Gossip Girl Fic: we were a better house of cards
we were a better house of cards
gossip girl. serena/dan. general spoilers. 565 words. pg.
she knows it’s there, the Dartmouth application, pages turned and creased with second thoughts and no maybes.
The room, his room opens him up more to her, more than the amount of expectation that held her to coming here for a first serious moment.
She likes the skewed sheets, the knots of t-shirts and grays, and the posters that peel from the walls. They’re photographs and musicians and although he says something like, “oh, the porn’s under the mattress,” with that stupid blush of his, she likes that he’s just not that guy to her. Her curiosity is romantic, but she’s not blushing; she wishes for a connection, for the stretch of trust that can hold her together, not fall apart like before.
It’s a different story today, months forming another step into a relationship, their relationship - she frowns, mostly, watching him from the corner of the bed. His hands rise and fall, there’s a stretch of paper across his desk and under pencils and pens and Calc homework. She knows it’s there, the Dartmouth application, pages turned and creased with second thoughts and no maybes.
“Your sister’s worried,” she says quietly.
Her knees fold from the bed to her chest and her fingers start to skirt against her socks, picking at the ends of her jeans. As if she needs an excuse, she thinks.
He laughs softly. “I guess.”
There is something that she notices, too many times as she lingers to figure it out. He’s got his phases too, more curious than sullen, and she finds herself wanting to know, but afraid to push that a little more. Inevitably, she thinks, even her centering, the over attempt to catch something more, lies to her. She has an ugly relationship with her mirror, the often catching desire to re-approach old habits for the sake of comforts, knowing comforts. She remembers Nate too - often, but it’s not really Nate, it’s the feel of peaking to that point. She was uglier than all of them.
She leans forward, spreading over the bed and trying to smile. She props her chin up, over her palm and the idea again, something about them; maybe, she’s opening up, maybe she isn’t. She does like Dan.
But still, there’s hovering at the points - something from him, something from her, and she’s hesitant, looking down and staring at the floors. There’s sound from a crack in the door, his dad humming and laughing to the radio. She smiles a little, but never misses hers or her mother.
“I wrote a lot of letters,” she says. She’s careful and amused, the admission sliding against her cheeks as a blush. She turns her free hand in the air. “Burned them after.”
He’ll recognize the reference, dry instead, “Romantic.”
She laughs, the color of her voice released in husky satisfaction. The amusement is there, the relief even more. But she’s still struck, really, by the sense of end that she’s waiting for. Should she? It’s so odd, her hands are rising to her face, and it carries the fact that she feels too exposed like this.
“Too much to figure out,” she mutters.
Dan laughs, standing and yawing. She spots the application, the folder and an envelope. She feels like she should say something. But he sits, next to her, stretching and resting on the backs of his hands.
He nods. “Too fucking much.”
She secretly hopes that he won’t be that guy, the one that writes songs about pretty liars.
+
gossip girl. serena/dan. general spoilers. 565 words. pg.
she knows it’s there, the Dartmouth application, pages turned and creased with second thoughts and no maybes.
The room, his room opens him up more to her, more than the amount of expectation that held her to coming here for a first serious moment.
She likes the skewed sheets, the knots of t-shirts and grays, and the posters that peel from the walls. They’re photographs and musicians and although he says something like, “oh, the porn’s under the mattress,” with that stupid blush of his, she likes that he’s just not that guy to her. Her curiosity is romantic, but she’s not blushing; she wishes for a connection, for the stretch of trust that can hold her together, not fall apart like before.
It’s a different story today, months forming another step into a relationship, their relationship - she frowns, mostly, watching him from the corner of the bed. His hands rise and fall, there’s a stretch of paper across his desk and under pencils and pens and Calc homework. She knows it’s there, the Dartmouth application, pages turned and creased with second thoughts and no maybes.
“Your sister’s worried,” she says quietly.
Her knees fold from the bed to her chest and her fingers start to skirt against her socks, picking at the ends of her jeans. As if she needs an excuse, she thinks.
He laughs softly. “I guess.”
There is something that she notices, too many times as she lingers to figure it out. He’s got his phases too, more curious than sullen, and she finds herself wanting to know, but afraid to push that a little more. Inevitably, she thinks, even her centering, the over attempt to catch something more, lies to her. She has an ugly relationship with her mirror, the often catching desire to re-approach old habits for the sake of comforts, knowing comforts. She remembers Nate too - often, but it’s not really Nate, it’s the feel of peaking to that point. She was uglier than all of them.
She leans forward, spreading over the bed and trying to smile. She props her chin up, over her palm and the idea again, something about them; maybe, she’s opening up, maybe she isn’t. She does like Dan.
But still, there’s hovering at the points - something from him, something from her, and she’s hesitant, looking down and staring at the floors. There’s sound from a crack in the door, his dad humming and laughing to the radio. She smiles a little, but never misses hers or her mother.
“I wrote a lot of letters,” she says. She’s careful and amused, the admission sliding against her cheeks as a blush. She turns her free hand in the air. “Burned them after.”
He’ll recognize the reference, dry instead, “Romantic.”
She laughs, the color of her voice released in husky satisfaction. The amusement is there, the relief even more. But she’s still struck, really, by the sense of end that she’s waiting for. Should she? It’s so odd, her hands are rising to her face, and it carries the fact that she feels too exposed like this.
“Too much to figure out,” she mutters.
Dan laughs, standing and yawing. She spots the application, the folder and an envelope. She feels like she should say something. But he sits, next to her, stretching and resting on the backs of his hands.
He nods. “Too fucking much.”
She secretly hopes that he won’t be that guy, the one that writes songs about pretty liars.
+