fic: same shoes [matt/lea]
Title: Same Shoes
Pairing: Matt/Lea
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3942
Summary: From the moment your hand met hers in some party held by some long-forgotten acquaintance, bursting at the seams with familiar Broadway faces; as she had introduced herself with the bright warmth of youth in the upturned corners of her mouth, you think she knew parts of you everyone else chooses to ignore.
Notes: This is a real experimental format for me; i've never written anything like this, and won't again if it doesn't work. I'm still not sure that it does - I tapped this out in one long stream of consciousness and despite my friend's reassurances, i'm still not convinced it portrays what I was trying to portray at all. :/ (I also haven't properly written anything in two years, so I could just plain suck.) Please let me know honestly what you think. Title from I Am Kloot's 'Same Shoes' which I accidently ended up listening to on repeat whilst writing this. Inspired by this picture.
EDIT: christyzhang has very kindly translated this fic into Chinese, if you would prefer to read it in that language, you can do so here.
(Me shipping these two is completely, 100%, my friend Chris' fault, who a few weeks ago sent me a link to this video and told me to switch to full screen and watch Matt and Lea very closely at 8:48-9:16, ("Look! THEY'RE PLAYING FOOTSIE UNDER THE TABLE!" was her claim), and she's failed to convince me with this kinda stuff plenty of times before, but this time... she had me pretty stumped. I actually think she may be right in her claim. So of course, lo and behold, a month later I now find myself having written fanfic. About them. FML. The irony that I spend two years trying to complete fics with a fandom and characters I know like the back of my hand never once managing to succeed, and then get drawn back into this fandom that i've only ever had a passing interest in before and end up finishing one, is not entirely lost on me. Thanks to said friend for giving this a once-over (although I can never stop fiddling, so any remaining mistakes are all mine.)
It's funny how rare these moments feel. Every day is spent with these same group of kids, (kids - you always thinks of them as kids) but they blur in corners of half-lit sets or blaze past in the car park and there's never more than just enough time for your eyes to crinkle in an amused huff of laughter or to throw a lazy retort about Cory's hand to eye co-ordination before work sets in again. Spending actual time together voluntarily is so rare that you often have to remind yourself you're not amongst strangers. (all except for Lea of course, who stubbornly refuses to compartmentalize in your head amongst the rest meaning you end up having the corner of your eye forever trained in her direction despite not really having reason, anymore.)
It was Cory's idea - as most of these things usually are; an idea sprung from boredom last Tuesday on set. Everyone except Jane is sat outside the trailers, basking in the heat that springboards between perfect and unbearable.
"We should do something."
Harry laughs, scratching the sweat off his forehead, "I couldn't move right now if I wanted to."
"I don't mean now, now," Cory corrects, "I mean this weekend or something. We've all got time off together right? How rare is that? We should do something."
"Like what?" Lea interjects. "Some of us have busy schedules."
Everyone groans with fake exasperation; you don't even hesitate before tipping the water bottle you had been sipping to puddle in the lid so you can flick it at her neck. She yelps in surprise, throwing a half-assed insult back your way for good measure, but you just grin innocently like it's not the millionth time you've played this game.
"We should have a party," Jenna inevitably suggests, and a moment later there's a time and a place and you try not to fidget too much in your chair, knowing this is something they do and more often than not they do it without you because you're scraping the bar of too old.
But then- "How about it, Matt? You in?" Mark asks, correcting you in your assumption that this would be one of those times.
"Sure." Said times are rare enough that you know better than to decline; to create a wedge between you and them that somehow always escalates before you have a chance to blink. Trying to fit in is not something you're used to but you do it here, all the time.
And so three days of exhaustion go by until the weekend comes with a deep breath of relief.
-
You arrive exactly on the designated time as always, but it comes as no surprise that you’re not the first to make an appearance; someone has already started a small bonfire in the girls' backyard. You guess it was Mark (you can't take the boy out of Texas...), and despite feeling the heat all week, it's nice here with Mark strumming a guitar in the corner and your favorite brand of beer in your hand.
You've barely been there for 15 minutes when the doorbell rings and Dianna and Lea’s neighbors stand at the door with concerned frowns. Dianna runs over like a shot, placating them with apologetic smiles and soft assurances that she's just having a small get together and it won't get out of hand, (“I promise”) before they're gone again.
"You could talk a king out of his country," you smile, picking at the label of your bottle.
"I have my talents," she agrees.
Heather, Kevin and Naya make an appearance shortly after, causing a general rise in volume. You feel nostalgic in the ensuing mayhem - nostalgic for youth, and New York, and the time when Glee was just starting and everything felt so fresh. You're not old yet though, you remind yourself, and prove it by break dancing on the back porch to P. Diddy.
Harry subsequently shows you up enormously of course, but it's okay.
-
"So I hear you're dating Cameron Diaz," Lea asks with a smirk, sidling up to you out of nowhere like she constantly manages to do.
You roll your eyes, retort always ready on your tongue. "Does your boyfriend know you're fucking Dianna yet?"
"Funny," she deadpans; complete with a pout to make Rachel Berry proud. A tight arm wraps around your waist all the same.
You stand together on the edge of the porch, watching Heather in her never-diminishing attempts to teach Dianna how to pull off a perfect cartwheel. "It's been ages since we just hung out all together like this."
Your head lowers involuntarily to look at the small mop of hair pressed up against the zipper of your hoodie. "I know. Everything is always so busy now."
"Is that a complaint I hear, Mr. Broadway?" Lea lifts her face to smirk up at you, the barest hint of white, white, teeth behind her ruby lips.
"No," you insist, tugging her back against you with an arm around her bare shoulders. The heat from the bonfire behind you catches in the short hairs on the back of your neck as you consider grabbing another beer to press coolly against the perspiration on your skin.
"I'm going to New York next weekend."
You decide the beer isn't worth the walk back inside to the kitchen and instead rest the very tip of your current bottle against your bottom lip, "Yeah?"
"Yeah, I haven't been back for a while. I miss it."
You know how she feels, "Me too." (truth is you're starting to wonder whether you're avoiding going back, despite the constant throbbing in your bones to immerse yourself in the stench of it. your best friend is there - the one person who gets everything, but nothing else is except a whole load of people you used to know.)
"You should go."
You meet Lea's expectant eyes with a tight smile, "Maybe. Soon."
It's enough to dismiss her gaze, but now your mind is unfairly stuck on a constant loop of home.
"Matt!" You turn your head to the source of Cory's voice; feeling rather than seeing Lea's arm unwind itself from its light grip around you as she walks away. (you're unsure whether to be thankful or not.)
"What's up?"
"Come show me that crazy arm thing again!" He flails his arms in a weak imitation of a move you picked up years ago, making you chuckle. (you decide the distraction is welcome.)
-
Two hours and another visit from the neighbors later, has you knowing your body is going to be very unforgiving come morning. You can't quite bring yourself to care right now though, with a steady buzz in your veins and the soft tickle of grass at the back of your head.
Harry is lying beside you talking about... something, and you struggle to remember the last time you truly felt this relaxed.
Jenna comes running over, a squeal erupting out of her mouth as Kevin tackles her to the floor. They land in a mess of limbs and you spare a sober thought to ensure they're not too close to be caught by the fire before you can laugh.
"Are you guys playing Tag?" Harry mutters with disbelief.
"Pshhht..." Kevin hovers around an answer before giving a definite, "yes."
Harry jumps up in one quick motion that leaves you almost dizzy. "Cool, let me play!"
You bat off their begging to join, content with lying still for a while longer. Dianna flops down beside you, a warm weight at your side, and you sing along with Chris' over-exuberant version of Raining Men with a steady grin on your face, forgetting whatever you were feeling from Lea's conversation earlier.
-
It's all fun and games until Cory throws up in a potted plant by the backdoor. No one is too drunk to miss the smile on Dianna’s face wearing a little thin, so you all reluctantly call it a night. Cory and Mark simultaneously tackle-hug you as they go, leaving you staggering under their weight and avoiding their attempts to plant sloppy kisses on your cheeks.
You catch sight of Dianna's amused gaze when they finally relent and roll your eyes in an exaggerated fashion. (she smiles the sweetest smile you know, convincing you that she's thankfully not too pissed about the plant.)
Everyone's already out the door by the time you've cleared away the bottles scattered in the immediate vicinity. Lea's nowhere to be seen but you can hear her voice coming from somewhere above your head so you head upstairs to say goodbye.
She's hovering on a balcony adjacent to the stairs, waving - presumably - at one of the other kids staggering back to Amber or Chris' cars (a long-running game of rock, paper, scissors predetermines designated drivers, but you live on the next street of Lea and Dianna's house so you manage to skirt the responsibility 90% of the time.)
You quietly sneak up behind her, throwing your arms around her shoulders. She screams as predicted, trying to throw you off with a well-aimed elbow to your stomach. You laugh despite the bruise you can already feel forming, laying a reassuring hand on each side of her neck as you spin her round to meet your face. "It's just me."
"Jesus, Matt." A delicate hand presses over her heart as she breathes.
"Sorry," you lie.
"I'm glad you're here though, you can help me clean the kitchen." Her hand latches onto an empty belt loop of your jeans, tugging you back inside before you process what she's just said.
"Wait, what? I was just coming to say goodbye-"
You stumble down the stairs together, her grip never faltering. "Tough. I promised Dianna I’d do clean-up."
"-because you left it all to her last time," you finish, remembering hushed conversations on set about how Chris had managed to pirouette into a wine rack a few weeks ago. (he’d filled her trailer with bouquets of white flowers in apology.)
"No, we all left it to her last time."
Mercifully the kitchen isn't too bad, you note as you're pulled through the doorway. There are enough empty bottles to keep you busy for a good ten minutes or so though. "I wasn't here last time."
Lea's grip on your jeans finally relaxes and you adjust them back into place. "Oh."
She looks apologetic, so you walk over to the counter to avoid her eyes, picking up every bottle as you pass. You work together in comfortable silence, bidding Dianna goodnight as she passes with a grateful smile on her way upstairs to bed.
You find yourself smiling at the determined set of Lea's jaw as she dodges around you with a bin liner, swiping every recyclable item inside. "What?" she asks when she finally notices.
A shrug of your shoulders only has her narrowing her eyes in suspicion, so you throw some words together that don't really justify what you're thinking at all, but work as distraction nonetheless. "You miss it don't you?"
"Miss what?" She sets the half-full bag against the back door, turning to you, brows furrowed.
"Being on a stage," you chuckle. Letting your eyes avert from your task for a short moment.
"Of course. So do you." (this is a recognizable conversation; you've long since lost count of the times you and Lea have spent sprawled over some abandoned prop couch reminiscing over past lives on stages that only remember your names now.)
The weight of her gaze settles across the side of your face and it takes some effort to ignore. "Matt?"
"What?"
"Why don't you want to go back to New York?" The question startles you out of your focus, your hand pausing mid-air over a discarded glass.
"What makes you think I don't?"
"I know you," she says simply and you scoff in response like it's not an answer, but it is. After all, if anyone knows you, she does. (from the moment your hand met hers in some party held by some long-forgotten acquaintance, bursting at the seams with familiar Broadway faces; as she had introduced herself with the bright warmth of youth in the upturned corners of her mouth, you think she knew parts of you everyone else chooses to ignore. at first you believed it's because she's so much younger than you; sees everything so much clearer, however now you’ve come to see that maybe it's just Lea.)
You see the same dissection of yourself now in the softening edges of her eyes, before she turns away, clearing her throat.
-
The kitchen is finally spotless (Dianna will be pleased, you think) but you feel bereft; unwilling to make your exit or make any move at all, now.
"Come on," Lea tilts her head outside and you follow (always), with a hand running through your hair.
The corner of the porch is still home to a few remaining unopened bottles and she hands you one, before lifting herself to sit perched on the railing. You rest a hand on her hip to keep her steady until you're sure she's not going anywhere. The lid of the bottle disappears between the wooden boards at your feet when you knock it against the sharp edge of the railing to open, when you lift your head you find that Lea is watching you, an amused smile tugging at her mouth. You chuckle quietly, stepping right into her space; her thigh warm against your hip. (do you think theatre people touch each other more than normal people? she had asked you once, leaving you laughing with a fond shake of your head at her definition of 'normal people'.)
"Your hair is getting long," Lea says, her fingers running over the top of your hair, tugging on the curls you spend half your life wishing you were never given.
"My hair is always getting long," you reply with an unbalanced smile you're sure she tends to receive more than anyone else.
She laughs, "It used to be longer though." You guess the words left her mouth before her brain caught up because she abruptly stills, like you; her hand caught at the nape of your neck. Your eyes meet before quickly shifting away, awkwardly. (it's a wonder this doesn't happen more than it does.)
"How's your boyfriend doing?" (it's a cheap shot and a poor imitation of a distraction, but it's the one thing that you never forget these days.)
"He's good," Lea says with clipped speech and hurt eyes (you're genuinely sorry for the cheap shot now) "I think." Your eyes narrow in confusion but suddenly she's the one refusing to meet your gaze. "We're both busy a lot. You know how it is."
No, you don't. (you haven't been in a proper relationship since...) But you nod.
"What about you? I wasn't joking about Cameron Diaz. You'll be having dinner with Justin Timberlake's mom next."
It's the same teasing insult she gives you day in, day out, and you relax a little with the familiarity of it. "There's no one," you shake your head with a forced smile, "you know that."
She watches you, same brown eyes always seeing more than they should. "You shouldn't be alone."
"I'm not," you grin, pinching the hip nearest to you. Lea smiles pleasantly but she's also not stupid and you both know it.
"I used to think maybe you and Dianna would get together."
You choke on your drink, enjoying the sound of her responding laugh. "No," you ensure, a little too forcefully. Dianna's lovely and you flirt with each other like crazy but you've never seriously thought about it. (that would be too weird in all kinds of ways you don't ever want to think about.) "I don't date co-workers," you add, feeling like you have something to prove.
"Since when?" She laughs, still playing whatever game this is, not realizing that you forfeited with your white flag a hell of a long time ago.
"Since you." It's blunt - too blunt, her body visibly tenses and you force yourself to turn away, leaning your back against the railing to face the house. (you suddenly remember why you made the unspoken agreement to never talk about it; the taste of regret at the back of your throat.) "Sorry," you say, as if an apology can somehow take your words back.
A minute or an hour later, "We never dated."
You swallow a mouthful of beer, deciding that this isn't your favorite brand anymore. "I know."
The silence that follows isn't nearly as comfortable as it usually is. (you wonder if this is how it's going to be now; what you'd been dreading.) Then, almost too quiet: "I would have though."
You scrunch your eyes closed with a drawn out sigh, "Lea."
She doesn't push like she usually does and you take it as the out you don't deserve. Pulling yourself away from the railing, you walk the few steps to the nearby bin, the bottle clunking against the bottom harshly. "I should go, it's late." You move to head back inside, away, looking anywhere but at her.
"Matt," she pleads, and whether it's the lilt of desperation in her voice or the small hand on your forearm, but you can't, (you just can't) so you give up fighting and press your mouth to hers; one hand against her jaw, the other wrapping around her waist, securing her place against your onslaught. There's a muffled noise of surprise before you feel a hand tugging on the strings of your hoodie; pulling you closer than you've been for far too long.
Her mouth tastes of beer and smoke (you hate her just a little bit for the rare times she smokes. her voice is too perfect.) and you idly try to remember if you've ever kissed when you weren't both tasting of alcohol (you suddenly want to catalogue the differences.)
Your teeth graze her bottom lip and you pull away, breathless. "This isn't a game."
"Who said it was?" And maybe she's right - maybe it's not, but you were just fooling around the very first time and the second was nothing more than a stupid decision, so you have no idea what this is anymore.
She pulls you in again and you relent, her fingernails cutting in above your collarbone. "Last time," you manage to choke out, "last time you said it was just one night. You laughed it off." The memory still stings, a little. (one night after too much press for Glee in New York had led to drinking and partying; had led to remembering how the skin of her shoulder blade tasted; had led to her waking up in your hotel sheets.)
"So did you," her voice bites, accusingly. (you'd gotten good at lying; to yourself, to Lea, to your friends, to the too many interviewers who'd wanted to know what had happened when you and her had first met.)
"I missed you," it's weak and pathetic - just as it was then, but her eyes aren't hard anymore. Your foreheads rest together for a moment of pause, as you brush your fingertips along the smooth expanse of her jaw along to the dip of her bottom lip.
"You broke my heart, back then." ('back then' meaning when she was Broadway’s freshest face and you were the golden boy always searching for something else.)
It's your worst fears confirmed and you suddenly need to do anything - anything, to prove her wrong.
"I didn't. I didn't. You were too young-"
"I was 20!" she argues, just like you knew she would.
"I was 28," you counter. (this is an argument that’s played out in your head through long nights of insomnia too many times.)
"That's not- That doesn't- Ugh! You're so-" You smash your lips together again, not willing to hear what you were then or might be now. The force of your body nearly tips her over the edge of the railing, but your hands are instantly at her back, not letting her fall. She wraps her arms around your neck and her legs around your waist, forever trusting you with her body.
Her hands fumble at the zipper of your hoodie, the noise of the parting teeth grating against the silence. "I'm 32, Lea," you mumble, pressing openmouthed kisses at her neck before nipping lightly at the perfume-scented flesh there.
"I know. I don't care. You care."
"You have a boyfriend." Her fingers reach inside your open jacket, pressing handprints of new warmth against your t-shirt. She looks up at you, silent. You can't help but reach to brush a loose length of hair back behind her ear. (you swear she gets younger every time you see her.)
"You haven't had a single proper relationship for like two years."
"You play my student on TV."
A shy kiss is ghosted at the side of your mouth, "I've never learnt anything from you." (you've always learnt from her.)
Your hands frame both sides of Lea's face, swiping at stray smudges of her lip-gloss. "You can't laugh it off this time."
She curls sleight fingers around yours, pulling your entwined hands down to rest between where your stomachs meet. "You can't get scared every time you remember I’m eight years younger than you."
You choke out a laugh, pulling out of her grip to slide under the stitched lining of her top, "I'm not going to ever forget that." Her skin is as smooth as it ever was; you follow the dents of her hips to spread your palms against her back, tracing the dark lines of a tattoo you know is hidden there.
The tip of her tongue peeks between her teeth, as if to prove your point, "Then just stop caring."
She's beautiful and you will always care about her being too young, too stubborn, too talented; too goddamned perfect for her own good. But it's as enticing as it is crazy, and you've lived in awe of it for four years now; it's nothing new. (this is the girl who once sat in the front row of South Pacific to see you; who laughed when you said that dying every night was starting to get to you.) "Never."
Matching Lea's mouth is a dance you'll never, ever tire of; she always pushes too hard as though testing your retreat, before pulling back just enough to tease a complete withdrawal. It's maddening and intoxicating, stretching the muscles of your jaw taut in frustration.
You feel the smile of her mouth when you growl with impatience; she rewards you by pushing your jacket off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor before tugging at the hem of your t-shirt. Reluctantly you step back, pulling the offending item over your head. Nails scrape across your stomach, reminding you that this wait has gone on for far too long (years), whilst lips press tenderly at the space beneath your eyelashes. (a reminder that she’s been here for that long too.)
Lea doesn't make an audible sound when you finally push inside her. The irony would make you smile if you weren't already occupied with holding her tight and close - safe, as your lungs burn while you try to remember how to breathe.
This is the third time, you think, her eyelids fluttering against the bone of your cheek. (not the last time, you hope.)
"Come to New York with me," she whispers with a seal of promise against your mouth, and you think maybe - maybe, it's time now.
- FIN.
Pairing: Matt/Lea
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3942
Summary: From the moment your hand met hers in some party held by some long-forgotten acquaintance, bursting at the seams with familiar Broadway faces; as she had introduced herself with the bright warmth of youth in the upturned corners of her mouth, you think she knew parts of you everyone else chooses to ignore.
Notes: This is a real experimental format for me; i've never written anything like this, and won't again if it doesn't work. I'm still not sure that it does - I tapped this out in one long stream of consciousness and despite my friend's reassurances, i'm still not convinced it portrays what I was trying to portray at all. :/ (I also haven't properly written anything in two years, so I could just plain suck.) Please let me know honestly what you think. Title from I Am Kloot's 'Same Shoes' which I accidently ended up listening to on repeat whilst writing this. Inspired by this picture.
EDIT: christyzhang has very kindly translated this fic into Chinese, if you would prefer to read it in that language, you can do so here.
(Me shipping these two is completely, 100%, my friend Chris' fault, who a few weeks ago sent me a link to this video and told me to switch to full screen and watch Matt and Lea very closely at 8:48-9:16, ("Look! THEY'RE PLAYING FOOTSIE UNDER THE TABLE!" was her claim), and she's failed to convince me with this kinda stuff plenty of times before, but this time... she had me pretty stumped. I actually think she may be right in her claim. So of course, lo and behold, a month later I now find myself having written fanfic. About them. FML. The irony that I spend two years trying to complete fics with a fandom and characters I know like the back of my hand never once managing to succeed, and then get drawn back into this fandom that i've only ever had a passing interest in before and end up finishing one, is not entirely lost on me. Thanks to said friend for giving this a once-over (although I can never stop fiddling, so any remaining mistakes are all mine.)
It's funny how rare these moments feel. Every day is spent with these same group of kids, (kids - you always thinks of them as kids) but they blur in corners of half-lit sets or blaze past in the car park and there's never more than just enough time for your eyes to crinkle in an amused huff of laughter or to throw a lazy retort about Cory's hand to eye co-ordination before work sets in again. Spending actual time together voluntarily is so rare that you often have to remind yourself you're not amongst strangers. (all except for Lea of course, who stubbornly refuses to compartmentalize in your head amongst the rest meaning you end up having the corner of your eye forever trained in her direction despite not really having reason, anymore.)
It was Cory's idea - as most of these things usually are; an idea sprung from boredom last Tuesday on set. Everyone except Jane is sat outside the trailers, basking in the heat that springboards between perfect and unbearable.
"We should do something."
Harry laughs, scratching the sweat off his forehead, "I couldn't move right now if I wanted to."
"I don't mean now, now," Cory corrects, "I mean this weekend or something. We've all got time off together right? How rare is that? We should do something."
"Like what?" Lea interjects. "Some of us have busy schedules."
Everyone groans with fake exasperation; you don't even hesitate before tipping the water bottle you had been sipping to puddle in the lid so you can flick it at her neck. She yelps in surprise, throwing a half-assed insult back your way for good measure, but you just grin innocently like it's not the millionth time you've played this game.
"We should have a party," Jenna inevitably suggests, and a moment later there's a time and a place and you try not to fidget too much in your chair, knowing this is something they do and more often than not they do it without you because you're scraping the bar of too old.
But then- "How about it, Matt? You in?" Mark asks, correcting you in your assumption that this would be one of those times.
"Sure." Said times are rare enough that you know better than to decline; to create a wedge between you and them that somehow always escalates before you have a chance to blink. Trying to fit in is not something you're used to but you do it here, all the time.
And so three days of exhaustion go by until the weekend comes with a deep breath of relief.
-
You arrive exactly on the designated time as always, but it comes as no surprise that you’re not the first to make an appearance; someone has already started a small bonfire in the girls' backyard. You guess it was Mark (you can't take the boy out of Texas...), and despite feeling the heat all week, it's nice here with Mark strumming a guitar in the corner and your favorite brand of beer in your hand.
You've barely been there for 15 minutes when the doorbell rings and Dianna and Lea’s neighbors stand at the door with concerned frowns. Dianna runs over like a shot, placating them with apologetic smiles and soft assurances that she's just having a small get together and it won't get out of hand, (“I promise”) before they're gone again.
"You could talk a king out of his country," you smile, picking at the label of your bottle.
"I have my talents," she agrees.
Heather, Kevin and Naya make an appearance shortly after, causing a general rise in volume. You feel nostalgic in the ensuing mayhem - nostalgic for youth, and New York, and the time when Glee was just starting and everything felt so fresh. You're not old yet though, you remind yourself, and prove it by break dancing on the back porch to P. Diddy.
Harry subsequently shows you up enormously of course, but it's okay.
-
"So I hear you're dating Cameron Diaz," Lea asks with a smirk, sidling up to you out of nowhere like she constantly manages to do.
You roll your eyes, retort always ready on your tongue. "Does your boyfriend know you're fucking Dianna yet?"
"Funny," she deadpans; complete with a pout to make Rachel Berry proud. A tight arm wraps around your waist all the same.
You stand together on the edge of the porch, watching Heather in her never-diminishing attempts to teach Dianna how to pull off a perfect cartwheel. "It's been ages since we just hung out all together like this."
Your head lowers involuntarily to look at the small mop of hair pressed up against the zipper of your hoodie. "I know. Everything is always so busy now."
"Is that a complaint I hear, Mr. Broadway?" Lea lifts her face to smirk up at you, the barest hint of white, white, teeth behind her ruby lips.
"No," you insist, tugging her back against you with an arm around her bare shoulders. The heat from the bonfire behind you catches in the short hairs on the back of your neck as you consider grabbing another beer to press coolly against the perspiration on your skin.
"I'm going to New York next weekend."
You decide the beer isn't worth the walk back inside to the kitchen and instead rest the very tip of your current bottle against your bottom lip, "Yeah?"
"Yeah, I haven't been back for a while. I miss it."
You know how she feels, "Me too." (truth is you're starting to wonder whether you're avoiding going back, despite the constant throbbing in your bones to immerse yourself in the stench of it. your best friend is there - the one person who gets everything, but nothing else is except a whole load of people you used to know.)
"You should go."
You meet Lea's expectant eyes with a tight smile, "Maybe. Soon."
It's enough to dismiss her gaze, but now your mind is unfairly stuck on a constant loop of home.
"Matt!" You turn your head to the source of Cory's voice; feeling rather than seeing Lea's arm unwind itself from its light grip around you as she walks away. (you're unsure whether to be thankful or not.)
"What's up?"
"Come show me that crazy arm thing again!" He flails his arms in a weak imitation of a move you picked up years ago, making you chuckle. (you decide the distraction is welcome.)
-
Two hours and another visit from the neighbors later, has you knowing your body is going to be very unforgiving come morning. You can't quite bring yourself to care right now though, with a steady buzz in your veins and the soft tickle of grass at the back of your head.
Harry is lying beside you talking about... something, and you struggle to remember the last time you truly felt this relaxed.
Jenna comes running over, a squeal erupting out of her mouth as Kevin tackles her to the floor. They land in a mess of limbs and you spare a sober thought to ensure they're not too close to be caught by the fire before you can laugh.
"Are you guys playing Tag?" Harry mutters with disbelief.
"Pshhht..." Kevin hovers around an answer before giving a definite, "yes."
Harry jumps up in one quick motion that leaves you almost dizzy. "Cool, let me play!"
You bat off their begging to join, content with lying still for a while longer. Dianna flops down beside you, a warm weight at your side, and you sing along with Chris' over-exuberant version of Raining Men with a steady grin on your face, forgetting whatever you were feeling from Lea's conversation earlier.
-
It's all fun and games until Cory throws up in a potted plant by the backdoor. No one is too drunk to miss the smile on Dianna’s face wearing a little thin, so you all reluctantly call it a night. Cory and Mark simultaneously tackle-hug you as they go, leaving you staggering under their weight and avoiding their attempts to plant sloppy kisses on your cheeks.
You catch sight of Dianna's amused gaze when they finally relent and roll your eyes in an exaggerated fashion. (she smiles the sweetest smile you know, convincing you that she's thankfully not too pissed about the plant.)
Everyone's already out the door by the time you've cleared away the bottles scattered in the immediate vicinity. Lea's nowhere to be seen but you can hear her voice coming from somewhere above your head so you head upstairs to say goodbye.
She's hovering on a balcony adjacent to the stairs, waving - presumably - at one of the other kids staggering back to Amber or Chris' cars (a long-running game of rock, paper, scissors predetermines designated drivers, but you live on the next street of Lea and Dianna's house so you manage to skirt the responsibility 90% of the time.)
You quietly sneak up behind her, throwing your arms around her shoulders. She screams as predicted, trying to throw you off with a well-aimed elbow to your stomach. You laugh despite the bruise you can already feel forming, laying a reassuring hand on each side of her neck as you spin her round to meet your face. "It's just me."
"Jesus, Matt." A delicate hand presses over her heart as she breathes.
"Sorry," you lie.
"I'm glad you're here though, you can help me clean the kitchen." Her hand latches onto an empty belt loop of your jeans, tugging you back inside before you process what she's just said.
"Wait, what? I was just coming to say goodbye-"
You stumble down the stairs together, her grip never faltering. "Tough. I promised Dianna I’d do clean-up."
"-because you left it all to her last time," you finish, remembering hushed conversations on set about how Chris had managed to pirouette into a wine rack a few weeks ago. (he’d filled her trailer with bouquets of white flowers in apology.)
"No, we all left it to her last time."
Mercifully the kitchen isn't too bad, you note as you're pulled through the doorway. There are enough empty bottles to keep you busy for a good ten minutes or so though. "I wasn't here last time."
Lea's grip on your jeans finally relaxes and you adjust them back into place. "Oh."
She looks apologetic, so you walk over to the counter to avoid her eyes, picking up every bottle as you pass. You work together in comfortable silence, bidding Dianna goodnight as she passes with a grateful smile on her way upstairs to bed.
You find yourself smiling at the determined set of Lea's jaw as she dodges around you with a bin liner, swiping every recyclable item inside. "What?" she asks when she finally notices.
A shrug of your shoulders only has her narrowing her eyes in suspicion, so you throw some words together that don't really justify what you're thinking at all, but work as distraction nonetheless. "You miss it don't you?"
"Miss what?" She sets the half-full bag against the back door, turning to you, brows furrowed.
"Being on a stage," you chuckle. Letting your eyes avert from your task for a short moment.
"Of course. So do you." (this is a recognizable conversation; you've long since lost count of the times you and Lea have spent sprawled over some abandoned prop couch reminiscing over past lives on stages that only remember your names now.)
The weight of her gaze settles across the side of your face and it takes some effort to ignore. "Matt?"
"What?"
"Why don't you want to go back to New York?" The question startles you out of your focus, your hand pausing mid-air over a discarded glass.
"What makes you think I don't?"
"I know you," she says simply and you scoff in response like it's not an answer, but it is. After all, if anyone knows you, she does. (from the moment your hand met hers in some party held by some long-forgotten acquaintance, bursting at the seams with familiar Broadway faces; as she had introduced herself with the bright warmth of youth in the upturned corners of her mouth, you think she knew parts of you everyone else chooses to ignore. at first you believed it's because she's so much younger than you; sees everything so much clearer, however now you’ve come to see that maybe it's just Lea.)
You see the same dissection of yourself now in the softening edges of her eyes, before she turns away, clearing her throat.
-
The kitchen is finally spotless (Dianna will be pleased, you think) but you feel bereft; unwilling to make your exit or make any move at all, now.
"Come on," Lea tilts her head outside and you follow (always), with a hand running through your hair.
The corner of the porch is still home to a few remaining unopened bottles and she hands you one, before lifting herself to sit perched on the railing. You rest a hand on her hip to keep her steady until you're sure she's not going anywhere. The lid of the bottle disappears between the wooden boards at your feet when you knock it against the sharp edge of the railing to open, when you lift your head you find that Lea is watching you, an amused smile tugging at her mouth. You chuckle quietly, stepping right into her space; her thigh warm against your hip. (do you think theatre people touch each other more than normal people? she had asked you once, leaving you laughing with a fond shake of your head at her definition of 'normal people'.)
"Your hair is getting long," Lea says, her fingers running over the top of your hair, tugging on the curls you spend half your life wishing you were never given.
"My hair is always getting long," you reply with an unbalanced smile you're sure she tends to receive more than anyone else.
She laughs, "It used to be longer though." You guess the words left her mouth before her brain caught up because she abruptly stills, like you; her hand caught at the nape of your neck. Your eyes meet before quickly shifting away, awkwardly. (it's a wonder this doesn't happen more than it does.)
"How's your boyfriend doing?" (it's a cheap shot and a poor imitation of a distraction, but it's the one thing that you never forget these days.)
"He's good," Lea says with clipped speech and hurt eyes (you're genuinely sorry for the cheap shot now) "I think." Your eyes narrow in confusion but suddenly she's the one refusing to meet your gaze. "We're both busy a lot. You know how it is."
No, you don't. (you haven't been in a proper relationship since...) But you nod.
"What about you? I wasn't joking about Cameron Diaz. You'll be having dinner with Justin Timberlake's mom next."
It's the same teasing insult she gives you day in, day out, and you relax a little with the familiarity of it. "There's no one," you shake your head with a forced smile, "you know that."
She watches you, same brown eyes always seeing more than they should. "You shouldn't be alone."
"I'm not," you grin, pinching the hip nearest to you. Lea smiles pleasantly but she's also not stupid and you both know it.
"I used to think maybe you and Dianna would get together."
You choke on your drink, enjoying the sound of her responding laugh. "No," you ensure, a little too forcefully. Dianna's lovely and you flirt with each other like crazy but you've never seriously thought about it. (that would be too weird in all kinds of ways you don't ever want to think about.) "I don't date co-workers," you add, feeling like you have something to prove.
"Since when?" She laughs, still playing whatever game this is, not realizing that you forfeited with your white flag a hell of a long time ago.
"Since you." It's blunt - too blunt, her body visibly tenses and you force yourself to turn away, leaning your back against the railing to face the house. (you suddenly remember why you made the unspoken agreement to never talk about it; the taste of regret at the back of your throat.) "Sorry," you say, as if an apology can somehow take your words back.
A minute or an hour later, "We never dated."
You swallow a mouthful of beer, deciding that this isn't your favorite brand anymore. "I know."
The silence that follows isn't nearly as comfortable as it usually is. (you wonder if this is how it's going to be now; what you'd been dreading.) Then, almost too quiet: "I would have though."
You scrunch your eyes closed with a drawn out sigh, "Lea."
She doesn't push like she usually does and you take it as the out you don't deserve. Pulling yourself away from the railing, you walk the few steps to the nearby bin, the bottle clunking against the bottom harshly. "I should go, it's late." You move to head back inside, away, looking anywhere but at her.
"Matt," she pleads, and whether it's the lilt of desperation in her voice or the small hand on your forearm, but you can't, (you just can't) so you give up fighting and press your mouth to hers; one hand against her jaw, the other wrapping around her waist, securing her place against your onslaught. There's a muffled noise of surprise before you feel a hand tugging on the strings of your hoodie; pulling you closer than you've been for far too long.
Her mouth tastes of beer and smoke (you hate her just a little bit for the rare times she smokes. her voice is too perfect.) and you idly try to remember if you've ever kissed when you weren't both tasting of alcohol (you suddenly want to catalogue the differences.)
Your teeth graze her bottom lip and you pull away, breathless. "This isn't a game."
"Who said it was?" And maybe she's right - maybe it's not, but you were just fooling around the very first time and the second was nothing more than a stupid decision, so you have no idea what this is anymore.
She pulls you in again and you relent, her fingernails cutting in above your collarbone. "Last time," you manage to choke out, "last time you said it was just one night. You laughed it off." The memory still stings, a little. (one night after too much press for Glee in New York had led to drinking and partying; had led to remembering how the skin of her shoulder blade tasted; had led to her waking up in your hotel sheets.)
"So did you," her voice bites, accusingly. (you'd gotten good at lying; to yourself, to Lea, to your friends, to the too many interviewers who'd wanted to know what had happened when you and her had first met.)
"I missed you," it's weak and pathetic - just as it was then, but her eyes aren't hard anymore. Your foreheads rest together for a moment of pause, as you brush your fingertips along the smooth expanse of her jaw along to the dip of her bottom lip.
"You broke my heart, back then." ('back then' meaning when she was Broadway’s freshest face and you were the golden boy always searching for something else.)
It's your worst fears confirmed and you suddenly need to do anything - anything, to prove her wrong.
"I didn't. I didn't. You were too young-"
"I was 20!" she argues, just like you knew she would.
"I was 28," you counter. (this is an argument that’s played out in your head through long nights of insomnia too many times.)
"That's not- That doesn't- Ugh! You're so-" You smash your lips together again, not willing to hear what you were then or might be now. The force of your body nearly tips her over the edge of the railing, but your hands are instantly at her back, not letting her fall. She wraps her arms around your neck and her legs around your waist, forever trusting you with her body.
Her hands fumble at the zipper of your hoodie, the noise of the parting teeth grating against the silence. "I'm 32, Lea," you mumble, pressing openmouthed kisses at her neck before nipping lightly at the perfume-scented flesh there.
"I know. I don't care. You care."
"You have a boyfriend." Her fingers reach inside your open jacket, pressing handprints of new warmth against your t-shirt. She looks up at you, silent. You can't help but reach to brush a loose length of hair back behind her ear. (you swear she gets younger every time you see her.)
"You haven't had a single proper relationship for like two years."
"You play my student on TV."
A shy kiss is ghosted at the side of your mouth, "I've never learnt anything from you." (you've always learnt from her.)
Your hands frame both sides of Lea's face, swiping at stray smudges of her lip-gloss. "You can't laugh it off this time."
She curls sleight fingers around yours, pulling your entwined hands down to rest between where your stomachs meet. "You can't get scared every time you remember I’m eight years younger than you."
You choke out a laugh, pulling out of her grip to slide under the stitched lining of her top, "I'm not going to ever forget that." Her skin is as smooth as it ever was; you follow the dents of her hips to spread your palms against her back, tracing the dark lines of a tattoo you know is hidden there.
The tip of her tongue peeks between her teeth, as if to prove your point, "Then just stop caring."
She's beautiful and you will always care about her being too young, too stubborn, too talented; too goddamned perfect for her own good. But it's as enticing as it is crazy, and you've lived in awe of it for four years now; it's nothing new. (this is the girl who once sat in the front row of South Pacific to see you; who laughed when you said that dying every night was starting to get to you.) "Never."
Matching Lea's mouth is a dance you'll never, ever tire of; she always pushes too hard as though testing your retreat, before pulling back just enough to tease a complete withdrawal. It's maddening and intoxicating, stretching the muscles of your jaw taut in frustration.
You feel the smile of her mouth when you growl with impatience; she rewards you by pushing your jacket off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor before tugging at the hem of your t-shirt. Reluctantly you step back, pulling the offending item over your head. Nails scrape across your stomach, reminding you that this wait has gone on for far too long (years), whilst lips press tenderly at the space beneath your eyelashes. (a reminder that she’s been here for that long too.)
Lea doesn't make an audible sound when you finally push inside her. The irony would make you smile if you weren't already occupied with holding her tight and close - safe, as your lungs burn while you try to remember how to breathe.
This is the third time, you think, her eyelids fluttering against the bone of your cheek. (not the last time, you hope.)
"Come to New York with me," she whispers with a seal of promise against your mouth, and you think maybe - maybe, it's time now.
- FIN.