FNL Fic: we never did read harry potter
we never did read harry potter
It’s the thing about Dillon, in the end, everything just cycles back to their comfort zones.
friday night lights. lyla. tim. (tim/lyla; jason)
let’s get it on; 1076 words, pg.
for thisisironic.
The smile fades fast in the room and for a minute, just a slip of a minute, she stops and stares at her hands. Runnin’ again, she thinks, and her hands are shaking even as she turns them back and forth, re-curling them into fists.
What was she doing? The room’s still dark, the soft fade of light peeking through the curtains as she moves to the window. She winces and sighs, brushing them back and looking into the bar. There’s the beach, the light, and the scattered number of couples disappearing. It’s a place, of course, the time of night cementing that daunting idealism that she used to have. She can imagine the spurt of laughter from one pair, the soundlessness offering the kind of detachment she’s looking for. But the truth is - and it’s there - the excuses are half-hearted most of the time. She still feels that fit of nostalgia, the I was in love once idealism churning in the back of her throat.
She sighs.
Lyla tries to touch her lips. But they’ve dried now, the burn of a rust leaving her. She frowns, skinning her tongue against her teeth. She thinks Tim. She thinks Jason. She thinks this was just a bad idea, like before. There’s a seat of relevance that she’s not ready to touch and she knows, she’s always known it’s been there. The panic though is starting to rise again; her mouth thins and she closes her eyes for deep breathes, deep, deep breathes. It’s going to be over soon anyway; it’s the thing about Dillon, in the end, everything just cycles back to their comfort zones.
“You shouldn’t leave the door open, Garrity.”
And she jumps, her knuckles hitting the ledge as she whirls around. Tim’s leaning against the frame, his head ducking and his hair brushing over his eyes. She ignores the itch and leans back instead, dropping her gaze down. They share the motion, she remembers, and it’s almost funny.
“You should knock.”
“I did,” he murmurs, stepping forward. The door clicks loosely and the room stays dark, again, as her fingers peek against the curtains.
She shrugs and slips away, moving to sit at the bed. She feels the discomfort; maybe, she’s been projecting too much; maybe it’s just in her head, the overkill of her tendencies to avoid these things.
But the memory of the three of them isn’t bad; there’s that sense of self she has between them. It hasn’t changed, but it’s her, her not understanding what to do with it. She still feels Jason’s eyes on her, Tim’s on her back, and the two of them - stop, she tells herself.
Her teeth sink into her lip. “How is he?”
“Callin’ home.”
He’s quick too and the bed sinks, Tim sighing. There’s a routine surfacing now, here, and it’s Jason, in the end, always about Jason and how they’ve connected through him. And that’s another thing, tonight, when he -
Don’t, she tells herself again, don’t set it up.
“We did good, huh,” he starts softly, “with all of this, you and me.”
Her mouth starts to turn and she ducks, her fingers brushing along the hem of her dress. She says nothing, maybe nods, but tucks the restless splurge of all the other thoughts that she has. She envies him though, how easy it is for him to love anything the way he does; it’s unnerving, even the idea of that possibility.
She nods finally. “You more than me.”
He starts to protest and she shakes her head, reaching for him without the intention. Her fingers drift over his hand, watching as he turns his palm to her. She has to blink. The room’s a little too dark and somebody’s laughing margarita-villleee down the hall.
“You know,” she continues. There’s a soft awe that slips, “sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been better for him if you had been there in the beginning, not me. I’m much better at the whole -”
But she doesn’t finish. The words just fade in her mouth, back down her throat. She tries, really, to get them to surface again and it’s the patterns of habit. It’s just easier; she relents, it’s the idea that it’s just easier for everybody if she stick to smiling real pretty. Or now, she’s got the indulgence of hiding in an overeager crowd, people searching and swallowing someone else’s definitive directions.
Tim seems to let her go and there’s a moment, quick, where she finds herself wanting him not to. She’s not about the braving of admissions; remember, she tells herself, how long it took her to stand in that hotel, after States, after it was over, and toss the last few years into the wastebasket. Just pieces of everything else.
“You should go,” she says quietly, “Jas is probably looking for you to, uh, do more fun and festive boy things.”
He laughs huskily, brushing a slow, almost too lazy curl of his mouth. She shifts uncomfortably and almost reaches, watching wide-eyed as he eases closer instead. It’s hard, she thinks, it’s getting harder.
“You pray yet?”
Her mouth turns at the innuendo. She’d like to think of the invitation that could be there, but she’s not good at this, not good at reading people like this. But she nods all the same, her fingers curling over his hand. “In the elevator.”
One of them laughs. There’s a nervous twist of movement and he’s brushing his mouth against hers. Slowly. She’s counting and then stops. His mouth presses again over hers, a lightness that sheltering a reaction. And then again. She opens hers just a little bit and her tongue slips forward, light against his lip. She feels his hand shift, rising as it presses against her cheek. His palm is too warm and she mews softly into his mouth, dipping forward as the bed slips a moan.
Her breathing stays thick when he breaks away, when he stands and moves back to the frame of the door, back to the split between them. She ducks, glad for the security of the room, the lack of light because she’s blushing. The flush warming her cheeks is nothing new, but she hates it all the same.
“Should go again, you know,” Tim stays soft, that smile of his more than uneasy for her. But it’s there, amused, “a little for me.”
Her bewilderment misses a smile.
-
It’s the thing about Dillon, in the end, everything just cycles back to their comfort zones.
friday night lights. lyla. tim. (tim/lyla; jason)
let’s get it on; 1076 words, pg.
for thisisironic.
The smile fades fast in the room and for a minute, just a slip of a minute, she stops and stares at her hands. Runnin’ again, she thinks, and her hands are shaking even as she turns them back and forth, re-curling them into fists.
What was she doing? The room’s still dark, the soft fade of light peeking through the curtains as she moves to the window. She winces and sighs, brushing them back and looking into the bar. There’s the beach, the light, and the scattered number of couples disappearing. It’s a place, of course, the time of night cementing that daunting idealism that she used to have. She can imagine the spurt of laughter from one pair, the soundlessness offering the kind of detachment she’s looking for. But the truth is - and it’s there - the excuses are half-hearted most of the time. She still feels that fit of nostalgia, the I was in love once idealism churning in the back of her throat.
She sighs.
Lyla tries to touch her lips. But they’ve dried now, the burn of a rust leaving her. She frowns, skinning her tongue against her teeth. She thinks Tim. She thinks Jason. She thinks this was just a bad idea, like before. There’s a seat of relevance that she’s not ready to touch and she knows, she’s always known it’s been there. The panic though is starting to rise again; her mouth thins and she closes her eyes for deep breathes, deep, deep breathes. It’s going to be over soon anyway; it’s the thing about Dillon, in the end, everything just cycles back to their comfort zones.
“You shouldn’t leave the door open, Garrity.”
And she jumps, her knuckles hitting the ledge as she whirls around. Tim’s leaning against the frame, his head ducking and his hair brushing over his eyes. She ignores the itch and leans back instead, dropping her gaze down. They share the motion, she remembers, and it’s almost funny.
“You should knock.”
“I did,” he murmurs, stepping forward. The door clicks loosely and the room stays dark, again, as her fingers peek against the curtains.
She shrugs and slips away, moving to sit at the bed. She feels the discomfort; maybe, she’s been projecting too much; maybe it’s just in her head, the overkill of her tendencies to avoid these things.
But the memory of the three of them isn’t bad; there’s that sense of self she has between them. It hasn’t changed, but it’s her, her not understanding what to do with it. She still feels Jason’s eyes on her, Tim’s on her back, and the two of them - stop, she tells herself.
Her teeth sink into her lip. “How is he?”
“Callin’ home.”
He’s quick too and the bed sinks, Tim sighing. There’s a routine surfacing now, here, and it’s Jason, in the end, always about Jason and how they’ve connected through him. And that’s another thing, tonight, when he -
Don’t, she tells herself again, don’t set it up.
“We did good, huh,” he starts softly, “with all of this, you and me.”
Her mouth starts to turn and she ducks, her fingers brushing along the hem of her dress. She says nothing, maybe nods, but tucks the restless splurge of all the other thoughts that she has. She envies him though, how easy it is for him to love anything the way he does; it’s unnerving, even the idea of that possibility.
She nods finally. “You more than me.”
He starts to protest and she shakes her head, reaching for him without the intention. Her fingers drift over his hand, watching as he turns his palm to her. She has to blink. The room’s a little too dark and somebody’s laughing margarita-villleee down the hall.
“You know,” she continues. There’s a soft awe that slips, “sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been better for him if you had been there in the beginning, not me. I’m much better at the whole -”
But she doesn’t finish. The words just fade in her mouth, back down her throat. She tries, really, to get them to surface again and it’s the patterns of habit. It’s just easier; she relents, it’s the idea that it’s just easier for everybody if she stick to smiling real pretty. Or now, she’s got the indulgence of hiding in an overeager crowd, people searching and swallowing someone else’s definitive directions.
Tim seems to let her go and there’s a moment, quick, where she finds herself wanting him not to. She’s not about the braving of admissions; remember, she tells herself, how long it took her to stand in that hotel, after States, after it was over, and toss the last few years into the wastebasket. Just pieces of everything else.
“You should go,” she says quietly, “Jas is probably looking for you to, uh, do more fun and festive boy things.”
He laughs huskily, brushing a slow, almost too lazy curl of his mouth. She shifts uncomfortably and almost reaches, watching wide-eyed as he eases closer instead. It’s hard, she thinks, it’s getting harder.
“You pray yet?”
Her mouth turns at the innuendo. She’d like to think of the invitation that could be there, but she’s not good at this, not good at reading people like this. But she nods all the same, her fingers curling over his hand. “In the elevator.”
One of them laughs. There’s a nervous twist of movement and he’s brushing his mouth against hers. Slowly. She’s counting and then stops. His mouth presses again over hers, a lightness that sheltering a reaction. And then again. She opens hers just a little bit and her tongue slips forward, light against his lip. She feels his hand shift, rising as it presses against her cheek. His palm is too warm and she mews softly into his mouth, dipping forward as the bed slips a moan.
Her breathing stays thick when he breaks away, when he stands and moves back to the frame of the door, back to the split between them. She ducks, glad for the security of the room, the lack of light because she’s blushing. The flush warming her cheeks is nothing new, but she hates it all the same.
“Should go again, you know,” Tim stays soft, that smile of his more than uneasy for her. But it’s there, amused, “a little for me.”
Her bewilderment misses a smile.
-