
“Alright.”
Instead, he just sits there waiting on her. She feels like she has to say something. “It’s not…I just…”
He still doesn’t say a word. She can’t even hear him breathing. But then she feels him, only tips of his fingers, touching her arm above the elbow. Just like that. One breath, and then he’s gone.
Has no idea what he’s doing, but he is trying.
She takes a deep breath, ignores the butterfly outburst completely, and starts over. After all, this really isn’t nearly as aweful as it could be.
“So, that Battlestar shit. What’s that about?”
“Battlestar Galactica. It’s a survival of the human race drama set in space. Parts of it are very thought provoking, and the characters and the mystery are really well done. It’s hard to say much more without spoiling it for you. We could watch some, if you’d like.”
Fuck.
A border of planets circles the room (probably from when he was seven). A near row of DVDs lines the window sill. His bed sheets are tucked so tightly they look positively uninviting; at least she won’t have to worry about being tempted to give the mattress a try.
And yet, there’s something about it - the clean, sparse order to it - that Alisha recognizes. She crosses the room, runs her fingers over some weird little robot thing in front of his bed. If he was anyone else, any other guy she picked up at the pub, they’d already be mostly naked. No real need to fill the space with conversation there. But most guys she went home with didn’t have a recently dusted Battlestar Some-Shit-or-Other boxed set staring at her from the opposite corner. She glances about, grasping for something to break the silence. Her eyes pass over his, but he’s looking frantically at anything other than her. Probably trying to work out how long it will be before she says something horrible or leaves. Or both. So, no help there. Twat.
Finally, she sees a familiar talking point. A bit morbid maybe, but it’ll do. “So…butterflies.”
Right. Smooth.
“What?”
“The butterflies,” she says, a bit rudely, as though he obviously should have known that, out of everything she could have commented on in his pathetic room, she would pick the stupid butterflies hanging on the wall near his computer. She points for emphasis. “What’s with that?”
She feels weird asking, because she really does want to know the answer. After all, she doesn’t really remember seeing any of this other shit in the flat across town.
Simon actually looks relieved, if still a bit on edge, when he figures out what she’s talking about. He even takes a small step forward, toward the butterflies, toward her, as he starts to answer. Balls of steel, that one.
“When I was in primary we had to do a science project. They gave us choices on a list at the front of the class, so we could pick what we wanted to do. By the time I got a turn at the list, the only choices left were butterflies and spiders. I’ve never really liked spiders. And there was a chrysalis next to our front door I could use to help demonstrate the life cycle between pupae and the adult form.”
“And why’re they still hanging on your wall then?”
He looks back at his bed, cheeks tinting as he answers. She can’t imagine why…
“I thought…I thought they looked nice, at the time. And I did very well. There was an award, so…”
Oh. She’s guessing he’s never got much of that. Recognition.
“They are pretty. A bit sad though, that you had to pin them up like that.”
“Well, it’s just that butterflies are so small and hard to see. They have all of these intricate pieces to them that most people never get to notice. You have to kill them before you can really appreciate them.”
She looks from the butterflies, to him, palming his hair across his forehead. Then back to the butterflies. The pinch of tears starts between her eyes and she’s suddenly very, very angry.
“You’re a twisted freak, you know that right!” she half screams as she plops onto the neatly made bed.
She hears him jump behind her, then nothing. Imagines him standing there, mouth gaping with no fucking idea what to do with her. Good. Freak. Manipulative bastard. Loser. He deserves it.
Except…he doesn’t. This him. Not yet anyway.
She isn’t really crying, not really. Just holding her face in her hands, more humiliated to look up now than anything. As she attempts to bring her breathing patterns back to a reasonable level, she hears the click of his door locking behind her.
He didn’t even lock the door when they came in.
He’s obviously concerned that someone will come by if they hear anything suspicious, that’s why he’s locking up with her yelling like a psycho bitch. But when they came in? The thought never even crossed his mind that anything noisy would happen. Which, really, gives her a lot to process at once. That he is truly, completely inexperienced at this. That he trusts her not to touch him - maybe doesn’t even want her at all. Makes her want to bury herself in his tightly wound bed sheets and fuck them up so badly he’ll never be able to iron them straight again.
Before she even has time for the implications of that to sink in, she notices a tentative dip in the mattress beside her. She tilts her head just enough to see him. Of course, he couldn’t take his eyes off her now, could he? That’d be far too nice.
“Alisha, I…”
“If you’re going to say sorry, just don’t, alright?”
“Alright.”
Instead, he just sits there waiting on her. She feels like she has to say something. “It’s not…I just…”
He still doesn’t say a word. She can’t even hear him breathing. But then she feels him, only tips of his fingers, touching her arm above the elbow. Just like that. One breath, and then he’s gone.
Has no idea what he’s doing, but he is trying.
She takes a deep breath, ignores the butterfly outburst completely, and starts over. After all, this really isn’t nearly as aweful as it could be.
“So, that Battlestar shit. What’s that about?”
“Battlestar Galactica. It’s a survival of the human race drama set in space. Parts of it are very thought provoking, and the characters and the mystery are really well done. It’s hard to say much more without spoiling it for you. We could watch some, if you’d like.”
Fuck.