[writerverse "drabble tree" challenge drabbles]
ten drabbles including (5) glee; (2) gossip girl; (1) powerpuff girls; (1) [loose] tudors; (1) [extremely loose] game of thrones. nothing past a pg13, faint language, angst, etc. also, i've seen two episodes of game of thrones so i have no fucking clue what a viserys thinks or feels or gives a shit about.
He laughs.
You fidget; stare at your worn sneakers; try to ignore him as best you can (but you’ve never been exceptional at anything and he’s always omnipresent in your mind anymore).
“He’s kind to me,” you mutter (it sounds like an excuse).
Standing (you don't look up to meet his eyes), he asks, “How long do you really think that’s going to last?” with a quietness that gives the impression of caring (your guilt resurfaces).
Not looking (except a part of you wants to), you shake your head and play with the zipper on your hoodie. “I dunno,” you lie, and he just sighs.
Nothing could hurt you, you had been so sure. You weren’t careless, but you never really worried about things like that; never thought you had to.
But she dies on a Wednesday (it’s messy; it’s ugly; it’s slimy and sticky and you cry and Bubbles cries and Buttercup doesn’t see because her face is frozen in a grimace), and something shatters.
You used to be the Powerpuff Girls, and there used to be three of you. You fought crime and saved the day and never thought yourselves to be invincible (except yes, you did).
Now there are two, and you don’t feel especially super anymore.
She sighed in relief, and he laughed like it was nothing.
He was mostly harmless and she almost liked him (to whatever extent she could like her ex-beard) enough to let it go, but spat Screw you all the same (because almost).
(She didn’t mean it, not maliciously, and he grinned like he knew that.)
“Sorry,” he said, with what sounded like genuine apology. (And she almost left, except she didn’t and knew she wouldn’t.)
“I kinda -” he paused, sheepishly, “I kinda already figured, y’know?”
She’d crossed her arms and glared.
He’d laughed again, and she’d smiled (because maybe more than almost).
They’d always cling like they needed, kiss like they wanted, smile like they loved but fade like they lied.
They never talked about their relationship’s future, didn’t talk about what they’d do when one of them was gone and the other was just a high school kid, because they didn’t think that they had to.
(Except they never thought that.)
They’d be together forever, because of course and why wouldn’t they be?
And it was a nice thought, perfect and easy and Disneyesque. But it was naive and illogical and a little ridiculous, too.
(Except they never said it, so no one else did, either.)
She told him once (cautiously, because there have been times when her confidence has failed her) that she was in love.
He’d grinned, nudged her with his shoulder, and teased, “With who, Serena?” and she had rolled her eyes at him because he was joking and she wasn’t.
Years later, she tells him Yes, and he blinks at her, not understanding.
“With Serena,” she clarifies, meeting his eyes and hating the way he looks back at her.
There’s no answer, but then, she hadn’t expected one.
She fills in the silence with apologies and vain attempts at mending the wound.
He never says anything back.
He doesn’t write, not well, and it’s partly because he can’t (and mostly because it depresses him).
But he finds a pen (it’s transparent and royal blue; reminds him of things he’d almost forgotten), and it’s almost out of ink, but there’s just enough to write, so he does.
I’m pretty sure I used to love you, he tries to start (he’s not sure it comes out right), and then scratches it out with two long, wavering lines.
You could do better, he attempts, and that’s no good, either. (That one gets four lines.)
See ya, he prints slowly, and maybe that’ll do, for now.
It’s been a while since they’ve gotten along. A while since they had anything in common (anything in common that wouldn’t tear them apart, anyway), a while since they could be in the same room without contemplating one another’s deaths.
A long while.
He’s not sure what to say, and assumes that Nate isn’t, either, because he stares at his sneakers and mumbles useless platitudes in greeting.
Regardless, Chuck’s happy to see his friend again.
He smiles (simpers), and drawls, “Come in, Nathaniel,” because he’s classy, a gentleman (and also because Nate was the first and only best friend that he’d ever had to lose).
She grew into a young woman without a mother or father to guide her, and became embittered.
The world had always been filled with hateful men, famous for their brutality and their sins against man and God. She'd always been aware of that.
But by the time that she was an adult herself, by the time that she held her own power, she believed that no matter what worse men had done, none of them were nearly so cruel - not like her father had been.
She kills in his memory; kills because she resents him, hates him; because she’s jaded and because she blames him.
Next time, he’d say what was on his mind, he used to promise himself. Next time, or the time after that, or the next time there’s a better situation.
Eventually, all those next times crumble into retrospect. Eventually, it’s just I should haves and Why didn’t I?s, and it’s just him.
He smiles, laughs, doesn’t complain and tries not to let on that there’s something he regrets, some unimportant teenage crisis that nags at him in the dark, laughs at him under bright blue stage lights.
He smiles, laughs, and tell himself next time, because next time for sure, he’ll know better (probably).
He can’t let her down.
It used to be the thought of her in pain, the thought of her unhappiness and the knowledge that he could have prevented it, that kept him going. It used to be that his sister was more than his sister, more than his last tie to any semblance of a family, more than his pride.
Now, he thinks only of a crown. Now, he only worries about control, about power and dignity.
He loves her, treasures her, but thoughts of her become thoughts of himself, and he eventually stops acting like it’s anything other than pure selfishness that drives him.
“I’ll tell them,” she warns, and he’s too tired to be expressively concerned about the threat.
His eyes are half-shut and he speaks slowly when he says, “No,” like it’s something that might stop her.
“Stop with the humble bullshit,” she says, and hears his head thump against the wall behind them. “A quiet hero doesn’t do anybody any good - shouldn’t people know where to find you so you can help them?”
“It’s not about that -” he protests, and she snorts derisively because she doesn’t want to hear the noble shit that all superheroes probably spew.
She glances at him; repeats, “I’ll tell them.”
He laughs.
You fidget; stare at your worn sneakers; try to ignore him as best you can (but you’ve never been exceptional at anything and he’s always omnipresent in your mind anymore).
“He’s kind to me,” you mutter (it sounds like an excuse).
Standing (you don't look up to meet his eyes), he asks, “How long do you really think that’s going to last?” with a quietness that gives the impression of caring (your guilt resurfaces).
Not looking (except a part of you wants to), you shake your head and play with the zipper on your hoodie. “I dunno,” you lie, and he just sighs.
Nothing could hurt you, you had been so sure. You weren’t careless, but you never really worried about things like that; never thought you had to.
But she dies on a Wednesday (it’s messy; it’s ugly; it’s slimy and sticky and you cry and Bubbles cries and Buttercup doesn’t see because her face is frozen in a grimace), and something shatters.
You used to be the Powerpuff Girls, and there used to be three of you. You fought crime and saved the day and never thought yourselves to be invincible (except yes, you did).
Now there are two, and you don’t feel especially super anymore.
She sighed in relief, and he laughed like it was nothing.
He was mostly harmless and she almost liked him (to whatever extent she could like her ex-beard) enough to let it go, but spat Screw you all the same (because almost).
(She didn’t mean it, not maliciously, and he grinned like he knew that.)
“Sorry,” he said, with what sounded like genuine apology. (And she almost left, except she didn’t and knew she wouldn’t.)
“I kinda -” he paused, sheepishly, “I kinda already figured, y’know?”
She’d crossed her arms and glared.
He’d laughed again, and she’d smiled (because maybe more than almost).
They’d always cling like they needed, kiss like they wanted, smile like they loved but fade like they lied.
They never talked about their relationship’s future, didn’t talk about what they’d do when one of them was gone and the other was just a high school kid, because they didn’t think that they had to.
(Except they never thought that.)
They’d be together forever, because of course and why wouldn’t they be?
And it was a nice thought, perfect and easy and Disneyesque. But it was naive and illogical and a little ridiculous, too.
(Except they never said it, so no one else did, either.)
She told him once (cautiously, because there have been times when her confidence has failed her) that she was in love.
He’d grinned, nudged her with his shoulder, and teased, “With who, Serena?” and she had rolled her eyes at him because he was joking and she wasn’t.
Years later, she tells him Yes, and he blinks at her, not understanding.
“With Serena,” she clarifies, meeting his eyes and hating the way he looks back at her.
There’s no answer, but then, she hadn’t expected one.
She fills in the silence with apologies and vain attempts at mending the wound.
He never says anything back.
He doesn’t write, not well, and it’s partly because he can’t (and mostly because it depresses him).
But he finds a pen (it’s transparent and royal blue; reminds him of things he’d almost forgotten), and it’s almost out of ink, but there’s just enough to write, so he does.
I’m pretty sure I used to love you, he tries to start (he’s not sure it comes out right), and then scratches it out with two long, wavering lines.
You could do better, he attempts, and that’s no good, either. (That one gets four lines.)
See ya, he prints slowly, and maybe that’ll do, for now.
It’s been a while since they’ve gotten along. A while since they had anything in common (anything in common that wouldn’t tear them apart, anyway), a while since they could be in the same room without contemplating one another’s deaths.
A long while.
He’s not sure what to say, and assumes that Nate isn’t, either, because he stares at his sneakers and mumbles useless platitudes in greeting.
Regardless, Chuck’s happy to see his friend again.
He smiles (simpers), and drawls, “Come in, Nathaniel,” because he’s classy, a gentleman (and also because Nate was the first and only best friend that he’d ever had to lose).
She grew into a young woman without a mother or father to guide her, and became embittered.
The world had always been filled with hateful men, famous for their brutality and their sins against man and God. She'd always been aware of that.
But by the time that she was an adult herself, by the time that she held her own power, she believed that no matter what worse men had done, none of them were nearly so cruel - not like her father had been.
She kills in his memory; kills because she resents him, hates him; because she’s jaded and because she blames him.
Next time, he’d say what was on his mind, he used to promise himself. Next time, or the time after that, or the next time there’s a better situation.
Eventually, all those next times crumble into retrospect. Eventually, it’s just I should haves and Why didn’t I?s, and it’s just him.
He smiles, laughs, doesn’t complain and tries not to let on that there’s something he regrets, some unimportant teenage crisis that nags at him in the dark, laughs at him under bright blue stage lights.
He smiles, laughs, and tell himself next time, because next time for sure, he’ll know better (probably).
He can’t let her down.
It used to be the thought of her in pain, the thought of her unhappiness and the knowledge that he could have prevented it, that kept him going. It used to be that his sister was more than his sister, more than his last tie to any semblance of a family, more than his pride.
Now, he thinks only of a crown. Now, he only worries about control, about power and dignity.
He loves her, treasures her, but thoughts of her become thoughts of himself, and he eventually stops acting like it’s anything other than pure selfishness that drives him.
“I’ll tell them,” she warns, and he’s too tired to be expressively concerned about the threat.
His eyes are half-shut and he speaks slowly when he says, “No,” like it’s something that might stop her.
“Stop with the humble bullshit,” she says, and hears his head thump against the wall behind them. “A quiet hero doesn’t do anybody any good - shouldn’t people know where to find you so you can help them?”
“It’s not about that -” he protests, and she snorts derisively because she doesn’t want to hear the noble shit that all superheroes probably spew.
She glances at him; repeats, “I’ll tell them.”