Gossip Girl Ficlet: of error, of significance
(um; shut up. i wrote another one.)
of error, of significance
gossip girl. dan/serena. poison ivy-ish. 653 words. pg.
everybody’s a cynic, you know; some hide, some bite, and the rest of them, Serena knows, slit throats.
People like you find it easy,
Naked to see,
Walking on air.
(joy division) atmosphere
The poster’s curling against the wall, the first thing she notices as he pushes her towards a booth, the start, he grins, of your musical education.
Her laughter is coarse, maybe out of some combing habit; her hand juts across his hip when she nearly trips, grinning like an utter moron, and they squeeze quietly into one of the listening stations.
“Go on.”
She snorts. “Shut up. It’s not like I’m that bad.”
Dan smirks instead of smiling, the perils of high school reform. Everybody’s a cynic, you know; some hide, some bite, and the rest of them, Serena knows, slit throats. But for now, she sits and squeezes next to him and grabs the headphones. He’s already at the CDs, transposing irony with, “too stupid” and “I’ll never forgive you if you even mention these idiots” as she laughs again, lighter.
“Need a minute?”
He laughs too, grinning his amusement. “Patience,” he drawls, “patience. We’re going to fix your musical issues.”
“Mine?” She blinks at him innocently, trying to hide her grin, trying not to hide her grin; she sort of falters after the acknowledgement, pressing her head down and staring at the curl of the wires.
She’s already thinking about the lasting period; sad, yes, tricks of the trades, maybe.
“I -”
He stops.
That’s the thing about Dan, that she’s romanticizing more and more, he stops. He stops and listens and stops and listens; it’s a completely foreign concept to her, almost, but still she’s changing or likes to think so, all in the effort to be better.
“Somewhere down the line,” she says softly, “I really started to hate myself. In this place, with these people, your drug is staying out of all those stupid shades of gray. It gets to you, you know?”
He shrugs; she’s thinking trains again.
His mouth turns. “I like you.”
Serena is wiring over a smile, turning her gaze up and letting her fingers drift over his. They sit and stare, listening to the mouths of the small crowd, outside and with the latest. This is the next generation, she thinks.
“I know.” Her head ducks down. “I don’t like myself though.”
Dan turns, his knees pressing against hers. She’s faint with a blush, her mouth turning as he drops the CD and takes her gaze.
“But that isn’t it,” he murmurs.
“No, it isn’t.”
He nods.
There’s a pause, in between, awkward, if anything; she turns her head to the side, peeking and picking people from school, the old friends and the old faces. It’s not the same, not that sullen satisfaction of placement.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
She’s too honest, some days. “I’m starting to want to,” she’s quiet, “really.”
His mouth relaxes as he reaches for a CD, another, for his efforts or whatever, she’s more than amused and happy for the time. He doesn’t reach for her though, maybe she’s assuming, but she’s waiting and, she realizes, maybe for more than something. Something strives to be one of those terms, general or not, there’s a whole opening of things outside of this and she doesn’t want to be trapped, she doesn’t want to be Mom in the coming years or Blair in a few more.
“You’re an idiot.”
Her head snaps up, the blush rising. “I know,” she mumbles.
“Cute too,” he adds, smirking.
She laughs and mumbles again, something like after nine only as he follows through, being a smartass in the spirit of things.
Do you really want to know melikes getting used this.
He grins as she follows, for now.
+
of error, of significance
gossip girl. dan/serena. poison ivy-ish. 653 words. pg.
everybody’s a cynic, you know; some hide, some bite, and the rest of them, Serena knows, slit throats.
People like you find it easy,
Naked to see,
Walking on air.
(joy division) atmosphere
The poster’s curling against the wall, the first thing she notices as he pushes her towards a booth, the start, he grins, of your musical education.
Her laughter is coarse, maybe out of some combing habit; her hand juts across his hip when she nearly trips, grinning like an utter moron, and they squeeze quietly into one of the listening stations.
“Go on.”
She snorts. “Shut up. It’s not like I’m that bad.”
Dan smirks instead of smiling, the perils of high school reform. Everybody’s a cynic, you know; some hide, some bite, and the rest of them, Serena knows, slit throats. But for now, she sits and squeezes next to him and grabs the headphones. He’s already at the CDs, transposing irony with, “too stupid” and “I’ll never forgive you if you even mention these idiots” as she laughs again, lighter.
“Need a minute?”
He laughs too, grinning his amusement. “Patience,” he drawls, “patience. We’re going to fix your musical issues.”
“Mine?” She blinks at him innocently, trying to hide her grin, trying not to hide her grin; she sort of falters after the acknowledgement, pressing her head down and staring at the curl of the wires.
She’s already thinking about the lasting period; sad, yes, tricks of the trades, maybe.
“I -”
He stops.
That’s the thing about Dan, that she’s romanticizing more and more, he stops. He stops and listens and stops and listens; it’s a completely foreign concept to her, almost, but still she’s changing or likes to think so, all in the effort to be better.
“Somewhere down the line,” she says softly, “I really started to hate myself. In this place, with these people, your drug is staying out of all those stupid shades of gray. It gets to you, you know?”
He shrugs; she’s thinking trains again.
His mouth turns. “I like you.”
Serena is wiring over a smile, turning her gaze up and letting her fingers drift over his. They sit and stare, listening to the mouths of the small crowd, outside and with the latest. This is the next generation, she thinks.
“I know.” Her head ducks down. “I don’t like myself though.”
Dan turns, his knees pressing against hers. She’s faint with a blush, her mouth turning as he drops the CD and takes her gaze.
“But that isn’t it,” he murmurs.
“No, it isn’t.”
He nods.
There’s a pause, in between, awkward, if anything; she turns her head to the side, peeking and picking people from school, the old friends and the old faces. It’s not the same, not that sullen satisfaction of placement.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
She’s too honest, some days. “I’m starting to want to,” she’s quiet, “really.”
His mouth relaxes as he reaches for a CD, another, for his efforts or whatever, she’s more than amused and happy for the time. He doesn’t reach for her though, maybe she’s assuming, but she’s waiting and, she realizes, maybe for more than something. Something strives to be one of those terms, general or not, there’s a whole opening of things outside of this and she doesn’t want to be trapped, she doesn’t want to be Mom in the coming years or Blair in a few more.
“You’re an idiot.”
Her head snaps up, the blush rising. “I know,” she mumbles.
“Cute too,” he adds, smirking.
She laughs and mumbles again, something like after nine only as he follows through, being a smartass in the spirit of things.
Do you really want to know melikes getting used this.
He grins as she follows, for now.
+