the new deja vu [original]
title: The New Deja Vu
rating: PG
fandom/pairing: Original fic. Unnamed male character / unnamed female character.
spoilers/warnings: n/a.
summary: He can almost see it all.
words: 687
disclaimer: I technically own this, but I don't own the lyrics to Fall Out Boy's "Alpha Dog".
a/n: For the writerversechallenge with the genre prompt "romance". Sortof-kindof part of a story I play around with sometimes when the mood strikes me, but it was written specifically for this prompt and doesn't really fit anywhere else, so I think it's okay?
He remembers the day he first met her. Remembers the way she’d been laughing - at someone, not with, just like every time he’s seen her, since - and remembers the way that he thought she was beautiful.
He didn’t realize, at first, that she was cruel. It didn’t occur to him that she was being unkind by laughing in the face of the girl she’d been talking with. He didn’t even begin to presume that she was anything other than angelic.
In hindsight, maybe it should be funny. He thinks it’s a shame that it’s not; wishes that it could be; isn’t about to complain that he can’t find anything in it to laugh at, because it’s mostly not funny because he loves her and she doesn’t love him, and it’s tragic in a pathetic way but he wouldn’t change it for the world.
When he’s drunk, he’ll tell her. He’ll tell her that he still remembers (won’t be surprised when he’s the only one who does), tell her that she’s awful (will feel guilty all the same when she doesn’t even blink because it’s something she’s always seemed to know about herself), tell her that he wants to laugh again and it’s all her fault that he can’t.
And just like she did, all those years ago, she’ll laugh at him. He knows it, because he knows her, even though she’d be more than keen to deny it if it ever came up in conversation.
(Not that it ever does. Not that it ever would. It’s one of those things they don’t talk about, because she doesn’t like to talk about it and because he lets everyone push him around, but especially her.)
She’ll laugh at him, and the way her eyes water and her white teeth flash will be beautiful. It won’t be because he’s drunk, that it won’t register with him that she’s laughing at, not with. It’ll be because she’s always at her most beautiful when he’s looking at her (or so he’s always thought, but maybe that’s a nasty thing to think) and because he always remembers that first moment, the fleeting impression of her chiseled into his memory with the painstaking care that comes from intensity over duration.
Eventually, she might realize that the words aren’t a product of his inebriated state, and that he means every one of them. (Even if he doesn’t mean to say them.)
(But he will mean to say them. The part of him that he always silences, the part that makes him want to keep secrets locked away and hidden from everyone, does want to tell her how much she means to him, because that part of him still clings to the hope that she might not laugh, and she might say it back. He knows she won’t, but he still hopes and it still kills him that he can’t stop.)
And maybe, she might take him seriously. It’ll be the first time she ever has, but it will also be the first time that he’s ever come clean about the not-entirely-in-jest remarks that their friends make about him, about her. It might be poetic.
(It probably won’t be.)
She’ll tell him no, she’ll shake her head and stare at him like she’s not sure what she’s hearing. She’ll be baffled, and he won’t know whether it’s because she can’t grasp that he could have existing feelings like that for her (for anyone), or because she can’t quite figure why he’d think it was a good idea to tell her those feelings (drunk is not an excuse), or some mixture of the two.
He knows. He can see it playing like a picture in his mind’s eye, can imagine everything from the fuzziness of his mind to the sharp clarity of her irises, with what he thinks is great accuracy, up until that moment when he sees her, uncertain and uncomfortable, for the very first time that he ever has.
Up until that point, he thinks he just knows. After that, though, is nothing. He never finishes. He doesn’t want to pretend to know the end.
rating: PG
fandom/pairing: Original fic. Unnamed male character / unnamed female character.
spoilers/warnings: n/a.
summary: He can almost see it all.
words: 687
disclaimer: I technically own this, but I don't own the lyrics to Fall Out Boy's "Alpha Dog".
a/n: For the writerversechallenge with the genre prompt "romance". Sortof-kindof part of a story I play around with sometimes when the mood strikes me, but it was written specifically for this prompt and doesn't really fit anywhere else, so I think it's okay?
He remembers the day he first met her. Remembers the way she’d been laughing - at someone, not with, just like every time he’s seen her, since - and remembers the way that he thought she was beautiful.
He didn’t realize, at first, that she was cruel. It didn’t occur to him that she was being unkind by laughing in the face of the girl she’d been talking with. He didn’t even begin to presume that she was anything other than angelic.
In hindsight, maybe it should be funny. He thinks it’s a shame that it’s not; wishes that it could be; isn’t about to complain that he can’t find anything in it to laugh at, because it’s mostly not funny because he loves her and she doesn’t love him, and it’s tragic in a pathetic way but he wouldn’t change it for the world.
When he’s drunk, he’ll tell her. He’ll tell her that he still remembers (won’t be surprised when he’s the only one who does), tell her that she’s awful (will feel guilty all the same when she doesn’t even blink because it’s something she’s always seemed to know about herself), tell her that he wants to laugh again and it’s all her fault that he can’t.
And just like she did, all those years ago, she’ll laugh at him. He knows it, because he knows her, even though she’d be more than keen to deny it if it ever came up in conversation.
(Not that it ever does. Not that it ever would. It’s one of those things they don’t talk about, because she doesn’t like to talk about it and because he lets everyone push him around, but especially her.)
She’ll laugh at him, and the way her eyes water and her white teeth flash will be beautiful. It won’t be because he’s drunk, that it won’t register with him that she’s laughing at, not with. It’ll be because she’s always at her most beautiful when he’s looking at her (or so he’s always thought, but maybe that’s a nasty thing to think) and because he always remembers that first moment, the fleeting impression of her chiseled into his memory with the painstaking care that comes from intensity over duration.
Eventually, she might realize that the words aren’t a product of his inebriated state, and that he means every one of them. (Even if he doesn’t mean to say them.)
(But he will mean to say them. The part of him that he always silences, the part that makes him want to keep secrets locked away and hidden from everyone, does want to tell her how much she means to him, because that part of him still clings to the hope that she might not laugh, and she might say it back. He knows she won’t, but he still hopes and it still kills him that he can’t stop.)
And maybe, she might take him seriously. It’ll be the first time she ever has, but it will also be the first time that he’s ever come clean about the not-entirely-in-jest remarks that their friends make about him, about her. It might be poetic.
(It probably won’t be.)
She’ll tell him no, she’ll shake her head and stare at him like she’s not sure what she’s hearing. She’ll be baffled, and he won’t know whether it’s because she can’t grasp that he could have existing feelings like that for her (for anyone), or because she can’t quite figure why he’d think it was a good idea to tell her those feelings (drunk is not an excuse), or some mixture of the two.
He knows. He can see it playing like a picture in his mind’s eye, can imagine everything from the fuzziness of his mind to the sharp clarity of her irises, with what he thinks is great accuracy, up until that moment when he sees her, uncertain and uncomfortable, for the very first time that he ever has.
Up until that point, he thinks he just knows. After that, though, is nothing. He never finishes. He doesn’t want to pretend to know the end.