we were the kings and queens of promise
title: we were the kings and queens of promise
characters: tim, lyla
rating/word count: PG/450
There are some pieces of yourself you never thought you’d leave behind.
i.
Eleven years old and learning how to cartwheel, Jason Street makes you feel a little like you do after you land one. Giddy with excitement but dizzy and nauseous all the same.
“Hi Lyla,” he would say in his polite Jason glory and your eyes would flutter. He’s five inches taller and you love raising your chin up slightly to meet his gaze.
“Um, hey Jason,” and you would kick yourself for sounding so stupid, for being so young .
He pulled on your pigtails and you smiled and he laughed and life was perfect.
Later, you’ll look back on a million little moments like these and think: if you loved Tim harder, a little more, then you’re sure you loved Jason in a thousand different, easier ways.
ii.
God is great, god is good.
The words roll off your tongue at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Daddy smiles, and Tabby rolls her eyes and Buddy Junior already started eating when no one was watching.
Your phone rings, one new message: Tim Riggins.
You pray for strength, but that fails too.
--
The cross lays heavy across your neck, and if you don’t touch it as much as you used to, well, times have changed.
iii.
Packing is both easier and harder than you thought it’d be. You take Tim's tattered t-shirts without thinking twice, hesitate over the pair of heels you love so much, tuck the Bible into the front of the suitcase and press down.
“Wanna pack me up in that suitcase of yours, Garrity?”
Tim’s voice rumbles through the room, vibrates through your skin with a familiarity that soothes your nerves. Your hair falls in a curtain over your eyes, and he tucks it behind your ear.
“Tim,” you breathe out on a sigh and it’s more a plea than anything else. What you’re asking for, God only knows.
iv.
Vanderbilt is filled with a thousand other Southern girls like you, born and bred on football and charm.
You miss home more than you can bear at times, wear your cowboy boots a little more often than usual.
There’s a corkboard in your room, covered in memories and heartbreaks. Tim is tucked away in the lower left, dripping sweat and branded with #33. When you looks up from writing a paper for Comm 101, your eyes lock with his steady gaze.
It takes only two weeks for it to become unbearable, and you move him to the upper right.
--
You stop wearing the boots so often, make some friends, kiss some boys. It’s not home, but you don’t think you want it to be.
characters: tim, lyla
rating/word count: PG/450
There are some pieces of yourself you never thought you’d leave behind.
i.
Eleven years old and learning how to cartwheel, Jason Street makes you feel a little like you do after you land one. Giddy with excitement but dizzy and nauseous all the same.
“Hi Lyla,” he would say in his polite Jason glory and your eyes would flutter. He’s five inches taller and you love raising your chin up slightly to meet his gaze.
“Um, hey Jason,” and you would kick yourself for sounding so stupid, for being so young .
He pulled on your pigtails and you smiled and he laughed and life was perfect.
Later, you’ll look back on a million little moments like these and think: if you loved Tim harder, a little more, then you’re sure you loved Jason in a thousand different, easier ways.
ii.
God is great, god is good.
The words roll off your tongue at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Daddy smiles, and Tabby rolls her eyes and Buddy Junior already started eating when no one was watching.
Your phone rings, one new message: Tim Riggins.
You pray for strength, but that fails too.
--
The cross lays heavy across your neck, and if you don’t touch it as much as you used to, well, times have changed.
iii.
Packing is both easier and harder than you thought it’d be. You take Tim's tattered t-shirts without thinking twice, hesitate over the pair of heels you love so much, tuck the Bible into the front of the suitcase and press down.
“Wanna pack me up in that suitcase of yours, Garrity?”
Tim’s voice rumbles through the room, vibrates through your skin with a familiarity that soothes your nerves. Your hair falls in a curtain over your eyes, and he tucks it behind your ear.
“Tim,” you breathe out on a sigh and it’s more a plea than anything else. What you’re asking for, God only knows.
iv.
Vanderbilt is filled with a thousand other Southern girls like you, born and bred on football and charm.
You miss home more than you can bear at times, wear your cowboy boots a little more often than usual.
There’s a corkboard in your room, covered in memories and heartbreaks. Tim is tucked away in the lower left, dripping sweat and branded with #33. When you looks up from writing a paper for Comm 101, your eyes lock with his steady gaze.
It takes only two weeks for it to become unbearable, and you move him to the upper right.
--
You stop wearing the boots so often, make some friends, kiss some boys. It’s not home, but you don’t think you want it to be.